The taxi pulled up with a jerk opposite Hyde Court Mansions, and the
Honourable Reginald Seton, in the glossiest of top hats and the most
delicate of grey frock-coats, stepped out carefully on to the
pavement. Then, with the graceful deliberation that marked all his
movements, he extracted half-a-crown from his waistcoat pocket and
handed it to the driver.
The man pocketed the coin with a wheezy "Thank ye, sir," and, leaning
over from his box, inquired furtively, "Wot's goin' to win ter-day,
guv'nor?"
Reggie sighed.
"My bookmaker," he said, adjusting his field-glasses to a nicer
angle. Then, with his head slightly on one side, he mounted the two
or three stone steps that led into the big block of flats.
The liftman, who looked like a dirty edition of the All Highest,
touched his cap as Reggie approached.
"Mr. Delmar's flat, sir?" he inquired, opening the door.
Reggie nodded.
"They tell me, sir," pursued the liftman, as he and Reggie progressed
heavenwards, "that Little Eva's very 'ot to-day--very 'ot indeed,
sir."
"How unpleasant for her jockey!" replied Reggie, with a slight
shudder.
The liftman smiled respectfully.
"It's a good tip, sir," he observed. "I 'ad it straight from the
stable."
Reggie looked at him with admiration.
"Did you really, Smith?" he said. "How clever of you! The only
things I've ever had from a stable have been bills."
"Ah, well, sir," said the liftman indulgently, "you can afford to pay
'em."
Reggie shook his head.
"That's just where you're wrong, Smith; I can afford not to--which is
much more important."
The lift stopped at the third landing, and Mr. Smith flung back the
trellised iron gate. Then he stepped out after Reggie, and, crossing
to the door exactly opposite, pressed the electric bell.
"Thank you, Smith," said Reggie languidly; "you are very efficient."
The bell was answered by a middle-aged, clean-shaven man with a face
like a tired mask.
"Good-morning, Ropes," said Reggie. "Is Mr. Delmar up?"
Ropes stepped back, opening the door.
"Mr. Delmar is dressing, sir; I think he is expecting you."
"I know he is," said Reggie, advancing into the hall, and beginning
to take off his gloves. "Has he ordered the car?"
"Nine-thirty sharp, sir."
Reggie smiled.
"Ah, well," he said, "I think we shall be ready by ten, with any
luck."
"Yes, sir," replied Ropes; "I should think so, sir."
"You were always an optimist, Ropes," said Reggie.
At that moment a door on the farther side of the hall was thrown open
and a voice--a peculiarly engaging, good-tempered sort of
voice--inquired cheerfully:
"That you, Reggie?"
Reggie laid down his hat and stick on the settee.
"The answer," he said, "is in the affirmative."
"Well, come in," replied the voice, "and don't be an ass."
Accepting the first suggestion, Reggie walked across the hall.
The room which he entered was as comfortable as a man's bedroom has
any right to be. A wood fire was crackling away pleasantly in the
grate, and reflecting a comfortable glow on the two or three
excellent specimens of Mr. Finch Stuart's talent which hung upon the
walls.
On the bed sat Tony, tastefully draped in a white Turkish bath robe.
He was smoking a cigarette and helping himself out of a bottle of
champagne from the table beside him.
Reggie looked at him reprovingly.
"Tony," he said, "I thought you had long ago abandoned that
disgusting English habit of eating breakfast."
Tony shook his head.
"You have always misjudged me," he said. "My real tastes are as
simple as a schoolboy's. Have some?"
He poured out a glass and handed it to Reggie, at the same time
casting a critical eye over the latter's clothes.
"My dear Reggie," he said, "you are very beautiful, but do you think
that's the most suitable costume for motoring down to Newmarket in?"
"Quite," said Reggie contentedly, "if one goes inside."
"Oh," replied Tony, "you've arranged it, have you? May I hear the
details?"
"Certainly," said Reggie, sipping gracefully from his glass. "You
will perform your usual miracles with the steering-wheel, Musette
will watch you with grave approval, and Gwendoline and I will sit
behind and hold hands."
"And suppose Musette wants to go inside?"
Reggie smiled.
"I am not the least afraid of that," he said.
Tony got up from the bed and began to shed his bath robe.
"Well, you had better hold Gwendoline's hand as engagingly as you
can," he said. "It will probably be your last chance, as far as I'm
concerned."
Reggie looked at him with a faint wrinkle in his forehead.
"Is it a riddle, Tony?" he asked plaintively. "I am no good at
riddles unless I'm slightly drunk."
"The answer," said Tony, selecting a shirt with some care, "is Little
Eva. It's very painful, but the fact remains that if Little Eva
doesn't win to-day there's an end of Antony Delmar."
Reggie paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.
"You're not thinking of poisoning yourself, are you, Tony?" he asked,
with interest. "Because, if so, a doctor chap once told me----"
Tony laughed.
"You're always very helpful, Reggie," he said; "but, as a matter of
fact, I've not the least idea of doing anything so exciting. I only
mean that unless Little Eva brings it off we've finished this
particular chapter. I've no doubt Ropes will lend me a tenner, but,
bar that, I shall be what Pat O'Donnell used to call 'bruk to the
buff.'"
For the first time Reggie looked a little serious.
"Are things really as bad as that?" he asked.
"Worse," said Tony calmly. "Much worse. There are my unhappy
tradesmen to be considered. That's the only point that worries me.
I hate doing a tradesman, Reggie, but I'm afraid I shall have to."
"Of course you will," said Reggie hopefully. "We're always having to
do unpleasant things in this life. It's what my uncle the bishop
calls 'our duty,' You'll have to go bankrupt, Tony, and then borrow
a few thousands and start over again."
Tony, who was adjusting his tie with some care, smiled.
