If Browne had ever looked forward to anything in his life, he did to
the dinner-party he had arranged for the evening following his visit to
the studio in the German Park Road. On more than one occasion he had
entertained royalty at his house in Park Lane, and at various times he
had invited London society to functions which, for magnificence and
completeness, had scarcely ever been equalled and never excelled. Upon
none of these affairs, however, had he bestowed half so much care and
attention as he did upon the dinner which it is now my duty to
describe. Having written the formal invitation, he posted it himself;
after which he drove to the restaurant which was to be honoured with
Katherine Petrovitch's presence, and interviewed the proprietor in his
own sanctum.
"Remember, Alphonse," he said to that delightful little man, "good as
the others have been, this must be the very best dinner you have ever
arranged for me. It must not be long, nor must it be in the least
degree heavy. You know my taste in wine, and I give you _carte
blanche_ to ransack London for what you consider necessary in the way
of rarities. Reserve 'No. 6' for me, if it is not already engaged; and
make it look as nice as you possibly can. I will send the flowers from
my house, and my own man shall arrange them."
Alphonse chuckled and rubbed his hands. This was just the sort of
order he delighted to receive.
"Ver' good; it shall be done, M'sieu Browne," he said, bowing and
spreading his hands apart in his customary fashion when pleased. "I
have made you many, many dinners before, but I give you the word of
Alphonse that this shall be the best of all. _Ma foi!_ but I will give
you a dinner zat for its betterment you cannot get in England. Ze cost
I will----"
"Never mind the cost," answered the reckless young man; "remember, it
must be the best in every way. Nothing short of that will do."
"I will satisfy you, m'sieu; never fear that. It is my honour.
Perhaps it is royalty zat you have to come to my house?"
"It is nothing of the sort," Browne replied scornfully. "I am asking
two ladies and one gentleman."
Alphonse's face expressed his surprise. It looked as if his beautiful
dinner was likely to be wasted.
Having arranged the hour and certain other minor details, Browne
returned to his cab once more, and drove off in search of Jimmy Foote.
It was some time before he found him, and, when he did, a considerable
period elapsed before he could obtain speech with him. Jimmy was at
the Welter Club, playing black pool with two or three youths of his own
type. From the manner in which their silver was changing hands, it
certainly looked as if that accomplished young gentleman was finding
his time very fully taken up, picking half-crowns off the rim of the
table, placing them in his pocket, and paying them out again.
"Hullo, Browne!" said Bellingham of the Blues, after the black ball had
disappeared into the top pocket and while the marker was spotting it
again. "Are you coming in?"
"Not if I know it," said Browne, shaking his head. "Judging from the
anxious expression upon Jimmy's face, things are getting a little too
hot with you all."
At the end of the next round, the latter retired from the game, and,
putting his arm through that of his friend, led him to the smoking-room
on the other side of the hall.
"I hope you have calmed down, old fellow," said Jimmy as they seated
themselves near the fire. "To what do I owe the honour of seeing you
here to-night?"
"I want you to do me a favour," Browne returned, a little nervously,
for he was afraid of what Jimmy would say when he knew everything.
"Anything you like in the world, old man," said the latter. "You have
only to ask. There is nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Nothing at all," replied Browne. "Rather the other way round, I
fancy. The fact of the matter is, I have asked two ladies to dine with
me to-morrow evening at Lallemand's, and to go to the Opera afterwards.
I want you to make one of the party."
"The young lady is the painter of that charming Norwegian picture,"
said Jimmy, with imperturbable gravity, "and the other is her chaperon."
"How on earth did you know it?" asked Browne, blushing like a
schoolboy, for the simple reason that he thought his secret was
discovered.
"It's very plain that you never knew I was a wizard," returned his
companion, with a laugh. "You old duffer; put two and two together for
yourself--that is to say, if you have any brains left to do it with.
In the first place, did you not yesterday afternoon invite me to
accompany you on a delightful yachting trip to the Mediterranean? You
were tired of England, you said, and I gathered from your remarks that
you were counting the hours until you could say 'good-bye' to her. We
went for a walk, and as we passed up Waterloo Place I happened to show
you a picture. You turned as white as a sheet at once, and immediately
dived into the shop, bidding me wait outside. When you reappeared you
acted the part of an amiable lunatic; talked a lot of bosh about
preferring fogs to sunshine; and when I informed you that you were on
the high-road to an asylum, said it was better than that--you were
going to the German Park Road. Our yachting cruise has been thrown to
the winds; and now, to make up for it, you have the impudence to ask me
to play gooseberry for you, and try to propitiate me with one of
Lallemand's dinners, which invariably upset me for a week, and a dose
of Wagner which will drive me crazy for a month."
"How do you know I want you to play gooseberry?" asked Browne savagely.
"It's like your impudence to say such a thing."
"How do I know anything?" said Jimmy, with delightful calmness. "Why,
by the exercise of my own common-sense, of course--a commodity you will
never possess if you go on like this. You are spoons on this girl, I
suppose, and since there's another coming with her, it's pretty plain
to me somebody must be there to keep that other out of the way."
"You grow very coarse," retorted Browne, now thoroughly on his dignity.
