The next morning was bright with sunshine; the frost had broken, and
the streets were beginning to be muddy. Richard went out, his mind
empty, and dully dejected. At Sloane Street he mounted a bus, taking
the one vacant front seat on the top. For a little while he stared
absently at the handle of his stick. Presently a chance movement of
the head made him aware that someone's eyes were upon him. He looked
round. In the far corner of the seat opposite was Miss Roberts. She
hesitated, flushing, and then bowed, and he responded. No further
communications were possible just then (and for this, at the moment,
he felt thankful), because they were separated by two young gentlemen
wearing tweed caps, and collars which might have been clean once, who
were arguing briskly over a copy of the "Sportsman."
For some strange reason of diffidence, Richard had not been to the
Crabtree since his visit there with Adeline. He was sardonically in
search of his motive for staying away when the young gentlemen with
the "Sportsman" left the bus. Miss Roberts grew rosy as he got up and
offered her his hand, at the same time seating himself by her side.
She wore a black jacket and skirt, well worn but in good preservation,
a hat with red flowers, and grey woollen gloves; and any person of
ordinary discernment would have guessed her occupation without a great
deal of difficulty. During the last year she had become stouter, and
her figure was now full rather than slender; her features, especially
the nostrils, mouth, and chin, were somewhat heavy, but she had
prettily shaped ears, and her eyes, of no definable tint, were soft and
tender; her reddish-brown hair was as conspicuous and as splendid as
ever, coiled with tight precision at the back of her head, and escaping
here and there above her ears in tiny flying wisps. The expression of
her face was mainly one of amiability, but passive, animal-like, inert;
she seemed full of good-nature.
"We haven't seen you at the Crabtree, lately," she said.
"You are still at the old place, then?"
"Oh, yes; and shall be, I expect. They've taken another floor now, and
we're the biggest vegetarian restaurant in London."
There was a note of timid agitation in her voice, and he noticed
besides that her cheeks were red and her eyes shone. Could it be that
this encounter had given her pleasure? The idea of such a possibility
afforded him secret delight.... She, a breathing woman, glad to see
him! He wondered what the other people on the bus were thinking of
them, and especially what the driver thought; the driver had happened
to catch sight of them when they were shaking hands, and as Richard
examined the contour of the man's rubicund face, he fancied he saw
there a glimmer of a smile. This was during a little pause in the
conversation.
"And how have you spent Christmas?" It was Richard's question.
"At home," she answered simply, "with father and mother. My married
sister and her husband came over for the day."
"And I spent mine all alone," he said ruefully. "No friends, no
pudding, no nothing."
She looked at him compassionately.
"I suppose you live in rooms? It must be very lonely."
"Oh!" he returned lightly, yet seizing with eager satisfaction the
sympathy she offered, "it's nothing when you're used to it. This makes
my third Christmas in London, and none of them has been particularly
uproarious. Fortunately there was the skating this year. I was on the
Serpentine nearly all day."
Then she asked him if skating was easy to learn, because she had been
wanting to try for years, but had never had opportunity. He answered
that it was quite easy, if one were not afraid.
"I'm going your way," he said, as they both got off at Piccadilly
Circus, and they walked along Coventry Street together. The talk
flagged; to rouse it Richard questioned her about the routine of the
restaurant,--a subject on which she spoke readily, and with a certain
sense of humour. When they reached the Crabtree,--
"Why, it's been painted!" Richard exclaimed. "It looks very swagger,
indeed, now."
"Yes, my! doesn't it? And it's beautiful inside, too. You must come in
sometime."
"I will," he said with emphasis.
She shook his hand quite vigorously, and their eyes met with a
curious questioning gaze. He smiled to himself as he walked down
Chandos Street; his dejection had mysteriously vanished, and he even
experienced a certain uplifting of spirit. It occurred to him that he
had never at all understood Miss Roberts before. How different she was
outside the restaurant! Should he go to the Crabtree for lunch that
day, or should he allow a day or two to elapse? He decidedly prudently
to wait.
