Jacob sought distraction in the golfing resorts of England and the
Continent, tried mountaineering in Switzerland, at which he had some
success, and finally, with the entire Dauncey menage, took a small
moor near the sea in Scotland, and in the extreme well-being of
physical content found a species of happiness which sufficed well
enough for the time. It was early winter before he settled down in
London again, with the firm determination of neither writing to nor
making any enquiries concerning Sybil. Chance, however, brought him in
touch with her before many days were passed.
"Who is the smartly dressed, sunburnt little Johnny who is staring at
you so, Miss Bultiwell?" asked her _vis-a-vis_ at a luncheon party at
the Savoy one day. "His face seems familiar to me, but I can't place
him. I'm sure I've been told something interesting about him,
somewhere or other."
"That," Sybil replied coldly, glancing across the room towards a small
table against the wall, at which Jacob and Dauncey were seated, "is
Mr. Jacob Pratt."
Mason, one of the mysteries of smarter Bohemian life, a young man of
irreproachable appearance, a frequenter of the best restaurants, with
a large acquaintance amongst the racing and theatrical world but with
no known means of subsistence, showed marked interest in the
announcement.
"Not Jacob Pratt, the oil millionaire?" he exclaimed.
She nodded.
"His money comes to him, I believe, from some oil springs in the
western States of America," she acquiesced. "His brother is a
successful prospector."
The young man leaned across the table.
"Did you hear that, Joe?" he enquired.
Joe Hartwell, a smooth-shaven, stalwart young American, with fleshy
cheeks and unusually small eyes, assented vigorously.
"Mighty interesting," was his thoughtful comment. "A millionaire, Lady
Powers."
Grace Powers, an attractive looking young lady, who had made meteoric
appearances upon the musical comedy stage and in the divorce court,
and was now lamenting the decease of her last husband--a youthful
baronet whom she had married while yet a minor--gazed across at Jacob
with frank interest.
"What a dear person!" she exclaimed. "He looks as though he had come
out of a bandbox. I think he is perfectly sweet. What a lucky girl you
are to know him, Sybil!"
"You all seem to have taken such a fancy to him that you had better
divide him up amongst you," Sybil suggested coldly. "I detest him."
"Please introduce me," Grace Powers begged,--"that is, if you are sure
you don't want him yourself."
"And me," Mason echoed.
"Can't I be in this?" the third man, young Lord Felixstowe, suggested,
leaning forward and dropping the eyeglass through which he had been
staring at Jacob. "Seems to me I am as likely to land the fish as any
of you."
Sybil thoroughly disliked the conversation and did not hesitate to
disclose her feelings.
"Mr. Pratt is only an acquaintance of mine," she declared, "and I do
not wish to speak to him. If he has the temerity to accost me, I will
introduce you all--not unless. It will serve him right then."
Mason looked at her reprovingly.
"My dear Miss Bultiwell," he said, "in the tortuous course of life,
our daily life, an unpleasant action must sometimes be faced. If you
remember, barely an hour ago, over our cocktails, we declared for a
life of adventure. We paid tribute to the principle that the unworthy
wealthy must support the worthy pauper. We are all worthy paupers."
Grace Powers laughed softly.
"I don't know about the worthiness," she murmured, "but you should see
my dressmaker's bill!"
"Useless, dear lady," Mason sighed. "We five are, alas! all in the
same box. We must look outside for relief. Since I have studied your
friend's physiognomy, Miss Bultiwell, I am convinced that an
acquaintance with him is necessary to our future welfare. I can see
philanthropy written all over his engaging countenance."
"Mr. Pratt isn't a fool," Sybil observed drily.
"Neither are we fools," Mason rejoined. "Besides," he went on, "you
must remember that in any little exchange of wits which might take
place between Mr. Pratt and ourselves, the conditions are scarcely
equal. We have nothing to lose and he has everything. He has money--a
very great deal of money--and we are paupers."
"There are other things to be lost besides money," Sybil reminded him.
"I guess not," Hartwell intervened, with real fervour,--"nothing else
that counts, anyway."
They watched Jacob longingly as he left the restaurant,--personable,
self-possessed, and with the crudities of his too immaculate toilet
subdued by experience. His almost wistful glance towards Sybil met
with an unexpected reward. She bowed, if not with cordiality, at any
rate without any desire to evade him. For a single moment he
hesitated, as though about to stop, and the faces of her friends
seemed to sharpen, as though the prey were already thrown to them.
Perhaps it was instinct which induced him to reconsider his idea. At
any rate he passed out, and Dauncey pressed his arm as they emerged
into the street.
