A LITTLE LUNCH AT DIEUDONNÉ’S
SORE were the ravages of the ancient malady. It made it worse for the
sufferer that he had never had it before.
He was twenty-eight, a very healthy and normal citizen, “a little
slow in the uptake,” to be sure, but with private means already, and
the heir to the paternal greatness. He should, of course, like other
paladins, have tried to keep out of mischief by serving his king and
country.
It was a mistake to have left the Second, said his admirable parents.
He wanted a wife, said all the world. It was really necessary
that a young man of his age should provide himself with this most
indispensable accessory.
In his torpid way he rather agreed. But he got no forrarder, although
it was perfectly clear that the indispensable accessory was his for the
asking.
To be sure, he had never exactly hit it off with Adela. Self-willed
and overbearing young women, doubtless, had their reason to be; but he
was much too shrewd a young chap to crave to be tied up for life with
one of them. Still, if he wasn’t careful the fetters might easily be
riveted. Things had rather shaped that way for twelve months past.
All the same, it behooved him to be wary. The fruit was ripe. A single
shake of the branch and it might fall from the tree.
Cinderella had shaken the tree pretty severely. Simple, kind and
cheerful she was just the sort of girl you could get on with. Straight
as a die, overflowing with life and sympathy, she had the noble faculty
of being genuinely interested in all the world and his wife.
Would she come out to lunch?
Oh, yes, any day except Wednesday and Saturday, when she had to play.
So the very next morning they lunched at Dieudonné’s, and everything
seemed perilously pleasant.
Punctual to the minute! How delightful to have a table in the corner!
The restaurant of all others she liked to lunch at; and lark and oyster
pudding and Chablis, the fare above all others that she coveted.
Comparisons are odious, but really...!
Didn’t he think Granny was wonderful? And really _quite_ great in her
day. A link with the past, of whom the profession was very proud.
Was Miss Caspar never tired of the theater? Wasn’t it an awful grind?
Didn’t she ever want a night off? When she felt as cheap as she must
have been feeling a fortnight ago last Saturday, didn’t she just want
to turn it up?
Perhaps--sometimes. But then her motto was Nelson’s, never to know when
you were beaten. It was Nelson’s motto, wasn’t it? Besides, having two
thousand people in your pocket gave you such a sense of power. And then
the princely salary, a hundred pounds a week, and next year it was
going to be doubled. She really didn’t know how she would be able to
spend it.
Why spend it at all? Why not invest it at four and a half per cent.?
Oh, yes--for a rainy day!
Such an idea was evidently quite new to Cinderella, and she proclaimed
it as the very zenith of human wisdom.
“You must let me spend a little, though.”
She spoke as though he had charge already of her hundred pounds a week.
“Not more than a fiver now and again. No need, really. Of course when
you take a holiday abroad you can dip a bit if you want.”
Granny thought the provinces were vulgar, but Cinderella was quite sure
that Mr. Shelmerdine didn’t agree with Grandmamma.
“Now look me right in the eye, and tell me whether the provinces are
vulgar. Honest Injun now!”
The good gray eyes were open to a width that was positively
astonishing. “Look right in, and consider yourself upon your oath.”
Mr. Shelmerdine did not agree with Grandmamma--being upon his oath.
“No, of course. The provinces are hearty and easy to get on with,
and we are very fond of each other, and I don’t consider either of
us vulgar. It is Granny’s Victorianism, to which I always pretend to
give in--although I don’t, of course. Do you know dear, dirty old
Sheffield? The next time you go and play against the Wednesday--I beg
your pardon, I had forgotten those wretched Tories had made your father
a peer--well, the next time you go to Sheffield--which you never will
again--ask the dear old Tykes whether they have ever seen Mary Caspar
as Alice in _Dick Whittington_. Why, it was I who presented the Cup
and Medals to the United when they won the Hallamshire and West Riding
Charity Vase.”
“Oh, really.”
“You mustn’t say, ‘Oh, really.’ You must say, ‘Did you, ma lass! I wish
I’d been playin’ in ta match.’”
Would Miss Caspar have a cigarette?
With pleasure; but she insisted on lighting his before he was allowed
to light hers.
“I wonder if I know you nearly well enough to call you Philip?” she
said at about the fourth puff. “Your name is such a long one, isn’t it?”
The heir to the barony was bound to admit that his name was long, and
that even Philip was shorter when it became Phil.
“Wouldn’t Phil be just a little familiar, considering that we have only
known each other a week?”
“I seem to have known you for years and years and years.”
