“You know my young friend, Mr. Robert Pillin, I think.”
The lady, whose bulk and bloom struck him to the point of admiration,
murmured in a full, sweet drawl:
“Oh! Ye-es. Are you from Messrs. Scrivens?”
With the swift reflection: 'As I thought!' Mr. Ventnor answered:
“Er--not exactly. I am a solicitor though; came just to ask about a
certain settlement that Mr. Pillin tells me you're entitled under.”
“Phyllis dear!”
Seeing the girl about to rise from underneath the white stuff, Mr.
Ventnor said quickly:
“Pray don't disturb yourself--just a formality!” It had struck him at
once that the lady would have to speak the truth in the presence of this
third party, and he went on: “Quite recent, I think. This'll be your
first interest-on six thousand pounds? Is that right?” And at the limpid
assent of that rich, sweet voice, he thought: 'Fine woman; what eyes!'
“Thank you; that's quite enough. I can go to Scrivens for any detail.
Nice young fellow, Bob Pillin, isn't he?” He saw the girl's chin tilt,
and Mrs. Larne's full mouth curling in a smile.
“Delightful young man; we're very fond of him.”
And he proceeded:
“I'm quite an old friend of his; have you known him long?”
“Oh! no. How long, Phyllis, since we met him at Guardy's? About a month.
But he's so unaffected--quite at home with us. A nice fellow.”
Mr. Ventnor murmured:
“Very different from his father, isn't he?”
“Is he? We don't know his father; he's a shipowner, I think.”
Mr. Ventnor rubbed his hands: “Ye-es,” he said, “just giving up--a warm
man. Young Pillin's a lucky fellow--only son. So you met him at old Mr.
Heythorp's. I know him too--relation of yours, I believe.”
“Our dear Guardy such a wonderful man.”
Mr. Ventnor echoed: “Wonderful--regular old Roman.”
“Oh! but he's so kind!” Mrs. Larne lifted the white stuff: “Look what
he's given this naughty gairl!”
Mr. Ventnor murmured: “Charming! Charming! Bob Pillin said, I think,
that Mr. Heythorp was your settlor.”
One of those little clouds which visit the brows of women who have owed
money in their time passed swiftly athwart Mrs. Larne's eyes. For a
moment they seemed saying: 'Don't you want to know too much?' Then they
slid from under it.
“Won't you sit down?” she said. “You must forgive our being at work.”
Mr. Ventnor, who had need of sorting his impressions, shook his head.
“Thank you; I must be getting on. Then Messrs. Scriven can--a mere
formality! Goodbye! Good-bye, Miss Larne. I'm sure the dress will be
most becoming.”
And with memories of a too clear look from the girl's eyes, of a warm
firm pressure from the woman's hand, Mr. Ventnor backed towards the door
and passed away just in time to avoid hearing in two voices:
“What a nice lawyer!”
“What a horrid man!”
Back in his cab, he continued to rub his hands. No, she didn't know old
Pillin! That was certain; not from her words, but from her face. She
wanted to know him, or about him, anyway. She was trying to hook
young Bob for that sprig of a girl--it was clear as mud. H'm! it would
astonish his young friend to hear that he had called. Well, let it! And
a curious mixture of emotions beset Mr. Ventnor. He saw the whole thing
now so plainly, and really could not refrain from a certain admiration.
The law had been properly diddled! There was nothing to prevent a man
from settling money on a woman he had never seen; and so old Pillin's
settlement could probably not be upset. But old Heythorp could. It was
neat, though, oh! neat! And that was a fine woman--remarkably! He had a
sort of feeling that if only the settlement had been in danger, it might
have been worth while to have made a bargain--a woman like that
could have made it worth while! And he believed her quite capable of
entertaining the proposition! Her eye! Pity--quite a pity! Mrs. Ventnor
was not a wife who satisfied every aspiration. But alas! the settlement
was safe. This baulking of the sentiment of love, whipped up, if
anything, the longing for justice in Mr. Ventnor. That old chap should
feel his teeth now. As a piece of investigation it was not so bad--not
so bad at all! He had had a bit of luck, of course,--no, not luck--just
that knack of doing the right thing at the right moment which marks a
real genius for affairs.
But getting into his train to return to Mrs. Ventnor, he thought: 'A
woman like that would have been--!' And he sighed.
2
With a neatly written cheque for fifty pounds in his pocket Bob Pillin
turned in at 23, Millicent Villas on the afternoon after Mr. Ventnor's
visit. Chivalry had won the day. And he rang the bell with an elation
which astonished him, for he knew he was doing a soft thing.
“Mrs. Larne is out, sir; Miss Phyllis is at home.”
His heart leaped.
“Oh-h! I'm sorry. I wonder if she'd see me?”