"It's a good idea," he said, "but, unfortunately, I've rather
forestalled it. The five thousand that I've got on Little Eva with
Morris and Weaver was a sort of farewell testimonial from my friends.
I think I touched everyone except you and Ropes, and Ropes has been
paying the bills for at least a fortnight. I really can't go on any
longer, or the poor fellow will have lost all he's robbed me of."
"Do you mean to say you've put the actual cash up?" demanded Reggie
in horror.
"I had to, my dear Reggie. That little beast Murray, who runs the
business, wouldn't take a 'pony' from me unless he saw the colour of
it first."
"And what do you stand to win?"
Tony sighed.
"Twenty-seven thousand pounds," he said. "It's a beautiful sum,
isn't it? I could pay my bills and live for nearly three years on
it."
Reggie poured himself out the remainder of the champagne.
"You make me feel quite faint, Tony," he said, "you're so spacious."
Then he took a long drink.
"And what do you propose doing," he added, "if Little Eva's beaten?"
"I shall have to work," said Tony.
Reggie stared at him in unaffected amazement.
"Have to what?" he repeated.
"Work," repeated Tony. "I believe it's very difficult and
unpleasant, but I don't see any other prospect."
A mingled look of horror and admiration crept across Reggie's face.
"What could you do?" he asked breathlessly.
"I might drive a car," answered Tony hopefully. "I can't think of
anything else at the moment."
Reggie took a deep breath,
"You're splendid, Tony," he said. "You remind me of Roosevelt. But
of course it's absurd. You must marry some woman with money. There
are plenty of them who'd jump at you."
Tony shivered.
"Fancy being jumped at by a woman!" he said plaintively. "It makes
me feel like a new hat."
"Well, you're a bad hat," retorted Reggie, laughing; "that's quite
near enough. Seriously, though, my dear Tony, you can't possibly be
allowed to go under. London would never be the same again. It would
be as bad as Romano's being burnt down. You must marry, of course.
What's the use of being the most popular man in London if you can't
marry a rich woman when you want to?"
"Well, suggest somebody."
Reggie pondered for a moment.
"Why not Mrs. Rosenbaum?"
Tony picked an errant thread off his perfectly cut blue suit. "In
order to be facetious, Reggie," he said, "it is not necessary to be
disgusting."
Reggie sighed.
"I am doing my best," he declared. "What about Musette? She
obviously has the good taste to appreciate you, and she seems to have
plenty of money. By the way, Tony, who is she really? Cohen asked
me about her after he met her with you at Kempton, and when I said I
didn't know, the swine grinned. If I hadn't had a pair of Gordon's
boots on I should have kicked him."
Tony shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear Reggie," he said, "I know very little more about Musette
than you do. I met her exactly two months ago in the Bois, when, in
her extremely sensible way, she stopped and asked me to get rid of
some futile Frenchman who had been following her round for the best
part of an hour."
"How charming!" said Reggie. "That sort of thing never happens to
me. Did you hurt him?"
"I think he shuddered a little at my accent," replied Tony. "Anyhow,
he cleared out, and I took Musette back to the Hotel de Paris, where
she was staying. There I met Mrs. Watson, and they asked me to call
on them in London."
"It sounds like Phillips Oppenheim at his best," said Reggie. "But
surely you must have found out something more since then. What
relation is she to the old lady, and where does the girl get her
money from?"
Tony shook his head.
"I've no idea," he said. "She has never offered to tell me anything,
and so, of course, I've never asked her. We've just been
pals--that's all."
Reggie helped himself to a cigarette.
"Well, you can't live in Curzon Street on nothing," he said. "I've
tried it. They must have at least five thousand a year. I think you
will have to marry her, Tony, and trust to luck."
Tony laughed a little uneasily.
"Perhaps she wouldn't marry me," he said.
"Any woman would marry you if you asked her nicely. You have got
such an alluring voice."
Tony suddenly straightened himself.
"Well, I'm not going to marry Musette," he said. "It would be a
damned shame." Then he walked across the room and rang the bell.
Reggie said nothing. With his head on one side he smoked away
thoughtfully at his cigarette.
The silence was broken by the entrance of Ropes.
"Is the car round?" inquired Tony.
"It has been outside exactly twenty minutes, sir," replied Ropes
equably. "I have put in the luncheon basket and three bottles of
champagne. Everything is quite ready, sir."
"Good," said Tony, picking up two or three stray sovereigns from the
dressing-table. "I will now put on my coat, Ropes."
The impassive man-servant stepped out into the hall, reappearing a
moment later with a magnificent astrachan-lined garment, in which
Tony proceeded to envelop himself.
"If any one should call, sir?" asked Ropes interrogatively.
Tony picked up his cap.
"Tell them," he said, "that it is more blessed to give than to
receive."
"Yes, sir," replied Ropes gravely.
Three minutes afterwards, with Tony at the wheel and Reggie reclining
luxuriously in the beautiful limousine body, the big Rolls-Royce drew
noiselessly away down Piccadilly. Whatever Tony's shortcomings might
be, he could certainly drive a car. Threading his way through the
traffic with a very poetry of judgment, he glided round the corner of
Park Lane, and, cutting across the bows of an onrushing motor
omnibus, disappeared in the direction of Curzon Street before the
indignant brake-grabbing driver of the latter could recall a single
adequate word.
In front of a small, recently painted house he brought the big
six-cylinder to a standstill. Then he turned round.
"I'll ring," he said. "Don't you trouble to get out."
"I wasn't going to," replied Reggie pleasantly.
As a matter of fact, there was no necessity for the exertion, for
just as Tony was preparing to disembark, the door of the house
opened, and a tall, pleasant-looking girl, neatly dressed in blue
serge, stepped out on to the pavement.
