FROM the big hotel in the vicinity of the Marble Arch, to the consulting
rooms in Shaftesbury Avenue of Mrs. Albert Bromley, it appeared, on
inquiry, that the distance might easily be accomplished in less than
forty minutes.
Miss Sinquier, nevertheless, decided to allow herself more.
Garmented charmingly in a cornflower-blue frock with a black gauze
turban trimmed with a forest of tinted leaves, she lingered uplifted by
her appearance before the glass.
The sober turban, no doubt, would suggest to Mrs. Bromley, Macbeth—the
forest-scene, and the blue, she murmured, “might be anything.”
It occurred to her as she left her room that Mr. Bromley might quite
conceivably be there to assist his wife.
“Odious if he is,” she decided, passing gaily out into the street.
It was just the morning for a walk. A pale silvery light spread over
Oxford Street, while above the shop fronts, the sun flashed down upon a
sea of brass-tipped masts, from whence trade flags trembled in a vagrant
breeze. Rejoicing in her independence, and in the exhilarating
brightness of the day, Miss Sinquier sailed along. The ordeal of a first
meeting with a distinguished dramatic expert diminished at every step.
She could conjecture with assurance, almost, upon their ultimate, mutual
understanding. But before expressing any opinion, Mrs. Bromley, no
doubt, would require to test her voice; perhaps, also, expect her to
dance and declaim.
Miss Sinquier thrust out her lips.
“Not before Albert! Or, at any rate not yet....” she muttered.
She wondered what she knew.
There was the thing from _Rizzio._ The Mistress of the Robes’ lament
upon her vanished youth, on discovering a mirror unexpectedly, one
morning, at Holyrood, outside Queen Mary’s door.
Diamond, Lady Drummond, bearing the Queen a cap, raps, smiles, listens
... smiles, raps again, puts out her leg and rustles ... giggles,
ventures to drop a ring, effusive facial play and sundry tentative
noises, when catching sight of her reflection, she starts back with:
“O! obnoxious old age. O! hideous horror. O! youthful years all gone. O!
childhood spent. Decrepitude at hand.... Infirmities drawing near....”
Interrupted by Mary’s hearty laugh.
“Yes,” Miss Sinquier decided, crossing into Regent Street, “should Mrs.
Bromley bid me declaim, I’ll do Diamond.”
Her eyes brightened.
How prettily the street swerved.
As a rule, great thoroughfares were free from tricks.
She sauntered.
“A picture-palace.”
And just beyond were the playhouses themselves.
Theatreland!
Shaftesbury Avenue with its slightly foreign aspect stretched before
her.
With a springing foot she turned up it.
Oh, those fragile glass façades with the players’ names suspended!
There was the new Merrymount Theatre with its roguish Amorini supporting
torches and smiling down over gay flower-boxes on to the passers-by.
And beyond, where the burgeoning trees began must be Panvale Priory
itself.
Miss Sinquier surveyed it.
It looked to be public offices....
On the mat, dressed in a violet riband, with its paw in the air, lay a
great sly, black, joyous cat.
“Toms!”
She scratched it.
Could it be Mrs. Bromley’s?
In the threshold, here and there, were small brass plates, that brought
to mind somehow memorial tablets to departed virtue at home.
Miss Sinquier studied the inscriptions.
Ah, there showed hers!
“M-m-m!” she murmured, commencing to climb.
Under the skylight a caged bird was singing shrilly.
As much to listen, as to brush something to her cheeks, Miss Sinquier
paused.
If a microscopic mirror could be relied upon she had seldom looked so
well.
Scrambling up the remaining stairs with alacrity, she knocked.
A maid with her head wreathed in curl-papers answered the door,
surveying the visitor first through a muslin blind.
Miss Sinquier pulled out a card.
“Is Mrs. Bromley in?” she asked.
The woman gazed at her feet.
“Mrs. Bromley’s gone!” she replied.
“I suppose she won’t be long?”
“She’s in Elysium.”
“At the——?”
“Poor Mrs. Bromley’s dead.”
“Mrs. Bromley _dead._..?”
“Poor Mrs. Bromley died last night.”
Miss Sinquier staggered.
“Impossible!”
“Perhaps you’d care to come in and sit down?”
Miss Sinquier hesitated.
“No, no, not if ... _is_? Oh!” she stammered.
“She was taken quite of a sudden.”
“One can hardly yet believe it!”
“She’ll be a loss to her world, alas, poor Betty Bromley will.”
Miss Sinquier swallowed.
“I should like to attend the funeral,” she said.
“There’s no funeral.”
“No funeral?”
“No invitations, that is.”
Miss Sinquier turned away.
The very ground under her seemed to slide....
Mrs. Bromley dead!
Why, the ink of her friendly note seemed scarcely dry!
On the pavement once more she halted to collect herself.
Who was there left at all?