AN AGREEABLE RATTLE
A moment later there entered the room a slim, good-looking young man of
about twenty-five years old, whose eyes were very bright and whose
clothes were very smart, and who gave the impression of being at once in
the highest spirits and at least a year in advance of the very latest
expression of the mode. He was very fair, clean shaven, with smooth
blond hair, white teeth, and the most mischievous smile in London.
Bertie Wilton had the reputation of being the wittiest of all the
dandies, but his one great weakness was a mania for being _dans le
mouvement_, and a certain contempt for any ideas, however valuable, that
had been suggested earlier than, say, yesterday afternoon. Extremely
good-natured, lively, and voluble, he was immensely popular, being
considered, as indeed he was, one of the last of the conversationalists.
He might be frivolous, but he was always interesting. He could talk
about anything--and he did.
"I didn't know you'd got a motor, Bertie," said Woodville.
Wilton looked at it lovingly out of the window, arranged the gardenia in
his button-hole, and said--
"Oh yes! I'm mad on motors. I've had three! This is my new toy. It's a
ripper, the only _right_ kind. It _can_ go, I'll say that for it. I've
been fined twice for exceeding the speed limit already."
"But you've never done anything else," said Woodville.
Bertie laughed.
"Ah! no; perhaps not. Well, anyway, I simply love it. I haven't even
come here this morning _merely_ to see you, Mervyn, or on the off-chance
of meeting old Woodville, but simply to try the new Daimler before
lunching in it--at least, not exactly lunching _in_ it, but _with_
it,--no, no, not _with_ it, you know what I mean--with the dearest old
gentleman who lives in the wilds of West Kensington. He's simply devoted
to me. Why, I can't think. But he's got a sort of idea that I saved his
life on a hill near Hastings. What really happened was, that his idiot
of a chauffeur had utterly smashed up the car, and he and the old
gentleman were sitting on the Downs with every probability of remaining
there for the rest of their natural lives!"
"And this, I suppose, is where you came in," said Woodville.
"Rather! I was spinning along from Brighton, and I saw those poor
creatures in their pitiable position. To hop out of the motor, have an
explanation with the old gentleman (who was stone deaf, by the way), to
persuade him to come with me, to drive him to his _intensely_
comfortable and charming country house in the heart of Hastings, and to
send for a surgeon to attend to the internal injuries of the car, was,
for me, the work of a moment! I made up quite a romance about the old
gentleman. You're a reading man, Woodville, and so you know, from books,
that the slightest politeness to an eccentric millionaire sets you up in
gilded luxury for life, don't you? I expected, of course, that he would
cut off his family with a shilling, and would leave me at the _very_
least L20,000 a year. Isn't it funny, my being wrong? It turned out that
he neither could nor would do anything of the sort. He was neither
eccentric nor a millionaire--though he was very well off and very
clever. But, perhaps you ask yourself, had he a lovely daughter, whose
hand he would offer me in marriage? Not he! He has only a hideous
married son and daughter-in-law who live in Manchester, and all I've
got out of the adventure, so far, is lunching with him, and talking to
him, and heaps of practice in shouting; he's so deaf. Besides, he's a
dear."
"What a wonderful chap you are! The last time I saw you, weren't you
secretary to a foreign Duke, with a brilliant diplomatic future before
you, or something?" said Woodville, while Mervyn appeared to be lost in
thought.
"I know, but that was _last_ season! Lots of people are just as keen as
I am, you know. Broughton, for instance, has actually invented a car of
his own. I once permitted myself to speak rather disrespectfully of
Broughton's quite ridiculous car, and, of course, some kind friend told
him practically every word I said; and he was quite hurt. We had a
regular sort of scene about it."
"What did you say against the car?" said Mervyn judicially, waking up.
"Well, I may be wrong, but it seems to me that it isn't an ideally
convenient arrangement (particularly for ladies) to have to climb into a
motor, by means of a ladder, over the back! I understood that though
Broughton's design had all sorts of capital new arrangements with regard
to cushions and clocks and looking-glasses, and mud-guards, he had,
_most_ unfortunately, quite forgotten the door.