Tony jumped down and took off his cap, while Reggie gracefully rose
and imitated his example.
The girl smiled gravely.
"I am afraid you must have had a bad night," she said; "you are only
twenty minutes late."
"Mine is the hand that dragged him from his lair, Miss Gilbert," said
Reggie languidly. "But for me he would still be in his bath."
The girl looked at him.
"That was very kind of you, Mr. Seton," she said gently. "I have
heard you are rather an expert at getting out of hot water yourself."
Tony chuckled.
"Bravo, Musette!" he said. "Right on the point. If you want to
follow it up, say you are going to ride inside."
Musette's eyes twinkled.
"Why, of course!" she said. "Where else should I sit?"
Reggie, who was still standing, looked at her appealingly.
"You have driven with Tony before," he said, "and you know the risks
you are running. Death is much easier on the box-seat. Besides, I
want to hold Gwendoline's hand."
"I am not at all sure that it is respectable," said Musette severely.
"It will only be her left hand," pleaded Reggie.
"Oh, well, in that case," said Musette; and, without further
objection, she seated herself alongside of Tony.
Five minutes' flirtation with death brought the car to Portman
Mansions, where Gwendoline, a charming blend of Dresden china and
Paquin, floated delicately into the limousine.
Then away past Euston and King's Cross, up through the sordid
dreariness of Pentonville and so out on to the far-flung Broxbourne
road.
Once clear of the general traffic, Tony began to enjoy himself. Over
the first ten police-ridden miles the big car glided along at a
steady twenty-five, and then, as the houses became fewer, and the
green fields began to appear on either side of the road, the index
finger on the speedometer crept encouragingly up.
Musette, who seemed to be blessed with delightfully steady nerves,
watched him with frank interest. She made no attempt to talk, such
conversation as there was being almost wholly confined to spirited
comments from Tony on the extraordinary prevalence of deaf and lame
pedestrians. Indeed, his only departure from this interesting
monologue was an occasional hurried request to Musette to "Give 'em
the Gabriel," a presentation which she effected with promptness and
efficiency.
From the tonneau behind, Reggie, who was softly stroking Gwendoline's
hand, surveyed them with languid approval. "I don't suppose," he
said contentedly, "that there are four such charming people as
ourselves in the whole of England."
Gwendoline looked a little doubtful.
"I think Musette is very nice," she said, "but I don't quite
understand her."
"You should never understand any one," replied Reggie. "It's like
knowing the answer to a riddle."
"Does Tony love her?" asked Gwendoline.
Reggie thought for a moment,
"I'm inclined to think it's more serious than that," he said. "I
have an idea that he likes her."
Gwendoline wrinkled up her forehead.
"I can't love any one I don't like," she said decisively. "I've
tried several times, and it's always been a failure."
"I can," observed Reggie frankly. "I love lots of people, but I
don't think I like any one very much except you and Tony, and Martin,
my valet. If you all died, I should become what my uncle calls 'a
slave to passion.'"
"It sounds rather nice," said Gwendoline.
Reggie sighed. "It's dreadfully expensive," he observed.
Except for a slight misunderstanding with a farm cart on the borders
of Cambridgeshire, which Tony patched up with a charming apology and
a sovereign, no untoward incident marred the remainder of the drive.
Half-past one was just striking as the car entered the outskirts of
Newmarket. Through the broad, grey main street, with its stray
race-horses and its lounging throng of gaitered, clean-shaven men,
Tony steered a sober and considerate course. The town was full of
visitors, and almost every other man who passed either touched his
cap or waved a cheery greeting.
Musette smiled.
"You seem to be the best-known person in London, Tony," she said.
"To the police," said Tony modestly, "I believe I am."
A swift run up the hill, a sharp turn to the right, and the Heath,
fresh and green in the crisp October air, stretched out gloriously
before them. Tony brought the car to a standstill just beyond the
enclosure, and then, leaning over, affectionately patted the
dashboard.
"Good girl!" he said.
Musette nodded.
"She has done splendidly. You must give her a nice helping of oil
while I get lunch ready."
The latter operation did not take long. A well-meant offer of
assistance from Reggie and Gwendoline was firmly, if politely,
declined, and by the time Tony had attended to the car's
requirements, a pleasing medley of champagne, lobster mayonnaise,
cold tongue, and Madeira jelly was set out invitingly on the portable
table inside the body.
"Here," said Reggie, raising his glass and leaning back luxuriously,
"is the health of the gentleman who invented that charming phrase,
'the idle rich.'"
"You might have drunk mine first," protested Gwendoline, "after
holding my hand the whole way down."
"Reggie," said Tony, "has the most perfect manner and the most
imperfect manners of anybody I know. Musette, your health!"
Musette bowed gravely.
"My toast," she said, "is that you may all back the winner."
"Tony," said Reggie, "has backed Little Eva. I think I shall do the
same. The liftman told me that she was 'very 'ot.'"
"Is that what they call 'a tip?'" asked Gwendoline, wrinkling her
forehead.
"Hush, child," said Reggie, patting her hand. "Such expressions are
not seemly for a young girl to use."
"I am sorry, dear," said Gwendoline, "but you might put ten bob on
for me. I want some new gloves badly. You have nearly worn out this
pair."
"I can't be left out," said Musette, producing her purse. "Tony, you
look honest. Here's a sovereign for Little Eva."
Tony took the coin.
"I'll hedge against you all," he said. "It may bring me luck."
"Well, here goes my last fiver," said Reggie, with a sigh. "If
Little Eva's beaten I shall dine with you all in turn next week."
"Have we time for a quarter of a cigarette?" asked Gwendoline. "I
feel the gambler's tremors coming on. Look at my hand. It's shaking
like a leaf."
"A white rose petal," said Reggie gallantly, "would be a more
accurate simile. Have one of mine. They're Russian, and not paid
for."
