She felt a little guilty at the rapidity of the idea.
Woolgathering, she breasted the traffic in St. Martin’s Lane.
She would turn the situation over presently more easily in the Park.
Instinctively, she stopped to examine a portrait of Yvonde Yalta in the
open vestibule of the Dream.
She devoured it: Really...? Really? She resembled more some Girton guy
than a great coquette.
All down the street indeed, at the theatre doors, were studies of
artists, scenes from current plays.
By the time she found herself back in Piccadilly Circus again Miss
Sinquier was nearly fainting from inanition.
She peered around.
In Regent Street, she reflected, almost certainly, there must be some
nice tea-shop, some cool creamery....
How did this do?
“The Café Royal!”
Miss Sinquier fluttered in.
By the door, the tables all proved to be taken.
Such a noise!
Everyone seemed to be chattering, smoking, lunching, casting dice, or
playing dominoes.
She advanced slowly through a veil of opal mist, feeling her way from
side to side with her parasol.
It was like penetrating deeper and deeper into a bath.
She put out her hand in a swimming, groping gesture, twirling as she did
so, accidentally, an old gentleman’s moustache.
Thank heaven! There, by that pillar, was a vacant place.
She sank down on to the edge of a crowded couch, as in a dream.
The tall mirrors that graced the walls told her she was tired.
“Bring me some China tea,” she murmured to a passing waiter, “and a bun
with currants in it.”
She leaned back.
The realization of her absolute loneliness overcame her suddenly.
Poor Mrs. Bromley, poor kindly little soul!
The tears sprang to her eyes.
It would have been a relief to have blotted her face against some
neighbouring blouse or waistcoat and to have had a hearty cry.
“Excuse me, may I ask you to be so good——”
Just before her on the table was a stand for matches.
With a mournful glance she slid the apparatus from her in the direction
of an adolescent of a sympathetic, somewhat sentimental, appearance,
who, despite emphatic whiskers, had the air of a wildly pretty girl.
To have cherished such an one as a brother! Miss Sinquier reflected, as
the waiter brought her tea.
While consuming it, she studied the young man’s chiselled profile from
the corners of her eyes.
Supporting his chin upon the crook of a cane, he was listening, as if
enthralled, to a large florid man, who, the centre of a small, rapt
group, was relating in a high-pitched, musical voice, how “Poor dear
Chaliapin one day had asked for Kvass and was given Bass. And that
reminds me,” the speaker said, giving the table an impressive thump, “of
the time when Anna Held—let go.”
Miss Sinquier glowed.
Here were stage folk, artists, singers ... that white, thin girl in the
shaggy hat opposite was without doubt a temperament akin.
She felt drawn to speak.
“Can you tell me how I should go to Croydon?” she asked.
The words came slowly, sadly almost....
“To Croydon?”
“You can’t go to Croydon.”
“Why not?”
The young man of the whiskers looked amused.
“When we all go to Spain to visit Velasquez——”
“Goya——!”
“Velasquez!”
“Goya! Goya! Goya!”
“... We’ll set you on your way.”
“Goose!”
“One goes to Croydon best by Underground,” the pale-looking girl
remarked.
Miss Sinquier winced.
“Underground!”
Her lip quivered.
“Is there anything the matter?”
“Only——”
Folding her arms upon the table she sank despairingly forward and burst
into tears.
“Poor Mrs. Bromley!” she sobbed.
“In the name of _Fortune._...” The pale young woman wondered.
“What has Serephine said? What has Mrs. Sixsmith done?”
“Monstrous tease!”
The stout man wagged a finger.
“Wicked!” he commented.
The lady addressed kindled.
“I merely advised her to go Underground. By tube.”
“Oh God,” Miss Sinquier shook.
“It’s hysteria. Poor thing, you can see she’s overwrought.”
“Give her a _fine;_ _un bon petit cognac._”
“Waiter!”
“Garçon.”
“Never mind, Precious,” the fat man crooned. “You shall ride in a comfy
taxi-cab with me.”
“No; indeed she shan’t,” Mrs. Sixsmith snapped. “You may rely on me,
Ernest, for that!”