"It's a coarse age, they say," Foote replied. "Don't I know by
experience exactly what that second party will be like!"
"If you do you are very clever," said Browne.
"One has to be clever to keep pace with the times," Jimmy replied.
"But, seriously, old man, if you want me, I shall be only too glad to
come to your dinner; but, mind, I take no responsibility for what
happens. I am not going to be called to account by every London mother
who possesses a marriageable daughter."
"You needn't be afraid," said Browne. "I will absolve you from all
responsibility. At any rate you assure me that I can depend upon you?"
"Of course you can, and anything else you like besides," Foote replied.
Then, laying his hand upon Browne's shoulder, he added: "My dear old
Jack, in spite of our long acquaintance, I don't think you quite know
me yet. I talk a lot of nonsense, I'm afraid; but as far as you are
concerned you may depend the heart's in the right place. Now I come to
think of it, I am not quite certain it would not be better for you to
be decently married and out of harm's way. Of course, one doesn't like
to see one's pals hurried off like that; but in your case it's
different."
"My dear fellow," said Browne, "as you said just now, you certainly do
talk a lot of nonsense. Whoever said anything about marriage? Of
course I'm not going to be married. I have never contemplated such a
thing. It's always the way; directly a man shows a little extra
courtesy to a woman, talks to her five minutes longer than he is
accustomed to do, perhaps, or dances with her twice running, you
immediately get the idea that everything is settled between them, and
that all you have to do is to wonder what sort of wedding present you
ought to give them."
"When a man gives himself away as completely as you have done in this
particular instance, it is not to be wondered that his friends think
there is something in the air," said Jimmy. "However, you know your
own business best. What time is the dinner?"
"Seven o'clock sharp," said Browne. "You had better meet me there a
few minutes before. Don't forget we go to the Opera afterwards."
"I am not likely to forget it," said Jimmy, with a doleful face.
"Very well, good-bye until to-morrow evening."
There was a little pause, and then Browne held out his hand.
"Thank you, Jimmy," he said with a sincerity that was quite
inconsistent with the apparent importance of the subject. "I felt sure
I could rely upon you."
"Rely upon me always," Jimmy replied. "I don't think you'll find me
wanting."
With that Browne bade him good-bye, and went out into the street. He
hailed a cab, and bade the man drive him to Park Lane.
Once it had started, he laid himself back on the cushions and gave free
rein to his thoughts. Though he had to all intents and purposes denied
it a few minutes before, there could be no doubt that he was in
love--head over ears in love. He had had many passing fancies before,
it is true, but never had he experienced such a strong attack of the
fever as at present. As the cab passed along the crowded street he
seemed to see that sweet face, with its dark eyes and hair; that
slender figure, and those beautiful white hands, with their long
tapering fingers; and to hear again the soft tones of Katherine's voice
as she had spoken to him in the studio that afternoon. She was a queen
among women, he told himself, and was worthy to be loved as such. But
if she were so beautiful and so desirable, could she be induced to have
anything to do with himself? Could she ever be brought to love him?
It was consistent with the man's character to be so humble, and yet it
was strange that he should have been so. Ever since he had been
eligible for matrimony he had been the especial prey of mothers with
marriageable daughters. They had fawned upon him, had petted him, and
in every way had endeavoured to effect his capture. Whether or not
Katherine Petrovitch knew of his wealth it was impossible for him to
say. He hoped she did not. It was his ambition in life to be loved,
and be loved for himself alone. If she would trust him, he would
devote his whole life to making her happy, and to proving how well
founded was the faith she had reposed in him. Vitally important as the
question was, I believe he had never for one moment doubted her. His
nature was too open for that, while she herself, like Caesar's wife, was
of course above suspicion. The fact that she had confessed to him that
her family was prohibited in Russia only served to intensify his
admiration for her truthful qualities. Though he knew nothing of her
history or antecedents, it never for one moment caused him any
uneasiness. He loved her for herself, not for her family. When he
went to bed that night he dreamt of her, and when he rose in the
morning he was, if possible, more in love than before. Fully occupied
as his day usually was, on this occasion he found it more than
difficult to pass the time. He counted the hours--nay, almost the
minutes--until it should be possible for him to set off to the
restaurant. By the midday post a charming little note arrived, signed
Katherine Petrovitch. Browne was in his study when it was brought to
him, and it was with the greatest difficulty he could contain his
impatience until the butler had left the room. The instant he had done
so, however, he tore open the envelope and drew out the contents. The
writing was quaint and quite un-English, but its peculiarities only
served to make it the more charming. It would give Madame Bernstein
and the writer, it said, much pleasure to dine with him that evening.
He read and re-read it, finding a fresh pleasure in it on each
occasion. It carried with it a faint scent which was as intoxicating
as the perfume of the Lotus Blossom.
Had the beautiful Miss Verney, who, it must be confessed, had more than
once written him letters of the most confidential description, guessed
for a single moment that he preferred the tiny sheet he carried in his
coat-pocket to her own epistles, it is certain her feelings would have
been painful in the extreme. The fact remains, however, that Browne
preserved the letter, and, if I know anything of human nature, he has
it still.