"I have never been favourably impressed with Miss Bultiwell," the
latter observed, "but I like the look of her friends still less."
"Sharks," Jacob murmured gloomily, "sharks, every one of them, and it
wouldn't be the faintest use in the world my telling her so."
* * * * *
The opportunity, at any rate, came a few days later, when Jacob found
amongst his letters one which he read and reread with varying
sensations. It was in Sybil's handwriting and dated from Number 100,
Russell Square.
Dear Mr. Pratt,
If you are smitten with the new craze and are thinking of
having dancing lessons, will you patronise my little
endeavour? Lady Powers, who was with me at the Milan the
other day, and I, have a class at this address every
Thursday, and give private lessons any day by appointment.
Perhaps you would like to telephone--1324, Museum. I shall
be there any morning after eleven o'clock.
Sincerely yours,
Sybil Bultiwell.
P.S. I dare say you have heard that my mother has gone to
make a long stay with a sister at Torquay, and I have let
our Cropstone Wood house at quite a nice profit. I am
staying for a few weeks with Lady Powers, who was at school
with me.
Jacob summoned Dauncey and put the letter into his hand.
"Read this, my astute friend, and comment," he invited.
Dauncey read and reread it before passing it back.
"The young lady," he observed, "is becoming amenable. She is also, I
should imagine, hankering after the fleshpots. A month or two of
typing has perhaps had its effect."
"Any other criticism?"
Dauncey shook his head.
"It seems to me an ordinary communication enough," he confessed.
"I suppose you are right," Jacob admitted thoughtfully. "Perhaps I am
getting suspicious. It must have been seeing Miss Bultiwell with that
hateful crowd."
"You think that the dancing class is a blind?"
Jacob glanced back at the letter and frowned.
"I don't think Miss Bultiwell would stoop to anything in the nature of
a conspiracy, but those two men, Hartwell and Mason, are out and out
wrong 'uns, and it is several months since any one tried to rob me."
"You'll go, all the same," Dauncey observed, with a smile.
Jacob leaned over to the telephone.
"Museum 1324," he demanded.
At half-past four that afternoon, Jacob rang the bell at a large and
apparently empty house in Russell Square. The door was opened after a
brief delay by a woman who appeared to be a caretaker and who invited
him to ascend to the next floor. Jacob did so, and, pushing open a
door which was standing ajar, found himself in a large apartment with
a polished oak floor, two or three lounges by the wall, a gramophone,
and a young lady whom he recognised as Sybil's companion at the Milan.
"Mr. Pratt," she greeted him sweetly. "I am so glad to know you."
Jacob shook hands and murmured something appropriate.
"Sybil will be here in a few minutes," the young lady continued. "You
are going to have a lesson, aren't you?"
"I believe so," Jacob answered. "I hope you won't find me very
stupid."
She smiled up into his face.
"You don't look as though you would be. I am Sybil's partner, Grace
Powers. I saw you at the Milan the other day, didn't I? Are you in a
great hurry to start, or would you like to sit and talk for a few
minutes?"
Jacob accepted the chair to which she pointed, and a cigarette.
"You find it tiring giving these lessons?" he enquired politely.
"Sometimes," she admitted. "I have just had such a stupid boy. He will
never learn anything, and he is such a nuisance."
"I hope you won't have to find fault with me," Jacob observed.
She smiled.
"Not in the same way, at any rate."
"A timid dancer?" Jacob queried.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"We won't discuss him," she said. "He bores me. He is one of those
persistent young men who make love to you in monosyllables and expect
success as a matter of course."
"In how many syllables," Jacob began----
She interrupted him with a little grimace.
"You know perfectly well you will never want to make love to me," she
said. "You are in love with Sybil Bultiwell, aren't you?"
"Did she tell you so?"
The girl shook her head.
"I just guessed it from the way you looked at her. And I expect you
are one of those picturesque survivals, too, who can only love one
woman at a time. Aren't you, Mr. Pratt?"
"I don't know what I am capable of yet," Jacob confessed. "You see, my
career as a philanderer has only just begun. I had to work hard until
about a year ago."
"I have heard all about your wonderful fortune," she said, looking at
him with veneration. "It gives you a sort of halo, you know. We all
speak of you as a kind of Monte Cristo. It's a queer thing, isn't it,
the fascination of wealth?"
"I haven't noticed that it's done me much good up till now, so far as
regards the things we were discussing," Jacob replied, a little sadly.