Gwendoline helped herself delicately.
"Reggie," she said, "never pays for anything; he thinks it's vulgar."
"It certainly isn't common," observed Tony. "Reggie carries it to
extremes, however. I remember his tailor once saying to him with
tears in his voice, 'Ah, Mr. Seton, I shall either have to give you
up or else take my lad away from Harrow. I can't afford the two.'"
"And which did he do?" asked Gwendoline puffing out a little cloud of
smoke.
Tony waved his hand towards Reggie's perfect frock-coat.
"There," he said, "is the answer."
Gwendoline shook her head sadly.
"I have always thought," she said, "that there was some dark secret
in Reggie's life. Hallo, there's a bell. Let's put away these
things and go and see what's happening."
Between them, Tony and Musette quickly packed up the _débris_ of
luncheon, and then, leaving the car in charge of a courteous, if
somewhat heavily suborned, policeman, they all four made their way
into the enclosure.
As is usually the case on Cambridgeshire day, the Heath was packed in
a manner which must have been highly gratifying to the directors of
the race-course. On the further side of the track the spectators
stretched away down to the bushes in a long continuous line, while
both the stands and the enclosure were as full of people as such
superior and expensive places could rightly expect to be.
As soon as the first two races were over, there came a rush for the
paddock, where the Cambridgeshire horses were being saddled.
"I vote we stop where we are," said Tony, turning to the others.
"What does any one say?"
"Just as you please, as far as I'm concerned," said Reggie. "I like
to have a look at the runners, but I'm always ready to be unselfish."
Tony laughed.
"Why, Reggie," he said, "if it wasn't for the tail you wouldn't know
one end of a horse from the other."
"Of course not," admitted Reggie calmly; "but I like to walk round
and say that so-and-so looks a bit fine-drawn, and thingumybob a bit
tucked up. It's wonderful how people always agree with you."
"I shouldn't," said Gwendoline, with decision. "I never agree with
you, Reggie, except when you tell me I'm beautiful."
Tony raised his hand.
"Don't quarrel, children," he said, "until after the race is over. I
shall break down if you do."
"Here they come!" cried Reggie, as the small group of men clustered
round the entrance to the paddock suddenly scattered to right and
left. "Look out for Little Eva."
A handsome chestnut, his coat gleaming like new bronze in the mellow
afternoon sunlight, was the first to appear. He came out sideways,
prancing and shaking his head, and then, twisting round, galloped up
past the stands, sending the earth flying beneath his heels.
"That's Colchester, number twelve on the menu," said Tony. "He's the
only one I'm afraid of."
"Let's hope he'll break his neck," said Reggie piously. "Here are
the others."
One after another the fifteen runners cantered down the course, being
greeted with successive cheers that swelled or sunk according to
their position in the betting. The loudest welcome of all was
reserved for the last, a beautiful, shapely black, carrying the
famous Rothschild colours.
Tony moistened his lips. "There she goes," he said quietly. "Pretty
mare, isn't she?"
No one answered; only Musette was looking at him. The others were
gazing down the course after the horses.
From the stands the start was plainly visible. One could see the
tall posts of the gate, and the various runners fidgeting about like
small black dots. For about five minutes the movement continued,
while a silent tension gradually spread throughout the thousands of
watching figures.
The sharp ting of a bell, a sudden gasping cry, "They're off!" and
everyone was leaning forward, staring eagerly towards the broken line
that rolled unsteadily up the course.
On they came, while louder and ever louder the vast volume of voices
swelled into a frenzied roar of excitement.
"The Dryad wins!" "Colchester! Colchester!" "Little Eva for a
hundred!" "The Dryad! The Dryad!"
Neck and neck in the centre of the course three horses were sweeping
along, clear by a couple of lengths from the parti-coloured medley
behind. A hundred yards from home and they were still level, the gap
behind them widening at every stride. Suddenly one of them faltered.
A sudden shout, "The Dryad's beat!" burst from a thousand throats,
and the next moment, locked in an apparently inseparable stride,
Colchester and Little Eva came thundering past the post.
The wild cheering died down into a brief spell of almost intolerable
silence. Every eye was glued to the tall frame, waiting the fateful
decision.
With a perfectly steady hand Tony lit a cigarette. "Colchester's
won," he said quietly. "A short head, I should think."
The words had hardly left his lips when a hoarse roar proclaimed the
hoisting of the numbers.
12
6
9
Tony laughed lightly. "I thought so," he said. "Reggie, you've lost
your fiver. Let us hope it will teach you not to gamble."
But for once in a way Reggie had no answer. He was staring down the
course, biting jerkingly at an unlit cigarette.
It was Gwendoline who broke the silence. "Poor Reggie," she said.
"I can't let you starve. You must come and dine with us."
Tony thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out Reggie's
five-pound note.
"Musette," he observed, "there is still corn in Egypt. What about
the Savoy?"
Musette, who had been looking at him with rather troubled eyes, shook
her head and smiled.
"No, Tony," she said; "I should be haunted by Mr. Seton's ghost. You
must dine with me at Curzon Street."
"Perhaps it would be more decent," said Tony. "After all, Reggie was
a friend of mine before he went under. I'll send the fiver to the
Anti-Socialist fund."
Reggie, who seemed to have recovered himself, turned round with a
laugh.
"Yours is a callous heart, Tony," he said. "Suppose we leave this
scene of vice and get back to town. There's sure to be a poisonous
crush after the last race."
"I'm ready," replied Musette.
"So am I," added Gwendoline, "unless Tony wants to stay."
Tony buttoned his coat.
"Mr. Delmar's interest in racing," he observed, "is temporarily
suspended."