"Well, we met at the Bellairs' Fancy Ball (I went as Louis the
Nineteenth) last week, you know, and had an explanation, and sort of
made it up, but I'm afraid, like that uncomfortable old king, though he
smiled at the jest, he never forgave the satire.
"I say, I must fly now. I have to lunch with the old gentleman. Can I
drop you anywhere, Woodville?"
"I've got to be at the theatre at one, to rehearse," said Mervyn
suddenly.
"Then you must be quick, old boy. It's a quarter to two now," said
Bertie.
They took their leave.
After many tender inquiries after its health from the chauffeur, Bertie
sprang into the motor with Woodville, and they started off.
"I say, Woodville," began Bertie, as they spun along, "I want to talk
about Lady Chetwode. I'm awfully in love with her."
"Didn't know you knew her."
"I don't. That's nothing to do with it. You can be awfully in love with
a person you don't know. In fact, I believe _I_ can be far more
seriously devoted to a perfect stranger than to a woman I know
personally. But I've often seen her at the Opera. And I'm _going_ to
know her. I'm going to be brought to your party to-morrow night by Mrs.
Ogilvie. Didn't you know? Tell me, why isn't Chetwode ever _there_?"
"Don't be an ass! They're devoted to each other. Turtle-doves aren't in
it."
Bertie's eyes sparkled.
"I _know_! I suppose he stays away for fear of her getting tired of him.
Quaint idea. Never been done before quite like that. Well, it may be
very clever, but I shouldn't do it! Frankly, I should always be there or
thereabouts, at all risks! You don't seem to understand (knowing them so
intimately, of course you wouldn't) what Lady Chetwode is going to be.
Why, she's simply _the_ person already. I hear of her everywhere, and
the sister, Miss Crofton; I saw her too the other night. She's quite
beautiful. I don't believe they know what to do with her."
"What on earth do you mean?" said Woodville.
"My dear boy, I have my faults, but I have one little gift, and that is
a _flair_ for success. It will be all very well for Miss Sylvia to marry
the Greek man to begin with----"
"Do you propose she should marry any one else to go on with then?"
"Don't be absurd. I mean, of course, that would start her, and so on.
He's a friend of exalted personages and that sort of thing, and it would
certainly bring her forward. Although I think she could do better. But
she ought to come out in tableaux or something and be really seen,
quite soon; while she's a novelty."
"I really think there's something wrong with your tonneau," said
Woodville.
Bertie smiled cheerfully. "Don't worry, my chauffeur's one of the best
drivers in London. But, about tableaux; next month at Worcester
House----"
"Miss Crofton doesn't care about that sort of thing," said Woodville.
"No? I heard she had rather a line of her own. What is her pose? She
ought to settle on it. You know there is nothing so uncomfortable as not
having settled on one's pose. Oh!" Bertie gave a start. "I beg your
pardon. I see the whole thing! But of course! You're in love with her.
What a fool I am!"
"You are indeed. I see very little of Miss Crofton. You're generally
positive, and always wrong."
"Oh, is it as bad as that? My dear Woodville, I'm so sorry! What a
tactless idiot I am! But Lady Chetwode, now. Her great friend, Vera
Ogilvie, I know very well indeed. I met her last Tuesday, so she's quite
an old friend. Mrs. Ogilvie's the pretty woman who thinks she has a
Byzantine profile. She's all over strange jewels and scarabs, and uncut
turquoises and things. She has a box on the second tier, and it was
there that it all happened."
"That what happened?"
"Why, my falling in love at first sight; I mean, with Lady Chetwode, of
course; and what makes me so bad is that I hear of her everywhere.
Nothing worse than that! Her frocks and her mots,--it seems she's very
clever, I hear, and says the most delightful things. And there's another
thing, if I don't make a dash for it this season, I shan't have a chance
next. I see that."
"Didn't I tell you she's simply wrapped up in her husband?"
"Of course. That's just the point. I don't know Chetwode, but he's the
fellow who has the wonderful collection. First Empire things, and china,
and all that. Besides, he goes racing. They say his horse has a chance
of winning the Derby. Oh, you don't know what a distinguished family
they are! Well, anyhow, you see he's busy, and if they _do_ have
honeymoons every now and then--as no doubt they do--I really hardly see
what that matters to me."