“Well, if you really _mean_ that, Philip, I don’t think there is any
reason why it shouldn’t be Phil. But you mustn’t go beyond Mary, you
know. There is only one other person outside the family who calls me
Polly, because somehow I object to Polly on principle. And you’ll never
be able to guess who that is.”
“Mr. Vandeleur?”
“Dear no--of all people. I am a perfectly ferocious Rag.”
“Well, I hope it isn’t--?”
“--Be careful, Philip. _Very_ dangerous ground. But, no, it isn’t he.
The only other person who is allowed to call me Polly is the Lessee and
Manager of the Royal Italian Opera House, Blackhampton.”
A sudden pang of consternation went through the heart of Mr. Philip.
There was a confounded ring on her finger!
“Goose,” said Mary, amused not a little by the course of the young
man’s gaze. “Old enough to be my father. But he’s a dear; and if I ever
marry anyone--which I never shall, of course--I don’t think I should
mind marrying him, although he’s just celebrated his silver wedding,
and he’s got a family of eleven, seven girls and four boys, all with a
broad enough accent to derail any tram in Blackhampton.”
Yes; Mr. Philip enjoyed every moment of this little luncheon at
Dieudonné’s.
Before going to misspend his afternoon at one of his clubs, he
accompanied the charmer as far as Bedford Gardens. They went on foot
for the sake of the exercise, which she vowed she would rather die than
do without; along the Strand if he didn’t mind, because she loved it so.
The Strand was a wonderful place, they both agreed. Certainly, he had
been in it before--often--though always on the way to the play or to
supper at the Savoy. But he had to admit that this was the first time
he had come to it in broad daylight as an amateur.
“You get more human nature to the square inch in the dear old Strand
than any place in the world,” said this young woman who had traveled
the five continents in the exercise of her calling.
“Piper, miss. ’Orrible murder in the Borough.”
Mary was proof against this lure, and with true feminine irrelevance
proceeded to pile insult upon the head of injury by calling upon a
young gentleman of nine, who apparently was not going to Eton next
term, and whose person was held together by a single button, to explain
the absence of his shoes and stockings.
“Aren’t got none, lidy.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Ain’t ’ad none, lidy, since mother was put away for doin’ in father a
year lawst Boxin’ night.”
“I daresay it is quite a good reason,” said Mary Caspar, “if only it
could be translated into English. What did your mother do to your
father?”
“’E come ’ome ravin’, and mother throwed a paraffin lamp at him, and
the judge give her ten years.”
Mary Caspar opened her purse and produced the hundredth part of her
week’s salary.
“Never let me see you again without your boots--or your stockings,
either.”
The recipient looked at the sovereign doubtfully. Then he looked up at
the donor.
“Lidy,” he said, depositing this incredible wealth in some inaccessible
purlieus of his late father’s waistcoat, “you’re a toff.”
The heir to the barony was rather silent as they turned up Bedford
Street. He was, of course, a drone in the hive, but he sometimes
indulged in the pernicious habit of turning things over in his mind.
“There’s something wrong, you know, somewhere. A kid not a day more
than nine, all on his own. I think we ought to have got his name and
address.”
Mary thought he would have forgotten his name, and that he wouldn’t
have been at the trouble to possess himself of anything so superfluous
as an address, but she agreed with a further display of true feminine
irrelevance--and what would any Principal Girl be without it?--that
they certainly ought to have got them.
And so they turned back for the purpose. But the bird had flown. They
walked as far as Trafalgar Square, crossed over, and came back on the
other side, but their quarry had quitted the Strand.
“We must look out for him again,” said the heir to the barony.
“Although I expect there are thousands like him.”
“Millions,” said Mary.
“And, of course, it don’t matter what you do in individual cases, so
the Johnnies say who know all about it--but you must let me stand that
sovereign, although it is sweet of you and all that.”
The heir to the barony produced the sum of one pound sterling, and
inserted it in Mary’s muff, a very ordinary sort of rabbit-skin affair.
Mary declined point-blank to accept the sovereign, which irresponsible
behavior on her part made her escort look rather troubled and unhappy.
“Oh, but you must.”
“Why?”
The heir to the barony seemed perfectly clear in his own mind that she
ought to do as she was told, but not being gifted in the matter of
clothing his thoughts with language, the reasons he gave seemed both
vague and inadequate to an independent-minded young woman whose salary,
for the time being, was equal to that of the First Lord of the Treasury.
They parted on Grandmamma’s doorstep, with a hearty hand-shake, and a
reluctant promise on Mary’s part to come out to tea on the morrow. The
young man walked on air to one of his numerous houses of call, firm in
the conviction that he had never enjoyed a luncheon so much in all his
born days.