* * * * * * *
It was just six o'clock when the big dust-stained car pulled up
outside Portman Mansions. Reggie opened the door, and Gwendoline,
after collecting her various possessions, rustled daintily out.
"Eight o'clock, Reggie," she said, "and there's a woodcock for
dinner. Don't be late. Good-bye, Miss Gilbert. Good-bye, Tony; I'm
frightfully sorry Little Eva lost."
"Your griefs are mine, Gwendoline," observed Tony gravely. "Where do
you want to get out, Reggie?"
"Oh, drop Miss Gilbert next," said Reggie. "I'll come along with you
to Hyde Court."
A few minutes brought them to Curzon Street, where Musette alighted.
"Eight o'clock also, Tony," she said; "but I'm afraid there's no
woodcock. It will be an impromptu feast."
"I'm not greedy," said Tony. "It is one of my few good points."
Reggie climbed into the vacant seat alongside of him, and, waving
farewell to Musette, they slid off noiselessly round the corner.
Neither of them spoke until the car drew up outside Tony's flat.
Then Reggie laid his hand on his friend's arm.
"Don't be stupid, Tony," he said. "Marry Musette. You'll make her
very happy."
Tony remained silent.
"Very well," said Reggie, with a sigh; "it's not my business. There
is only one other thing I want to say. As far as it goes, Tony, you
know that what's mine is yours. You'll let me do what I can?"
"My dear Reggie," said Tony, "there's only one luxury I can afford to
carry away from this absurd city, and that's the thought that there
was one person I never borrowed any money from. Still, it's quite
charming of you, Reggie. Come and have breakfast with me in the
morning."
Reggie nodded.
Leaving the car in charge of the porter on duty, Tony climbed a
little wearily up the stairs that led to his flat. As he opened the
door he was met in the hall by the impassive Ropes. Tony looked at
him with a smile.
"I see from your expression, Ropes," he said, "that you have been
reading the evening paper."
Ropes inclined his head.
"If you will pardon me, sir," he observed, "I was deeply distressed
to see that Little Eva had lost, very deeply distressed."
Tony took off his coat and hat, and handed them over to his sorrowing
retainer.
"Ah well, Ropes," he remarked, "we've had a pleasant time while it
lasted. You must go to Lord North; he's been pestering me to give
you up for years. You'll have a bigger scope there for your peculiar
abilities."
Ropes shook his head.
"I shall be sorry to disappoint his lordship, sir, but it would be
impossible for me to accept another place. If you can no longer
retain my services, I shall retire."
"I suppose you are very rich, Ropes?" said Tony sadly.
Ropes bowed. "Quite comfortably off, thank you, sir. I trust, sir,
that, if you will excuse my mentioning such a matter, the question of
wages will not lead you to dismiss me before it is quite convenient.
I should be deeply distressed if you allowed such a consideration to
influence you, sir."
"You shall at least have the felicity of helping me dress for dinner,
Ropes," said Tony gravely. "We will discuss these unpleasantly
sordid topics to-morrow morning."
Half an hour later a taxi pulled up outside Musette's house in Curzon
Street, and Tony, faultlessly accoutred, stepped out. He was shown
into a room on the left of the hall, where Musette, gracefully
slender in a dark blue evening frock, was sitting back in an easy
chair, turning over the pages of a novel.
"It will be a duet," she said, holding out her hand, which Tony
kissed; "poor Aunt Jemima is in bed with a headache."
"A day of disasters," observed Tony. "I felt it when I got up this
morning."
The door opened, and a neatly dressed parlour-maid announced dinner.
Musette laid down her novel and, rising from her chair, accepted his
arm.
"We'll hope, at all events," she said, "that the food will be an
exception."
They crossed the hall to the dining-room, where a small round table,
bright with silver and glasses, stood out attractively against the
black oak panelling of the walls. The only light came from four
red-shaded candles in the centre.
Musette's "impromptu feast" turned out to be a dainty little dinner
which would have won the approval of Colonel Newnham Davis. Some
excellent soup was followed by grilled sole, sweetbreads, and a
partridge, the whole concluding with an alluring symphony on toast in
which eggs and old Madeira supplied the leading motif. Assisted by a
bottle of Lafitte, and a couple of glasses of "Bristol cream," Tony's
immediate troubles faded luxuriously from his memory. He possessed
to a supreme degree that enviable gift of living in the present, and
as he chatted away cheerfully to Musette, the thought that on the
morrow he would be facing an unsympathetic world without a penny in
his pocket never once intruded its unpleasant image.
It was only in the small room afterwards, when he was sitting over
the fire smoking a cigar and watching the light flickering softly on
Musette's white arms, that the sudden realization of his position
gripped him. With a horrible abruptness it occurred to him that this
was probably the last time he would see her. Up till that moment he
had never thought about his relations with Musette. Without making
love to her he had drifted into a kind of charming intimacy, quite
different from anything he had previously known in a fairly extensive
experience. Now the thought that he was going to lose her appeared
to him suddenly in all its naked simplicity. He stared into the
fire, trying to grasp the unpleasant revelation.
Musette leaned forward, looking up at him.
"What's the matter, Tony?" she asked.
Her hand was on the arm of the chair, and Tony, almost unconsciously,
laid his own on it. Her soft and cool clasp answered him with a
little affectionate pressure.
"My poor Tony," she said, "you look as worried as Saul. What is it?"
The devil, or whoever is responsible for our temptations, suddenly
brought up in Tony's mind the recollection of Reggie's parting words.
He looked down longingly into Musette's upturned face. Here in this
strange gracious girl lay a wonderful escape from the black morass
into which he had stumbled. She met his gaze with steady,
wide-opened eyes and a rather troubled smile.
"What is it, Tony dear?" she repeated. "Tell me."
He slowly moved his hand until it imprisoned her arm, and then bent
down towards her.
