Although he had visited London but once before, and then only for a few
hours, he was not unfamiliar with the topography of the town, having
frequently studied it in maps and an old copy of Kelly's directory.
He walked slowly up Park Side and through Piccadilly, picking out as
he passed them the French Embassy, Hyde Park Corner, Apsley House,
Park Lane, and Devonshire House. As he drank in the mingled glare and
glamour of Piccadilly by night,--the remote stars, the high sombre
trees, the vast, dazzling interiors of clubs, the sinuous, flickering
lines of traffic, the radiant faces of women framed in hansoms,--he
laughed the laugh of luxurious contemplation, acutely happy. At last,
at last, he had come into his inheritance. London accepted him. He
was hers; she his; and nothing should part them. Starvation in London
would itself be bliss. But he had no intention of starving! Filled with
great purposes, he straightened his back, and just then a morsel of mud
thrown up from a bus-wheel splashed warm and gritty on his cheek. He
wiped it off caressingly, with a smile.
Although it was Saturday night, and most of the shops were closed,
an establishment where watches and trinkets of "Anglo-Spanish" gold,
superb in appearance and pillowed on green plush, were retailed at
alluring prices, still threw a brilliant light on the pavement, and
Richard crossed the road to inspect its wares. He turned away, but
retraced his steps and entered the shop. An assistant politely inquired
his wishes.
"I want one of those hunters you have in the window at 29/6," said
Richard, with a gruffness which must have been involuntary.
"Yes, sir. Here is one. We guarantee that the works are equal to the
finest English lever."
"I'll take it." He put down the money.
"Thank you. Can I show you anything else?"
"Nothing, thanks," still more gruffly.
"We have some excellent chains...."
"Nothing else, thanks." And he walked out, putting his purchase in his
pocket. A perfectly reliable gold watch, which he had worn for years,
already lay there.
At Piccadilly Circus he loitered, and then crossed over and went
along Coventry Street to Leicester Square. The immense façade of the
Ottoman Theatre of Varieties, with its rows of illuminated windows and
crescent moons set against the sky, rose before him, and the glory of
it was intoxicating. It is not too much to say that the Ottoman held a
stronger fascination for Richard than any other place in London. The
British Museum, Fleet Street, and the Lyceum were magic names, but
more magical than either was the name of the Ottoman. The Ottoman, on
the rare occasions when it happened to be mentioned in Bursley, was a
synonym for all the glittering vices of the metropolis. It stank in
the nostrils of the London delegates who came down to speak at the
annual meetings of the local Society for the Suppression of Vice. But
how often had Richard, somnolent in chapel, mitigated the rigours of a
long sermon by dreaming of an Ottoman ballet,--one of those voluptuous
spectacles, all legs and white arms, which from time to time were
described so ornately in the London daily papers.
The brass-barred swinging doors of the Grand Circle entrance were
simultaneously opened for him by two human automata dressed exactly
alike in long semi-military coats, a very tall man and a stunted boy.
He advanced with what air of custom he could command, and after taking
a ticket and traversing a heavily decorated corridor encountered
another pair of swinging doors; they opened, and a girl passed out,
followed by a man who was talking to her vehemently in French. At
the same moment a gust of distant music struck Richard's ear. As he
climbed a broad, thick-piled flight of steps, the music became louder,
and a clapping of hands could be heard. At the top of the steps hung
a curtain of blue velvet; he pushed aside its stiff, heavy folds with
difficulty, and entered the auditorium.
The smoke of a thousand cigarettes enveloped the furthest parts of
the great interior in a thin bluish haze, which was dissipated as
it reached the domed ceiling in the rays of a crystal chandelier.
Far in front and a little below the level of the circle lay a line
of footlights broken by the silhouette of the conductor's head. A
diminutive, solitary figure in red and yellow stood in the centre
of the huge stage; it was kissing its hands to the audience with a
mincing, operatic gesture; presently it tripped off backwards, stopping
at every third step to bow; the applause ceased, and the curtain fell
slowly.
The broad, semicircular promenade which flanked the seats of the grand
circle was filled with a well-dressed, well-fed crowd. The men talked
and laughed, for the most part, in little knots, while in and out,
steering their way easily and rapidly among these groups, moved the
women: some with rouged cheeks, greasy vermilion lips, and enormous
liquid eyes; others whose faces were innocent of cosmetics and showed
pale under the electric light; but all with a peculiar, exaggerated
swing of the body from the hips, and all surreptitiously regarding
themselves in the mirrors which abounded on every glowing wall.
Richard stood aloof against a pillar. Near him were two men in evening
dress conversing in tones which just rose above the general murmur of
talk and the high, penetrating tinkle of glass from the bar behind the
promenade.
"And what did she say then?" one of the pair asked smilingly. Richard
strained his ear to listen.
"Well, _she_ told _me_," the other said, speaking with a dreamy drawl,
while fingering his watch-chain absently and gazing down at the large
diamond in his shirt,--"_she_ told _me_ that she said she'd do for him
if he didn't fork out. But I don't believe her. You know, of course....
There's Lottie...."
The band suddenly began to play, and after a few crashing bars the
curtain went up for the ballet. The rich _coup d'oeil_ which presented
itself provoked a burst of clapping from the floor of the house and the
upper tiers, but to Richard's surprise no one in his proximity seemed
to exhibit any interest in the entertainment. The two men still talked
with their backs to the stage, the women continued to find a pathway
between the groups, and from within the bar came the unabated murmur of
voices and tinkle of glass.
Richard never took his dazed eyes from the stage. The moving pageant
unrolled itself before him like a vision, rousing new sensations,
tremors of strange desires. He was under a spell, and when at last the
curtain descended to the monotonous roll of drums, he awoke to the fact
that several people were watching him curiously. Blushing slightly,
he went to a far corner of the promenade. At one of the little tables
a woman sat alone. She held her head at an angle, and her laughing,
lustrous eyes gleamed invitingly at Richard. Without quite intending to
do so he hesitated in front of her, and she twittered a phrase ending
in _chéri_.
He abruptly turned away. He would have been very glad to remain and say
something clever, but his tongue refused its office, and his legs moved
of themselves.
At midnight he found himself in Piccadilly Circus, unwilling to go
home. He strolled leisurely back to Leicester Square. The front of the
Ottoman was in darkness, and the square almost deserted.