* * * * *
“Ye-es, Agatha, I a-gree with you,” said the first Baron Shelmerdine of
Potterhanworth at half-past seven that evening, twisting his face in
the torment of achieving the conventional without a suspicion of the
baroque or the bizarre. “The ve-ry next shirts I order from Hoodlam
shall all turn down. Harold Box, I believe--so why not I? Oh, confound
it all--that’s the third I’ve ruined.”
“Fetch another Wally, and I will tie it for you,” said the Suffolk
Colthurst superbly.
It was humiliation for a Proconsul, but we are pledged to tell the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in this ingenuous
narrative. And of their courtesy we ask none of our readers to accuse
us of malice.
“You must bend a bit, Wally.” The Suffolk Colthurst grappled firmly
with the situation. “Better order two dozen at once from Heale and
Binman. Theirs carry more starch.”
Here it was that Destiny came into the picture, casual-like.
“Wally.” The Suffolk Colthurst had just achieved a reticent
self-respecting single bow. “Now that Lord Warlock has agreed to that
settlement, if I were you I would send round a note to the Albany for
Philip to come and see us in the morning.”
“Well tied, Agatha. I’ll write a note to Philip, now.”
* * * * *
If the truth must be set down, and that, of course, is essential in all
circumstances, the parental communication, in spite of the fact that it
had an impressive device on the back and a motto in a dead language,
was not the first note that was opened at B4 the Albany on the
following morning. It was not the second or the third either, because
there was quite a pile of correspondence in front of the kidneys and
bacon at a quarter-past ten in the forenoon of Tuesday, the first of
February.
“Dear Philip,” said the parental communication when it was open
at last, “your Mother will be pleased if you will come to luncheon
to-morrow, as there is an important matter she would like me to speak
to you about. Luncheon at one-thirty sharp, as I have to go down to the
House. Your affectionate Father, S. of P.”
Mr. Philip helped himself pensively, but not illiberally, to kidneys
and bacon. He sprinkled salt and pepper over them, spread mustard
on the plate, buttered his toast, poured out a cup of tea of almost
immoral strength, read over the parental communication again, and then
made use of an objurgation.
“I wish the good old Mater wouldn’t get so meddlin’,” said he.
Nevertheless, like a dutiful young man, he decided he must go and lunch
at No. 88 Grosvenor Square. But by the time he had put on his boots
with five buttons, had been inserted into the coat with the astrachan
collar, and had sauntered forth to his favorite florist’s, twirling his
whanghee cane, somehow the good old sky of London didn’t look quite so
bright as it did yesterday.
His favorite florist’s was in the charge of his favorite young lady
assistant, Miss Pearson by name, whom a fortnight ago he had serious
thoughts of calling Sally without her permission. But a good deal of
water had flowed under London Bridge in the meantime, so that now
whether she gave her permission, or whether she withheld it, he no
longer yearned to be guilty of any such freedom.
Still, Miss Pearson was a very good sort for all that, and the heir to
the barony raised his hat to her this morning in his politest manner,
although perhaps it is right to remark that he would have done so on
any other morning, and even if Miss Pearson had not been such a very
good sort--but in that case he might have gone a little higher up the
street, as far as Miss Jackson.
“Mornin’, Miss Pearson. How are we?”
Miss Pearson was so-so. Had been to the Coliseum to see _Richard III_
the previous evening.
“Have you been to Drury yet, Miss Pearson?”
No, but Miss Pearson’s best boy had promised to take her next
Monday--Monday being her night out.
“I _envy_ you, Miss Pearson,” said the heir to the barony with emotion.
“And the young chap--of course.”
“Mr. Shelmerdine,” said Miss Pearson, “do you know what my impression
is?”
Mr. Shelmerdine had not the faintest notion what Miss Pearson’s
impression was.
“My impression, Mr. Shelmerdine,” said Miss Pearson, “is that you are
in love.”
No rebutting evidence being put in, Miss Pearson grew grave and
serious as became a young lady of good Scottish lineage on the spindle
side.
“If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Shelmerdine, you’ll go a short sea
voyage. I’ve noticed a deterioration in you during the last fortnight.
It is far worse than when Cassie Smallpiece was at the Gaiety. I shall
go and see for myself on Monday, but I’ve no opinion of actresses as a
class. It is time you married that Lady Adela, you know.”
It was the first time that Miss Pearson had been moved to these
communications as far as this particular client was concerned; but the
fair president of the smartest florist in Piccadilly was a lady of
considerable social insight.