"Musette," he whispered, "Musette."
Her breast rose and fell like some beautiful white flower, but she
remained silent and motionless. Tony was so near now that he could
feel the warm breath from her parted lips, and for a moment he forgot
everything in the supreme hunger to kiss her. It was as he did so
that his conscience suddenly broke through the habits of a lifetime.
He stood up quietly in front of her and put his hands behind his back.
"I was going to ask you to marry me, Musette," he said.
Musette nodded.
"But now," said Tony, after a short pause, "I am going to tell you
the truth instead." He sat down and stared into the fire. "I'm
ruined, Musette. I owe about ten thousand pounds, and I haven't a
penny in the world. I've spent and gambled away every shilling my
father left me. I had the last five thousand I can possibly raise on
Little Eva."
Musette, who had been listening to him with the same half-grave,
half-smiling expression on her face, got up from her chair and
crossed the room to a small satin-wood writing-table in the corner.
She opened the drawer and took out something.
"Is this your cheque, Tony?" she asked, handing him a small slip of
pink paper.
Tony looked at it in bewilderment.
"I don't understand," he said.
Musette sat down and folded her hands.
"Murray brought it to me, instead of paying it into the bank. I
thought if you asked me to marry you I'd give it you back as a
good-bye present." She paused. "As you haven't done so, Tony," she
added, "I think I shall have to cash it."
Tony dropped the cheque on the table.
"I don't understand," he repeated helplessly.
"My father's real name," said Musette, "was Morris."
Tony stared at her.
"Morris," he repeated mechanically.
Musette smiled.
"Well, he liked to think it was Morris," she added. "I believe, as a
strict matter of fact, that it was originally Moses. At least,
mother always said so. Anyhow, he was a very good father. He left
me his business, Tony, and Murray to help me look after it."
Tony jumped up from his chair.
"Great Scot!" he cried.
Musette shook her head.
"No, Tony," she said. "He's a Jew, too, only, like father, he's
ashamed of it. I'm the only one in the firm with any honest British
blood. At least, I believe mother came from Dublin. She was never
quite sure about it."
Tony said nothing; he only stared at her.
"It brings me in about nine thousand a year," added Musette, with
reflective inconsequence; "so it would be a pity to drop it, wouldn't
it?"
There was a silence, lasting for about a minute. Then Tony came over
to Musette, and stood looking down into her eyes.
"Good-bye, Musette," he said simply. "I am several kinds of a
blackguard, and I don't think it's very probable that we shall ever
see each other again, but at all events I didn't ask you to marry me."
Musette smiled.
"I think, Tony," she said, "that you are the only man who has ever
paid me a compliment that I care about."
Then, as Tony turned to go, she got up from her chair and stood in
front of him, with her hands behind her back.
"And I am sure, Tony," she added calmly, "that you are the only man I
know who would never bore me."
For a second Tony hesitated. Then, taking her by the shoulders,
cool, fragrant, and smiling, he drew her into his arms.
And on this occasion Tony's conscience seemed quite satisfied.
"Squarky-woo"
Once upon a time there was a little mouse called Squarky-woo, who
lived behind the wainscoting in a house in Berkeley Square. His
mother, who lived with him, was very old, and very grey, and very
wise. He called her Mammy-ana, partly from affection and partly
because it was her name. She was a widow, Squarky-woo's father
having met with a tabby catastrophe in the kitchen, which had
abruptly terminated his stainless career in the very flower of
mousehood. It had been a cruel blow to Mammy-ana, who had loved him
dearly, and would not have lost him for all the cheese in Cheddar.
She had dragged his remains from the dust-heap on to which they had
been thrown, and lovingly interred them beneath the dining-room
floor, erecting over his grave the simple and touching memorial:
REQUIESCAT
IN
PUSSIE
From that day onward she had lavished the whole affection of her
broken heart upon little Squarky-woo. He was indeed a mouse of which
any mother might have been proud. His coat was as brown as the
Thames water at London Bridge, his eyes were as black as Maria, and
his teeth were as sharp as needles and as white as ivory. Deep down
in her heart Mammy-ana thought him perfect, but it must not be
supposed from this that she in any way neglected her duties as a
mother. She insisted on his getting up at twelve o'clock every
night, and going into his hole at six o'clock every morning. He was
never allowed to play with the other young mice, or to use any vulgar
expressions, such as "Go to Felis!" or "You be trapped!" Above all,
he was strictly forbidden, on any excuse whatever, to go near the
kitchen in which his beloved father had met so dreadful a fate.
With the foolishness of youth, Squarky-woo chafed under this
admirable discipline. Not that he ever complained to his mother--oh,
dear, no! He loved her too much, and, besides, she would probably
have beaten him. Of course, if she had done so, it would only have
been for his own good; but Squarky-woo, being modest by nature, felt
that he was quite good enough. So he kept his thoughts to himself,
and did what he was told, and Mammy-ana frequently informed him that
he was the best behaved and the most satisfactory little mouse in the
whole of Berkeley Square. "This," she would add, "is rather due to
your excellent upbringing than to any innate virtue that you yourself
possess." And Squarky-woo, who had quite made up his mind to pay a
visit to the kitchen on the first possible occasion, used to bow his
head gracefully, as though recognising the truth of her remark, and
then wink at himself in the looking-glass under the dining-room
sideboard.
Though nothing can excuse such duplicity, especially in early life,
Squarky-woo's conduct was not really quite so reprehensible as it
appears at first sight. He suffered from temptations of which
Mammy-ana was ignorant, for the other young mice had the most
offensive habit of jeering at him whenever she was not present.