"Frankly, nor do I," said Woodville.
"No, indeed; I like it better, because I don't mind telling you I've got
heaps of things on just now."
"You look as if you had," said Woodville dryly.
"Is this meant for an attack on my tie? You'll be wearing one like it
yourself in a fortnight! Mrs. Ogilvie's great fun. Yesterday she took me
with her and a sort of country girl, a clergyman's daughter from Earl's
Court, to buy a hat at Lewis's; (for the girl I mean). It was
_extraordinary_! The girl isn't at all bad-looking, but naturally wears
her hair _perfectly_ flat, with a kind of knob at the back, the wrong
kind. On the top of this the milliners stuck, first, the most enormous
hat, eccentric beyond the dreams of the Rue de la Paix, all feathers,
and said, Oh, quel joli mouvement, Madame! The poor girl, frightened to
death, thinking the birds were alive, tore it off. So then they tried on
those absurd, tiny, high, little things that require at least
twenty-five imitation curls to keep them up, and show them off, and in
which poor Miss Winter looked like an escaped lunatic. We tried
everything in the shop, and at last Mrs. Ogilvie said, 'Perhaps we had
better come again, later in the season, when the hats would be smaller,
or not so large.'--Do you know Miss Winter? She has _rather_ pretty red
hair, and a dazed intellectual expression. She's the sort of girl who
can only wear a sailor hat (I never saw a sailor in a straw), as they
call them, or perhaps something considered picturesque in the suburbs;
you know, with skyblue _crepe de chine_ strings under the chin. If
she'd only been an athletic girl we could have gone straight to Scott's,
and then we should have known where we were--but she's artistic, poor
thing." Bertie smiled mischievously.
"Your valuable advice doesn't seem to have been much use, then?"
"_Rather_ not! Especially as Mrs. Ogilvie has this craze about thinking
she's Oriental (I wonder who put it into her head), and _would_ order
absurd beaded things, like Roman helmets, when of course she'd look
delightful in a dark claret-coloured velvet sort of Gainsborough, with
dull brown feathers. But women are so perverse. Look how they won't wear
black when nothing suits them so well!"
"Won't they? I wonder you don't go into the millinery business. I think
you'd do very well."
"Don't talk rot. I'm only interested as an amateur; it's art for art's
sake. But I _do_ understand frocks. I will say that I think women's
dress is the only thing worth being really extravagant on. Don't you?"
"No, I don't."
They were now proceeding down Bond Street at a pace that the crowd
compelled to be rather leisurely.
"There's Aunt William in her old-fashioned barouche with the grey
horses. It's _such_ a comfort to me, always, to see Mrs. Crofton; it
makes one feel at least there is something stationary in this changeable
world. Who's that boy looking at?--at you? Isn't it the Crofton boy?"
"Yes. Let's stop a minute; I want to speak to him."
Savile, seeing them, crossed the road, and said, before Bertie could
begin--
"Extraordinary weather for the time of--year!"
"Come off the roof!" said Woodville, smiling. "What are you doing in
Bond Street?"
"Oh, only going to Chappell's, the music shop, to get a song. One of
those Sylvia doesn't sing," said Savile, looking straight at him.
"Oh, I know what it is," said Bertie; "it's Pale Hands that Burn, or
Tosti's Good-bye!"
"No, it just isn't."
"Then it's something out of The Telephone Girl or something. Do tell us
what it is. I hate these musical mysteries."
"It's not a mystery at all. It's Home sweet Home," said Savile.
They tried to persuade him to join them, but he walked off.
"Delightful boy," said Bertie, after a moment. "So correct. I'm sure
he's _the_ person at home, and spoilt, and does what he likes with them
all, doesn't he? Of course, he's the person to be friends with if you
want anything fixed up! Well, here we are at Onslow Square. It was jolly
seeing you again. You must come for another longer spin soon. Isn't
Mervyn a good chap? He's so really distinguished that it wouldn't ever
matter what he wore, or where he went, or when. And you'd never _dream_
he was an actor, would you?"
"Not unless you saw him act," said Woodville, getting out.