George Lomax returned straightway to Whitehall. As he entered the
sumptuous apartment in which he transacted affairs of State, there was
a scuffling sound.
Mr. Bill Eversleigh was assiduously filing letters, but a large
arm-chair near the window was still warm from contact with a human form.
A very likeable young man, Bill Eversleigh. Age at a guess,
twenty-five, big and rather ungainly in his movements, a pleasurably
ugly face, a splendid set of white teeth and a pair of honest brown
eyes.
“Richardson sent up that report yet?”
“No, sir. Shall I get on to him about it?”
“It doesn’t matter. Any telephone messages?”
“Miss Oscar is dealing with most of them. Mr. Isaacstein wants to know
if you can dine with him at the Savoy to-morrow.”
“Tell Miss Oscar to look in my engagement-book. If I’m not engaged, she
can ring up and accept.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, Eversleigh, you might ring up a number for me now. Look it
up in the book. Mrs. Revel, 487, Pont Street.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill seized the telephone-book, ran an unseeing eye down a column of
M’s, shut the book with a bang and moved to the instrument on the desk.
With his hand upon it, he paused, as though in sudden recollection.
“Oh, I say, sir, I’ve just remembered. Her line’s out of order. Mrs.
Revel’s, I mean. I was trying to ring her up just now.”
George Lomax frowned.
“Annoying,” he said, “distinctly annoying.” He tapped the table
undecidedly.
“If it’s anything important, sir, perhaps I might go round there now in
a taxi. She’s sure to be in at this time in the morning.”
George Lomax hesitated, pondering the matter. Bill waited expectantly,
poised for instant flight, should the reply be favourable.
“Perhaps that would be the best plan,” said Lomax at last. “Very well,
then, take a taxi there, and ask Mrs. Revel if she will be at home this
afternoon at four o’clock as I am very anxious to see her about an
important matter.”
“Right, sir.”
Bill seized his hat and departed.
Ten minutes later, a taxi deposited him at 487, Pont Street. He rang
the bell and executed a loud rat-tat on the knocker. The door was
opened by a grave functionary to whom Bill nodded with the ease of long
acquaintance.
“Morning, Chilvers, Mrs. Revel in?”
“I believe, sir, that she is just going out.”
“Is that you, Bill?” called a voice over the banisters. “I thought I
recognized that muscular knock. Come up and talk to me.”
Bill looked up at the face that was laughing down on him, and which
was always inclined to reduce him—and not him alone—to a state of
babbling incoherency. He took the stairs two at a time and clasped
Virginia Revel’s out-stretched hands tightly in his.
“Hullo, Virginia!”
“Hullo, Bill!”
Charm is a very peculiar thing; hundreds of young women, some of them
more beautiful than Virginia Revel, might have said “Hullo, Bill,”
with exactly the same intonation, and yet have produced no effect
whatever. But those two simple words, uttered by Virginia, had the
most intoxicating effect upon Bill.
Virginia Revel was just twenty-seven. She was tall and of an exquisite
slimness—indeed, a poem might have been written to her slimness, it
was so exquisitely proportioned. Her hair was of real bronze, with the
greenish tint in its gold; she had a determined little chin, a lovely
nose, slanting blue eyes that showed a gleam of deepest cornflower
between the half-closed lids, and a delicious and quite indescribable
mouth that tilted ever so slightly at one corner in what is known as
“the signature of Venus.” It was a wonderfully expressive face, and
there was a sort of radiant vitality about her that always challenged
attention. It would have been quite impossible ever to ignore Virginia
Revel.
She drew Bill into the small drawing-room which was all pale and mauve
and green and yellow, like crocuses surprised in a meadow.
“Bill, darling,” said Virginia, “isn’t the Foreign Office missing you?
I thought they couldn’t get on without you.”
“I’ve brought a message for you from Codders.”
Thus irreverently did Bill allude to his chief.
“And by the way, Virginia, in case he asks, remember that your
telephone was out of order this morning.”
“But it hasn’t been.”
“I know that. But I said it was.”