"Yah!" they would cry, "Who's afraid of the cat? Look at little
Stay-in-hole!" Then they would tell him wonderful stories about the
kitchen, how the floor was strewn with crumbs, and how exciting it
was to creep in quietly and pick them up, while the great, ugly brute
of a cat nodded away sleepily in front of the fire. And Squarky-woo
would grind his teeth with impotent fury, and swear to himself that,
come what might, nothing should stop him from sharing in their
adventures.
And so, one evening, when Mammy-ana had gone across the square to pay
a visit of congratulation (the cat at No. 4 having been rather
severely bitten by a stray dog), Squarky-woo seized the opportunity
of putting his long-cherished scheme into operation. He waited until
twelve o'clock, when all the half-dressed people upstairs seemed to
have gone to bed, and then, creeping softly out of his hole, made his
way to the head of the kitchen stairs. His heart was beating
furiously with excitement, and that strange, delicious ecstasy which,
alas! so frequently accompanies a first departure from the paths of
right flowed fiercely through his veins. He listened for a moment or
two, scarcely daring to breathe, but the quivering of his own tail
alone broke the silence.
Very cautiously he crept downstairs, until he reached the basement,
where a small, blue jet of gas was flickering feebly in the draught.
Squarky-woo knew from this that the servants had all retired into
their holes. He paused for a moment outside the pantry door, until
he heard the butler growling through his nose, which, according to
Mammy-ana, was a sure sign that he had gone to sleep. Then, setting
his teeth, he scuttled off down the passage in the direction of the
kitchen.
To his intense surprise, the door was partly open; some careless
scullery-maid had evidently forgotten her duty. For one instant he
hesitated as the memory of his father's fate suddenly rushed into his
mind. But the thought of what the other young mice would say swept
away all caution, and, trembling with excitement, he crawled forward,
and peeped round the corner into the forbidden chamber. In his
wildest moments he had never imagined anything so exquisite. His
heart almost stopped beating, and, in a hoarse whisper, he ejaculated
to himself the single exclamation, "Crumbs!" The floor was literally
strewn with them. Bread, toast, flour, bacon, potato--minute
portions of all that made life sweet and radiant lay scattered there
in boundless plenty. The dying firelight shone upon the silver
covers on the walls, and threw a faint, harmonious glow over the
entire banquet.
Tears of happiness gathered in Squarky-woo's eyes, and rolled gently
down his nose. No wonder his father had risked everything in such a
cause. Instead of a rash, indefinite shadow, Squarky-woo suddenly
saw him in the guise of an heroic martyr, and a great thrill of
family pride shot through his fluttering heart. He raised his head,
and glanced savagely round the kitchen. Where was that infernal cat?
She should pay bitterly for her deed of blood.
Fortunately, however, for Squarky-woo, the cat was otherwise engaged,
and with the exception of a few black beetles, who eyed him with
apathetic interest, he was in sole possession of the kitchen. Well!
vengeance would keep, and the crumbs would not. There they lay in
all their toothsome beauty. He crushed back his more noble
sentiments, and flung himself upon the feast.
It was one of those rare occasions when the realization of a
long-cherished scheme is even more enjoyable than imagination has
already painted it, and so eagerly did Squarky-woo enter upon his
task that for some moments he was totally oblivious of all other
considerations. At length, however, when the first glow of gratified
appetite was gradually cooling down, he began to realise that the
whole apartment was permeated by a delicate perfume for which none of
the fragments on the floor were directly responsible. He stopped
eating and began to sniff the air with the rich satisfaction of a
true connoisseur. "If that isn't Cheddar cheese," he murmured to
himself, "I'm a Dutch-mouse!"
As far as he could judge, the source of this delicious odour lay
somewhere in the direction of the fireplace. In eager expectancy he
darted across the floor; and there, just in front of the grate lay
the most perfect slice of Cheddar cheese, surrounded by a curious
arrangement of wire and wood.
Now Squarky-woo had been brought up by Mammy-ana on an excellent
principle, carefully copied from the manner in which she had observed
human beings educated their children. That such things as traps and
cats existed it was, of course, impossible to deny, but what they
were like in appearance, and where they were likely to be found, were
things that no decent-minded young mouse had any right to know. The
great object of education was to launch one's children upon the world
in absolute ignorance of the darker side of life.
"My own little Squarky-woo," she would say to other approving
mothers, "is just as pure-minded as the day that he was born."
This being so, Squarky-woo had naturally no idea that the curious
thing in front of him was a trap. He had often heard other young
mice speak of such things with bated breath, but had never dared to
ask what they were actually like, for fear that he should be laughed
at for not knowing. So he walked round it, and sniffed at it, and
puzzled his head trying to make out what it was. It could scarcely
be intended to keep the cheese clean; it was obviously not intended
to prevent anybody stealing it. Well, it was no good trying to
account for human idiocy. People who kept cats for pleasure were
obviously a little wanting in ordinary intelligence. If they chose
to put their cheese into a sort of birdcage and leave it on the
kitchen floor, that was their own look-out. He knew what to do with
it if they hadn't.
Hesitating no longer, he ran into the trap, and, catching hold of the
corner of the cheese with his sharp little teeth, gave it a quick
jerk in order to detach it from the hook. Snap! He leaped round
like a flash, but it was too late--_the door of the trap had closed
behind him_. For an instant he scarcely realised what had happened;
and then the hideous truth suddenly broke upon him in all its
terrible reality. He hurled himself recklessly against the wires,
but the cunning artificers of Birmingham had wrought them of the
stoutest copper, and he only bruised his tender little body, and made
no impression upon his prison. In pitiful distress he turned round
and round, seeking in vain for some outlet. There was none; and
Squarky-woo realized that nothing was now left to him except to face
a cruel and painful death without disgracing his lineage.