Rejecting the proffered spirits with a gesture, Miss Sinquier controlled
her grief.
“It’s not _often_ I’m so silly,” she said.
“There, there!”
“Excuse this exhibition....”
Mrs. Sixsmith squeezed her hand.
“My poor child,” she said, “I fear you’ve had a shock.”
“It’s over now.”
“I’m so glad.”
“You’ve been very good.”
“Not at all. You interest me.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why?... I’m sure I can’t say _why_! But directly I saw you....”
“It’s simply wonderful.”
“You marched in here for all the world like some great coquette.”
“You mean the Father Christmas at the door?”
“Tell me what had happened.”
In a few words Miss Sinquier recounted her tale.
“My dear,” Mrs. Sixsmith said, “I shouldn’t think of it again. I expect
this Mrs. Bromley was nothing but an old procuress.”
“A procuress?”
“A stage procuress.”
“How dreadful it sounds.”
“Have you no artistic connections in town _at all_?”
“Not really....”
“Then here, close at hand ... sitting with you and me,” she informally
presented, “Is Mr. Ernest Stubbs, whose wild wanderings in the Gog-magog
hills in sight of Cambridge, orchestrally described, recently thrilled
us all. Next to him—tuning his locks and twisting his cane—you’ll notice
Mr. Harold Weathercock, an exponent of calf-love parts at the Dream.
And, beyond, blackening her nose with a cigarette, sprawls the most
resigned of women—Miss Whipsina Peters, a daughter of the famous
flagelist—and a coryphée herself.”
Miss Peters nodded listlessly.
“Toodle-doo,” she murmured.
“As a coryphée, I suppose her diamonds are a sight?”
“A sight!” Mrs. Sixsmith closed her eyes. “They’re all laid up in
lavender, I fear.”
“In lavender?”
“Pledged.”
“Oh, poor soul.”
“Just now you spoke of a necklace of your own ... a pearl rope, or
something, that you wish to sell.”
“Unhappily I’m obliged.”
“I’ve a notion I might be of service in the matter.”
“How?”
“Through an old banker-friend of mine—Sir Oliver Dawtry. Down Hatton
Garden way and throughout the City he has enormous interests. And I
should say _he_ could place your pearls—if anyone could!”
“Do you think he’d be bothered?”
“That I’ll undertake.”
“Does he live in town?”
“In a sense: he has a large house in the Poultry.”
“Of course I should be willing to show him my pearls.”
“Sir Oliver is offering me a little dinner to-night. And I should be
happy for you to join us.”
“Oh?... I think I scarcely dare!”
“Rubbish. One must be bolder than that if one means to get on!”
“Tell me where you dine.”
“At Angrezini’s. It’s a little restaurant ... with a nigger band. And
you sing between the courses.”
“Will Mr. Sixsmith be there?”
“My dear, Mr. Sixsmith and I don’t live together any more.”
“Forgive me.”
“That’s all right....”
Miss Sinquier’s eyes grew dim.
“Used he to act?” she asked.
“_Act!_”
“I seem to have heard of him.”
Mrs. Sixsmith looked away.
“Are you coming, Serephine?” her neighbour asked.
“Are you all off?”
The florid man nodded impressively.
“Yes ... we’re going now....” he said.
“What are Whipsina’s plans?”
Miss Peters leaned closely forward over several pairs of knees.
“I shall stay where I am,” she murmured, “and perhaps take a nap.
There’s sure to be a tremendous exodus directly.”
Miss Sinquier rose. “I’ve some shopping,” she said, “to do.”
“Until this evening, then.”
“At what o’clock?”
“At 8.”
“On arrival, am I to ask for you?”
“Better ask for Sir Oliver—one never knows.... And I might perhaps
happen to be late.”
“But you won’t be? You mustn’t....”
“I will explain whatever’s needful by telephone to Sir Oliver now. And
during dinner,” Mrs. Sixsmith bubbled, “while the old gentleman picks a
quail, we will see what we can do!”
“How can I express my thanks...?”
“The question of commission,” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured with a slight
smile, “we will discuss more fully later on.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------