“Why? Enlighten me as to this Foreign Office touch.”
Bill threw her a reproachful glance.
“So that I could get here and see you, of course.”
“Oh, darling Bill, how dense of me! And how perfectly sweet of you!”
“Chilvers said you were going out.”
“So I was—to Sloane Street. There’s a place there where they’ve got a
perfectly wonderful new hip band.”
“A hip band?”
“Yes, Bill, H.I.P. hip, B.A.N.D. band. A band to confine the hips. You
wear it next the skin.”
“I blush for you, Virginia. You shouldn’t describe your underwear to a
young man to whom you are not related. It isn’t delicate.”
“But, Bill dear, there’s nothing indelicate about hips. We’ve all got
hips—although we poor women are trying awfully hard to pretend we
haven’t. This hip band is made of red rubber and comes just to above
the knee, and it’s simply impossible to walk in it.”
“How awful!” said Bill. “Why do you do it?”
“Oh, because it gives one such a noble feeling to suffer for one’s
silhouette. But don’t let’s talk about my hip band. Give me George’s
message.”
“He wants to know whether you’ll be in at four o’clock this afternoon.”
“I shan’t. I shall be at Ranelagh. Why this sort of formal call? Is he
going to propose to me, do you think?”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Because, if so, you can tell him that I much prefer men who propose on
impulse.”
“Like me?”
“It’s not an impulse with you, Bill. It’s habit.”
“Virginia, won’t you ever——”
“No, no, no, Bill. I won’t have it in the morning before lunch. Do try
and think of me as a nice motherly person approaching middle age who
has your interests thoroughly at heart.”
“Virginia, I do love you so.”
“I know, Bill, I know. And I simply love being loved. Isn’t it wicked
and dreadful of me? I should like every nice man in the world to be in
love with me.”
“Most of them are, I expect,” said Bill gloomily.
“But I hope George isn’t in love with me. I don’t think he can be. He’s
so wedded to his career. What else did he say?”
“Just that it was very important.”
“Bill, I’m getting intrigued. The things that George thinks important
are so awfully limited. I think I must chuck Ranelagh. After all, I
can go to Ranelagh any day. Tell George that I shall be awaiting him
meekly at four o’clock.”
Bill looked at his wrist watch.
“It seems hardly worth while to go back before lunch. Come out and chew
something, Virginia.”
“I’m going out to lunch somewhere or other.”
“That doesn’t matter. Make a day of it, and chuck everything all round.”
“It would be rather nice,” said Virginia, smiling at him.
“Virginia, you’re a darling. Tell me, you do like me rather, don’t you?
Better than other people.”
“Bill, I adore you. If I had to marry some one—simply had to—I mean
if it was in a book and a wicked mandarin said to me ‘Marry some one or
die by slow torture,’ I should choose you at once—I should indeed. I
should say, ‘Give me little Bill.’”
“Well, then——”
“Yes, but I haven’t got to marry any one. I love being a wicked widow.”
“You could do all the same things still. Go about, and all that. You’d
hardly notice me about the house.”
“Bill, you don’t understand. I’m the kind of person who marries
enthusiastically if they marry at all.”
Bill gave a hollow groan.
“I shall shoot myself one of these days, I expect,” he murmured
gloomily.
“No, you won’t, Bill darling. You’ll take a pretty girl out to
supper—like you did the night before last.”
Mr. Eversleigh was momentarily confused.
“If you mean Dorothy Kirkpatrick, the girl who’s in _Hooks and Eyes_,
I—well, dash it all, she’s a thoroughly nice girl, straight as they
make ’em. There was no harm in it.”
“Bill, darling, of course there wasn’t. I love you to enjoy yourself.
But don’t pretend to be dying of a broken heart, that’s all.”
Mr. Eversleigh recovered his dignity.
“You don’t understand at all, Virginia,” he said severely. “Men——”
“Are polygamous! I know they are. Sometimes I have a shrewd suspicion
that I am polyandrous. If you really love me, Bill, take me out to
lunch quickly.”
5