He debated whether he should mention the meeting to Jenkins, and said
on the whole that he would not do so. But he found Jenkins surprisingly
urbane, and without conscious volition he was soon saying,--
"Guess who I came down with on the bus this morning."
Jenkins gave it up.
"Laura Roberts;" and then, seeing no look of comprehension on Jenkins'
face, "You know, the cashier at the Crabtree."
"Oh--_her_!"
The stress was a little irritating.
"_I_ saw her about a fortnight ago," Jenkins said.
"At the Crabtree?"
"Yes. Did she say anything to you about me?" The youth smiled.
"No. Why?"
"Nothing. We had a talk, and I mashed her a bit,--that's all."
"Ah, my boy, you won't get far with her."
"Oh, sha'n't I? I could tell you a thing or two _re_ Laura Roberts, if
I liked."
Although Jenkins' remark was characteristic, and Richard knew well
enough that there was nothing behind his words, yet his mind reverted
instantly to the stories connecting Miss Roberts with Mr. Aked.
"Don't gas," he said curtly. "She looks on you as a boy."
"Man enough for any woman," said Jenkins, twirling the rudiments of a
moustache.
The discussion might have gone further, had it not been interrupted by
Mr. Smythe, who burst suddenly into the room, as his custom was.
"Larch, come with me into Mr. Curpet's room." His tone was brusque. He
had none of Mr. Curpet's natural politeness, though on rare occasions,
of which the present was not one, he sought clumsily to imitate it.
Richard felt a vague alarm.
With a muffler round his throat, Mr. Curpet was seated before the fire,
blowing his nose and breathing noisily. Mr. Smythe went to the window,
and played with the tassel of the blind cord.
"We are thinking of making some changes, Larch," Mr. Curpet began.
"Yes, sir." His heart sank. Was he to be dismissed? The next sentence
was reassuring.
"In future all costs will be drawn and settled in the office, instead
of being sent out. Do you feel equal to taking charge of that
department?"
Richard had many times helped in the preparation of bills of cost, and
possessed a fair knowledge of this complicated and engaging subject. He
answered very decidedly in the affirmative.
"What we propose," Mr. Smythe broke in, "is that you should have an
assistant, and that the two of you should attend to both the books and
the costs."
"Of course your salary will be increased," Mr. Curpet added.
"Let me see, what do you get now?" This from Mr. Smythe, whose memory
was imperfect.
"Three pounds ten, sir."
"Suppose we say four pounds ten," said Mr. Smythe to Mr. Curpet, and
then turning to Larch: "That's very good indeed, you know, young man;
you wouldn't get that everywhere. By Jove, no, you wouldn't!" Richard
was fully aware of the fact. He could scarcely credit his own luck.
"And we shall expect you to keep things up to the mark."
Mr. Curpet smiled kindly over his handkerchief, as if to intimate that
Mr. Smythe need not have insisted on that point.
"And you may have to stay late sometimes," Mr. Smythe went on.
"Yes, sir."
When the interview was finished, he retraced his career at the office,
marvelling that he should have done anything unusual enough to inspire
his principals to such appreciation, and he soon made out that,
compared with others of the staff, he had indeed been a model clerk.
A delicious self-complacence enveloped him. Mr. Smythe had had the air
of conferring a favour; but Mr. Curpet was at the head of affairs at
No. 2 Serjeant's Court, and Mr. Curpet's attitude had been decidedly
flattering. At first he had a difficulty in grasping his good fortune,
thought it too good to be true; but he ended by believing in himself
very heartily. In the matter of salary, he stood now second only to Mr.
Alder, he a youth not three years out of the provinces. Three years
ago an income of £234 per annum would have seemed almost fabulous. His
notions as to what constituted opulence had changed since then, but
nevertheless £234 was an excellent revenue, full of possibilities. A
man could marry on that and live comfortably; many men ventured to
marry on half as much. In clerkdom he had indubitably risen with ease
to the upper ranks. There was good Northern stuff in Richard Larch,
after all! As he walked home, his brain was busy with plans, beautiful
plans for the New Year,--how he would save money, and how he would
spend his nights in toil.