"Then that must be because you are very unresponsive," she said
softly, rising to her feet and coming and standing before him. "Would
you care--to dance?"
"Hadn't I better set the gramophone going first?" Jacob suggested,
with blatant lack of intuition.
She drew back a little, laughed softly, and put on a record herself.
Then she held out her arms.
"Come, then, my anxious pupil," she invited. "What do you most wish to
learn, and have you any idea of the steps?"
Jacob confessed to some acquaintance with modern dancing and a
knowledge at least of the steps. They danced a fox trot, and at its
conclusion she shook her head at him.
"I know all about you now, Mr. Pratt," she said. "You are an absolute
fraud. You dance as well as I do."
"But I need practice badly," he assured her anxiously.
"I suppose--it's really Sybil?" she asked ruefully, looking him in
the eyes with a queer little smile at the corners of her lips.
"I'm afraid so," he admitted. "You won't give me away, will you?"
"How can I give you away?" she asked. "Your behavior has been
perfect--of its sort."
"I mean about the dancing," he explained. "If Miss Bultiwell thinks I
know as much about it as I do----"
"I understand," she interrupted. "I won't say a word. Shall we try a
hesitation?"
Here Jacob found a little instruction useful, but he was a born dancer
and very soon gave his instructress complete satisfaction. Just as
they had finished, Sybil came in. She greeted Jacob politely, but with
none of her partner's cordiality.
"I am sorry to be late, Mr. Pratt," she said. "I hope that Grace has
been looking after you."
"Admirably," he replied.
"I suppose you thought I was quite mad when you got my note," she went
on, walking to the mantelpiece and drawing off her gloves.
"Not at all," he assured her. "I was very glad to get it. Very kind of
you to give me the chance of polishing up my dancing."
"Try a fox trot with him, Sybil," Grace suggested. "I think he is
going to be quite good."
Jacob was as clumsy as he dared be, but he was naturally very light on
his feet, and, with an unusually correct ear for music, he found
blunders difficult. They danced to the end without conversation.
"I do not think," Sybil said, a little coldly, "that you will need
many lessons."
"On the contrary," he replied, "I feel that I shall need a great many.
I am rather out of breath. May I have a rest?"
"There will be another pupil very shortly," she warned him.
"Never mind," he answered. "You can give me a longer time to-morrow."
She turned towards him with upraised eyebrows.
"To-morrow? Surely you are not thinking of coming every day?"
"Why not? I get so little exercise in London, and wherever one goes,
nowadays, there is dancing."
"But you don't need the lessons."
"I need the exercise, and indeed I am much worse than you think I am.
That happened to be a very decent tune."
"Don't discourage a pupil," Grace intervened. "We can fit him in every
day, if he wants to come. We charge an awful lot though, Mr. Pratt."
"You ought to," Jacob replied. "You teach so exceptionally well. May I
pay for a few lessons in advance, please," he asked, producing his
pocketbook; "say a dozen?"
"It's a guinea a time," Grace told him. "Don't be rash."
Jacob laid the money upon the desk, and Sybil wrote out a formal
receipt.
"I think you are very foolish," she said, "and if you take my advice
you will come once a week."
"And if you take mine," Grace declared, leaning over his shoulder and
laughing, "you'll come every day. We might go bankrupt, and then you'd
lose your money."
"I shall come as often as I am allowed," Jacob assured her.
"Oh, you can come when you like," Sybil remarked carelessly. "If I am
not here, Grace can give you a lesson. You will find it a most
informal place," she went on, listening to footsteps on the stairs.
"People drop in and have a dance whenever they feel like it. I am glad
you are not an absolute beginner. It is sometimes embarrassing for
them."
The door opened and Hartwell entered, followed by Mason. Sybil
introduced them. Both were exceedingly cordial.
"Heard of you out in New York, Mr. Pratt," the former remarked, as he
shook hands. "I only just missed meeting your brother. He got well
ahead of our prospectors, out West."
"My brother has been very fortunate," Jacob replied.
"I guess he is one of the brightest men who ever came over to the
States from this country," Hartwell declared. "Knows all about oil,
too."
"Not too much gossip," Sybil interposed. "Mr. Pratt, you are here to
learn dancing. So are you, Mr. Hartwell. Please try a hesitation with
me, and, Grace, you take Mr. Pratt."
"Sybil is very foolish," Grace whispered to Jacob, as they swayed up
and down the room. "Mr. Hartwell is perfectly hopeless, and you dance
beautifully."
"It is you," Jacob told her, "who are inspiring."
She looked into his eyes.
"I believe you are going to improve," she said hopefully.