Meanwhile Mammy-ana had returned from her visit in excellent spirits,
the cat at No. 4 having been even more badly bitten than rumour had
related. So it had been in a very genial frame of mind she had run
upstairs, laughing gaily to herself as she pictured the amusing
incident. Her only regret was that she had not been present to
listen to the cat's squeak. That would have been music indeed.
Before going out, she had told Squarky-woo that he had better not
leave the hole until her return, so she was very surprised, and not a
little annoyed, to find that he had disobeyed her. "However," she
thought, "he is probably only in the dining-room or the drawing-room,
and I can't really be angry on such an auspicious occasion."
She trotted off to look for him, still chuckling to herself, and no
suspicion of the terrible truth entered into her mind. Indeed, it
was not until she had thoroughly searched both apartments that she
began to get a little uneasy. "Surely Squarky-woo could not have
been so madly disobedient as to go down into the kitchen!" She
inquired of one or two mice she happened to meet, but none of them
had seen anything of her son; and one of them went so far as to
remark that he thought she always carried him in her pocket. But
Mammy-ana was in no mood for joking. A horrible fear was slowly
tightening round her heart. She darted away to the head of the
kitchen stairs, and peering down into the dimly-lit passage, called
out nervously:
"Squarky-woo! are you there?"
A faint answering squeak echoed up the stairs.
"Come up at once," she cried.
There was a long pause, and then a feeble broken little sob: "Caught
in a trap."
The world seemed suddenly to reel round before Mammy-ana's eyes, and
it was only with a super-verminous effort that she stopped herself
from fainting. Sick with dread, she hurried downstairs, and, guided
by the sound of Squarky-woo's voice, made her way straight to the
kitchen. At the sight of her darling caught fast in the hideous
engine of destruction, the last remnant of hope fled despairingly
from her heart.
"Oh, Squarky-woo," she cried, "oh, you little fool!" and great tears
of misery almost blinded her.
Squarky-woo crushed back his sobs when he saw his mother weeping.
"Don't cry, Mammy-ana," he said, "I am not worth it. I am only a
wicked, ungrateful little beast, and I don't mind dying."
Then Mammy-ana broke down helplessly and sobbed out that he was all
she had in the world, and that it was all her own fault for not
having told him what a trap was like, and that Heaven knew she had
done it all for the best. A sad, twisted little smile flickered
across Squarky-woo's face, but he only shook his head and repeated
bravely:
"No, mother, it was all my fault."
"Oh," she cried, "I might have known what would happen. Your
father's blood was bound to come out."
Squarky-woo's eyes lit up with a great pride. "Yes," he said, "it
has taught me how to make a fool of myself, but it will also teach me
how to die."
"Listen," cried Mammy-ana suddenly. "There is one faint chance. If
the cat is not present when you are discovered, they will try to
drown you. Just as they are going to open the trap I will attract
their attention, and if by any chance they open it a second too
soon--jump, darling, jump, for your life and mine."
A glimmer of hope stole into Squarky-woo's eyes, and he set his
little teeth with a grim determination that was good to witness.
Mammy-ana wiped away her tears, and kissed him through the wires.
And when the cold, grey light of morning crept through the chinks in
the shuttered windows, she was still beside him, softly encouraging
him with words of hope, and firmly resolved that if she failed to
save him it should be at the price of her own existence.
At last a heavy step outside warned them of approaching danger, and
Mammy-ana scuttled away and took up her position under the dresser.
The terrible and immediate necessity for caution kept her cool and
alert, though every nerve was tingling with savage determination.
Then the door opened, and a great, sleepy scullery-maid blundered
into the room. Directly she saw Squarky-woo in the trap she gave a
scream of terror, and darted to the door.
"Cook, cook," she called. "Come 'ere."
Mammy-ana heard the door of the cook's room open, and the angry
answer that came across the passage:
"Well, what are yer screechin' about, silly?"
"There's a mouse in the trap."
"Well, it won't eat yer."
There was a sound of flopping footsteps, and the cook waddled in,
looking anything but pleasant.
"Never 'eard such a noise," she remarked angrily. "Ain't yer ever
seen a mouse before, fat'ead?"
She advanced towards the fireplace, and glanced down at Squarky-woo.
"Where's that blessed cat?" she inquired.
"Dunno," said the scullery-maid.
"What's the good of you?" demanded the cook scornfully.
Being apparently unable to find any satisfactory solution to this
problem, the scullery-maid only glanced nervously at Squarky-woo and
murmured, "Pore little thing."
"Pore little thing!" shouted the cook indignantly; "p'r'aps ye'd like
to make a pet of it. 'Ere, there's Jaimes. Jaimes! Jaimes!"
The footman--a tall, pale-faced young man--sauntered in in a state of
some incompleteness with regard to costume.
"What are you 'ollerin' about?" he inquired.
"You might tike and drown this 'ere mouse like a good feller," said
the cook.
"Mouse," he echoed sarcastically. "Lor' bless us! it might 'a bin a
tiger from the row you was makin'."
He picked up the trap with a brutal indifference and strolled towards
the door. Trembling with excitement, Mammy-ana slipped along the
wall after him. He strode down the passage whistling to himself,
and, turning the corner, came to a standstill just alongside of a
large tin bucket full of water. "Let's see yer swim," he remarked to
Squarky-woo, and, lifting the trap, placed his thumb upon the spring.
With a prayer in her heart, Mammy-ana leapt forward and struck in
with her sharp little teeth upon the calf of his leg, which was only
protected by a thin white stocking. With an exclamation of pain he
started back, and unconsciously pressed the spring. Up went the
flap, and out went Squarky-woo, just missing the bucket by the eighth
of an inch. He came down with a terrible bang upon the stone floor,
but was up again in an instant, and, before the astonished footman
had recovered his composure, both he and Mammy-ana had disappeared
down a neighbouring hole.
"'Ave you drowned it?" called out the cook.