CHAPTER IX_The Twelfth Hour

A DINNER AT WILLIS'S

"It seems to me," said Sylvia, "the most unnatural, _treacherous_ thing

I ever heard of."

She and Woodville were sitting in the library together after breakfast,

and he had just told her of Ridokanaki's invitation.

"Besides, I thought you hated him, Frank!"

"If we only dined with people we like, we should practically starve in

London."

"But why dine with my enemies?"

"He worships the ground you tread on."

"Then it's all the worse! He wants to spoil our happiness for his own

selfish purpose. You know that, and yet you go!"

"Darling, beautiful angel, do let me use my own judgment! I want to hear

what he has to say. Don't be angry, Sylvia. I couldn't very well refuse

on the ground that he was in love with you, when we--you and I--are not

officially--you see, dearest! Of course, it's better I should go."

The door opened slowly and Sir James came in like a procession, and sat

down slowly, in his stately, urbane manner.

"Excuse me one moment, Sir James," murmured Woodville, and he collected

some papers and vanished. Sylvia waited a few minutes and then rose.

"Don't go, Sylvia," said her father mildly. She stopped. Sylvia was the

only person with whom Sir James was never peremptory.

"What has become," he said, a little nervously, though with his usual

formality, "of that very sumptuous basket of flowers Mr. Ridokanaki was

so kind as to send you?"

"It's in the housekeeper's room, papa." Sylvia's voice to-day was very

sweet and high; a sign to those who knew her of some perturbation or

cussedness, as Savile used to say.

"Hum! There must be several floral offerings there. To the best of my

belief--correct me if I am mistaken--four arrived last week."

"Oh yes, there are _heaps_, papa! It's a perfect garden of flowers."

"So I suppose.... Will you have them brought up to the drawing-room at

_once_!--or, when convenient, darling?"

"No, papa. Several are rather faded."

Sir James paused, then with an attempt at calm determination said, with

finality--

"If any more arrive, will you recollect, my dear, that I _wish_ them to

be placed in the drawing-room?"

"Oh, I don't like so many flowers in the drawing-room, papa. But, if you

like, I might send them on to one of the hospitals. Perhaps the 'Home of

Rest for Chows and Poodles' might----"

"Ridiculous, child! They would not be appreciated there. What do our

canine friends care for carnations?" He smiled with satisfaction at the

phrase.

In his mind he saw a neat letter to the papers--the sort of thing he

dictated to Woodville, and never sent--about "Flowers and Our

Four-footed Favourites," signed "Paterfamilias." He was proud of his

well-turned phrases, but, though pompous, he was not persistent, and

when his secretary had once heard these rigmaroles, and their author had

seen them in type--I mean typewriting--Sir James felt for the moment

satisfied, and said he had "done a good morning's work."

"I won't have them sent to any hospital, Sylvia. I forbid it."

"Very well, papa. But they're _mine_; surely I can do what I like with

them?" she pouted.

"Since they are, as you justly say, my dear, your own personal property,

it seems to me only proper that you should write and acknowledge them,

thanking the thoughtful sender in an appropriate note."

"But, papa, the thoughtful sender is so _fearfully_ floral! I should

have to spend nearly all my time writing appropriate notes."

"I don't understand your tone, Sylvia. However, we may let that pass."

He opened the newspaper with much rustling and crackling, and said, as

if to end the discussion--

"If you receive another basket, or other offering of the same

description, from our good friend Ridokanaki, you will write and thank

him, will you not?"

"I will not," she answered amiably, as if assenting.

"You _will not_?"

He peered at the modern daughter from behind the _Times_, and recognised

in her grey eyes (with as much gratification as such meetings usually

afford us) a lifelong friend. It was his own hereditary obstinacy.

Sylvia went to the door, then turned round and said a shade

apologetically--

"You see, darling, it seems such a wicked _waste_! Surely the money

might be better spent! On--on the unemployed, or something. Why, the

other day he sent a thing from Gerard's so enormous that it came quite

alone in a van; and another came in a four-wheeler. And I wasn't rude,

you know--I kept it."

"I don't quite follow you, my dear. You kept what? The cab?"

"No, the flowers. And I must say it is a pleasure to go and give one's

orders now! The kitchen is like a fete at the Botanical Gardens."

Sir James frowned absently, pretending to be suddenly absorbed in the

paper until she had gone away, and shut the door. Then he put down the

_Times_ carefully, and shook with laughter, comfortably to himself, as

he only laughed when alone. His daughter's way of receiving homage was

very much to his taste.

* * * * *

At the door of the little restaurant in King Street, waiting for him,

Woodville found Ridokanaki.

Slight and thin as he was, with his weary, drooping grey moustache, he

looked always rather unusual and distinguished. He had black, wrinkled,

heavy-lidded eyes, in which Sylvia had discovered a remarkable

resemblance to the eyes of a parrot, though the fire in them was very

far from being extinguished. He wore a gay light red carnation, but the

flowerless Woodville looked far more festive. Woodville's enjoyment of

nearly all experiences which were not absolutely depressing was greater

than ever since his life of self-repression. To dine alone with the

great Ridokanaki on the brink of some kind of sentimental crisis was to

him a kind of intellectual, almost a literary joy, one which Sylvia

could never either share or understand.

Ridokanaki received him with his most courteous manner. Ridokanaki, like

most people, had two remarkably different manners. In society, he had a

certain flowery formality, a conventional _empressement_, that, though

far from being English, was absolutely different from the geniality of

the German, from French tact and bonhomie, and from the Italian grace.

