Disturnal came and went with an air of genial mystery. The cab that
carried him from Lady Wyse’s to Prince Dwala’s carried the fate of the
nation on its two wheels. He came to assure Dwala of the support of
the powerful Catholic Anglican party, of which he was business manager.
‘Of course, I’m only a layman,’ he said, with his broad muscular
clean-shaven smile; ‘but you may take it the thing is done. The Bishop
of Windsor will have to come and see you, just as a matter of form.
He’s our President. He’s a dear old thing; you’ll like him. You’ll only
have to give him some lunch, and pat him on the back and send him home
again. I’ve settled it all with Lady Wyse.’
The Bishop came to lunch--really a ‘dear old thing’; a crumpled and
furrowed saint, with the wise brow of a Scotch terrier, fitted for
better things than to be managed by a scheming Jesuit like Disturnal.
Dwala respected him as a man; Huxtable as a Bishop; Hartopp as neither.
The mere title of Bishop was enough to provoke the fury of that pewed
ox. The old Fence broke in on the respectable conversation of the
lunch-table with ribald questions and sly allusions to Lady Wyse, and
parsons, and hopes of the Archbishopric--all of which amused him very
much, and only bewildered the good prelate, who had no notion what
he was driving at. Hartopp soon pushed his plate away, and sat with
his chin resting on the table and his pale blind eye-balls turned on
the Bishop, chuckling to himself, like the head of some decapitated
sorcerer in the ‘Arabian Nights’ making fun of a wicked Caliph.
His conversational successes pleased him so much that he grew gay and
gallant when Dwala brought up Lady Wyse herself an hour later to his
rooms to introduce her.
That crafty lady had prepared the way for friendship three weeks before
by sending him ‘The Doings of Thomasina,’ over which the world was
laughing--written by a lady of fashion, and absolutely true to life,
so Huxtable assured him. It had been the delight of many evenings when
Huxtable read it aloud to him and Dwala.
‘If people went on like that in Seven Dials,’ he said, ‘there’d be
black eyes all round, and a lickin’ for the girl at the end of every
page.’
But he chuckled hugely, relishing it as a light upon the manners and
customs of the nobs.
He had the first floor to himself now, eight rooms in a suite. He was
very strict in his sense of property, rushing out like an angry spider
from his lair if he heard sounds of intrusion. But this afternoon
he needed company as an outlet for the pride of his conversational
performance, and he hobbled forth on the landing with a grin when he
heard voices on the stairs.
‘Ah, Lady Wyse, is it? We had some talk about you at lunch to-day, my
lady. “Lady Wyse is an old friend of mine,” says the Bishop. “Ha, ha,”
says I; “she’s a fine woman by all accounts.” And then I laughed, and
Huxtable up and asked the Bishop about the state of the Parsons’ Relief
Fund. “Parsons,” says I; “why I read the Bible right through once when
I was a boy, for a bet, and the word parson isn’t mentioned once in the
whole of the book. I suppose you hope to be Archbishop some day?” says
I. He pretended not to hear; but I wasn’t going to let him off. “Didn’t
Lady Wyse say anything about you bein’ made Archbishop?” I says. “Not
a word,” says he. “Didn’t she wink?” says I. “One doesn’t wink at
Bishops,” says Huxtable. “Ah,” says I; “you don’t know Lady Wyse”; and
I and the Bishop roared with laughter. The old man knows a thing or
two.’
Lady Wyse listened patiently, and charmed the Fence outright, without
exertion, by sitting down at the piano--_his_ piano, which nobody might
touch without his leave--and playing him ‘Simple Aveu’ and ‘The Song
which Reached my Heart.’ The proletariat, who abhor sentimentality in
real life, like nothing else in art. The sound of the music drew Joey,
a sad little creature now that she saw the possible limitations of the
pleasure of wearing new hats and steaming slowly in a motor-car round
the Park. Hearing her footstep four rooms off, while he was leaning,
full of noble emotion, over the plaintive piano, Hartopp rushed
thumping away, knocking over little tables as he went, and cursing to
himself.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s only me, Toppin.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I come to hear the music.’
‘What do you mean by comin’ in without askin’? Have you cleaned
yourself up?’
‘Not partic’lar.’
‘Then clear out! I’ve got visitors. Wait till you’re sent for.’