“Well, Miss Pearson,” said the heir to the barony, slowly and
thoughtfully, “you know that I always value your opinion, but Mary
Caspar is an absolute nailer.”
“Go across to Dean and Dawson’s,” said Miss Pearson. “Or you can use
my telephone if you don’t want to run the risk of crossing the street.
Egypt or Switzerland, or a short sea voyage. Think what a blow it would
be to your father if you didn’t marry a lady in society.”
“Ha, you haven’t seen her yet, Miss Pearson,” cried the incredible
young man. “If I could book a couple of stalls for Monday, do you
think your young chap would mind accepting ’em?”
“Only too pleased, I’m sure,” said Miss Pearson promptly. “No false
delicacy about Alf. He’s in the greengrocery the other side the Marble
Arch.”
The heir to the barony was a little “slow in the uptake,” but, like
others who labor under that natural defect, in the end he generally
contrived to get to his destination.
“I hope you ain’t throwin’ yourself away, Miss Pearson,” said the heir
to the barony. “Blow to your people, I’m sure, if you are side-tracked
by anything under a bank clerk.”
“Money before position, Mr. Shelmerdine, is my motto,” said Miss
Pearson. “If you’ve got the one, you can always get the other.”
The heir of the barony seemed rather impressed by this pearl of wisdom.
He pondered it while that very able and personable young woman twined
a piece of wire round a posy of violets. And then, as if to prove a
general proposition, Position itself appeared, and somewhat abruptly
terminated this instructive _tête-à-tête_.
Position entered in the person of a youthful marquis, leading a bull
terrier whose natural beauty was almost as chastened as his own.
“Why, Shel--haven’t seen you for years!”
Position held out a hand, gloved somewhat aggressively in yellow. His
senior by four years shook the gauntlet warily.
“Mornin’, Sally.”
Position turned its back and put its elbows on the counter. It might
have been the sole proprietor, not only of those most desirable lock-up
basement premises, but of Miss Pearson and all its other contents.
Still, no reproof was forthcoming.
During an even earlier phase of Position’s adolescence, it had been Mr.
Shelmerdine’s privilege as a member of the Eleven, a member of Pop, and
of other high dignities, to lay into Position in no uncertain manner.
Alas that his zeal had proved so unfruitful!
_Autres temps, autres mœurs._ Had we the pen of the sage, the fervor
of the poet, the _sæva indignatio_ of the preacher, what a theme is
here, my lords and gentlemen! Position not only usurping the badge
of intimacy, reserved for the peers of the Keeper of the Field, but
actually venturing to take _pas_ of him, addressing Miss Pearson by her
first name, setting his elbows on the counter, and removing a bunch of
violets from her ample bosom, while he--the unspeakable humiliation of
it--actually had to wait meekly for his own.
Had there been a toasting fork within the precincts of those
desirable lock-up basement premises, it is appalling to think of the
consequences that might have ensued.
Miss Pearson handed Mr. Shelmerdine his bunch of violets in a manner
sufficiently _dégagé_, as though her interest in him had assumed a
less acute phase. Raging within, the heir to the barony, a mere 1905
creation, sought the purer air of the Ritz Arcade, leaving the field to
1720, who could be heard saluting Sally not too chastely, as his early
benefactor hurriedly crossed the threshold of his favorite florist’s,
and came into somewhat forcible collision with an elderly, but ample
lady from Missouri, who was on a visit to Europe, and who had come to
stay at the Ritz Hotel.
The elderly ample lady from Missouri was fluent in her diction; the
heir to the barony was abject in his apologies; but eventually the
incident was closed by the unlucky young man escorting the American
citizeness to her palatial temporary residence, and giving her into the
care of the hall porter.
Evidently, it was not going to be his day. But let justice be done to
the Fates, even when they are behaving just about as badly as they know
how. Had it not been that the heir to the barony lingered a moment to
exchange a few brief but urbane civilities with the hall porter of the
Ritz, he must inevitably have walked into Adela and her Pa who were
passing very slowly and impressively by the portals of this coign of
the plutocracy.
It was a hair’s-breadth escape. The young man had only just time to
realize his danger, bolt across the road, almost under the very wheels
of an oncoming Barnes and Hammersmith omnibus, escape a threefold death
by violence at the instance of the passing motor, board a taxi, and in
a voice tense with emotion beseech to be driven to Romano’s.
A gin and vermouth might be said to have saved this full but chequered
life.
“Called me Shel--my God! If only I’d got that long-handled,
old-fashioned one with the five prongs--!”