It is a manner I have noticed chiefly in Scotchmen and in modern Greeks;

its origin is, I fancy, a desire to please, of which the root is pride,

not mere amiability or vanity, as in the Latin races. As unfortunately,

in Ridokanaki's case, it entirely lacked charm, people simply found him

tedious; especially women. On the other hand, in business or, indeed, in

anything _really serious_, Ridokanaki was quite royally frank, and

natural as a child; considering not at all the feelings of other people

and consequently irritating them very little. He had a supreme contempt

for petty diplomacy in such matters, regarding it as only worthy of a

commercial traveller. His absolute reliability and brutal frankness had

made him personally liked in the City, in spite of his phenomenal

success--a success that had led to an importance not merely social, but

political, and almost historical. Those who saw him in this blunt mood,

found him, for the first time, amusing. All really frank people _are_

amusing, and would remain so if they could remember that other people

may sometimes want to be frank and amusing too.

"There is a subtle difference," remarked Woodville, looking round,

"between Willis's and other restaurants. At all others one feels the

meal is a means to an end; somehow, here, it seems to be the end itself.

Eating is treated as a sacred rite, and in the public preparations of

sauces by a head waiter there is something of a religious sacrifice.

Look at the waiters, like acolytes, standing round the maitre d'hotel,

watching him."

"That's quite true," said Ridokanaki. "You mean people don't dine here

for amusement?"

It was not until the coffee and cigar stage was reached that Ridokanaki

suddenly said in his _earlier manner_, rather quickly and abruptly: "And

why don't you do something better, Mr. Woodville?"

"Could I be doing anything better?" said Woodville, laughing. "I

certainly couldn't be dining better."

His host blinked his eyes, waved his hand, and said quickly: "Any one

could do what you do for Sir James. It's quite ridiculous, with your

brains, that because your uncle didn't leave you a fortune, you should

have this absurd career. It isn't a career."

Woodville felt the delightful excitement beginning. To increase it, he

reminded himself how Ridokanaki, by a stroke of the pen, could move the

fate of nations, and then he turned cold at the thought that Ridokanaki

was in love with Sylvia.

"I know," he said, "that I am not doing any good, but I see no prospect

of anything better."

Ridokanaki frowned, staring at Woodville rather rudely, and then said:

"Of course we're both thinking of the same thing. I mean the same lady."

"Really, Mr. Ridokanaki, I have no idea what you are thinking about. But

there is no lady who can possibly concern _our_ conversation."

Ridokanaki looked at the clock. It immediately struck ten, tactfully, in

a clear subdued tone.

"But"--he spoke rather impatiently--"with all reverence and the most

distant respect in the world, there's no reason why I shouldn't speak of

the lady. I'm sorry, as you seem to dislike it, but I'm afraid I have no

time for fencing now."

Frank was silent.

"Every day," said Ridokanaki in an undertone, "you see that beautiful

girl. You live under the same roof. I see her only occasionally, but I

understand your feelings." He laughed harshly. "I have the same--as you

know."

"Your sentiments, no doubt, do you the greatest possible honour, Mr.

Ridokanaki. Mine are those of old friendship."

"Indeed! Well! mine aren't! Can't you see I'm trying to play the game?"

He spoke almost coarsely. Woodville liked him better. There was a pause.

"Perhaps," continued the host, "you _think_ you only want her

friendship, but I don't suppose _she_ thinks so. In reality, of course,

you want her."

"Really, Mr. Ridokanaki----!"

"Listen, listen! You can't marry her in your present position. I could

in mine, but she will never like me while you're there--possibly never.

At my best I never had what the French call _le don de plaire aux

dames_. Not that age matters, nor ugliness. I haven't the knack. I never

had. I bore women. I always did. In that I've always failed, and know

it. And it's the only thing I ever cared about. My failure is my

tragedy." He smiled. "You have all the advantages on your side, Mr.

Woodville. But you're both young, and for that very reason any fancy

that may have sprung up _might_ be forgotten. With me----"

Woodville looked at him. No, it was not possible to be jealous of his

host. Whatever truth there was about his past failure, he could never

fascinate Sylvia. She appreciated too fully the plastic side of life;

she was a romanticist, and therefore she attached immense importance to

the material. (Are not all romantic heroes and heroines beautiful to

look at, and always either beautifully or picturesquely dressed?) Sylvia

cared far more about her own admiration for a man than for his

admiration for her. Homage, except from the _One_, was to her no

pleasure, and fortunately she knew exactly what she wanted.

Instinctively Woodville knew that she would always love him. Unless,

indeed, he should change. But that was impossible. He felt it to be

impossible.

So, perhaps, after all, the reports about Ridokanaki's European

"successes" were all nonsense. Yes, he had revealed his wound quite

openly, and it was a bitter one. He had never been loved "for himself".

Woodville pitied him.

"What do you propose?" said Woodville, falling into the Greek's laconic

tone.

"Why should a man of your ability go twice a week in an omnibus to a

shabby studio, in hopes of making a few pounds a year by copying?

Because you're hard up. Why should you be so hard up? I met you once

going there, and thought how hard it was. It is dreadful to be hard

up.... This is what I propose. I can easily obtain for you a post in

connection with my bank. The salary to begin with will be two thousand

pounds a year. In Athens."

"Athens!"

"I propose that you try it for a year. During that year I will not see

the lady. I will efface myself. If at the end of that time you both

still feel the same I shall give up for ever my own wish. You can have a