“It would be very effective,” she continued, crossing her legs.
“One moment,” said her swain. “Are you being serious?”
“Why not?” said Miss Willow. “Black is most decorative.”
“It’s damned suggestive,” said Hubert. “Fancy shaving in a black
bathroom. You couldn’t help cutting yourself, could you?”
“I really don’t know,” said Julia. “But if you did—well, the sponge
would be within reach, wouldn’t it?” She paused to light her cigarette.
“I repeat that, properly done in black, that flat would be most
effective.”
“All right,” said Challenger. “I don’t care. Have it black outside, too,
if you like. That might tempt them to let us change the name—4,
Coroner’s Court, ’d sound very well. Telegraphic address, Morgue.”
Julia waved her cigarette.
“You see?” she said silkily. “Of course it may be coincidence, but I’ve
only to mention a flat which isn’t in Hill Street for you to perceive
insuperable objections to our tenancy.”
“My dear,” said Hubert, “you’re talking through your switch. If you had
suggested putting Hill Street in black, I should have been still more
emphatic. Then it would have been sacrilege as well.”
“As well as what?” said Miss Willow.
“Nihilism,” said Hubert, and closed his eyes.
There was an indignant silence.
The two were to be married within the month.
The news of their engagement had been received with general
satisfaction, for, while there were many young men in love with Julia
and many maidens who could have done with Hubert, both were so popular
that such as had lost the race felt that they had been beaten by a
better horse.
An only child, rich and of great beauty, Miss Willow might well have
been spoiled. Her character, however, was proof against such corruption.
She was spirited, liked her own way, but she was not headstrong. Upon
occasion she would take the bit in her teeth, but that was as much out
of play as anything else. There was no vice in her. Her charm was swift:
all she did she did eagerly: if she was careless, hers was a careless
age. Her admirable figure was always admirably dressed, her little feet
perfectly shod. Some men swore by her eyes, which were grey, others by
her exquisite mouth; but all were most proud of her acquaintance and
adored her company.
Hubert Challenger was a good-looking man. He had a fine record, a keen
sense of humour, and a way of getting where he wanted to go at once more
effectually and with less apparent effort than any man about town. His
engagement, therefore, to Julia was good for his soul. He was tall,
fair, keen-eyed, a beautiful horseman and a sound judge of men. Although
a man of means, he was never idle: his small estate in the country was
excellently administered: he was his own bailiff. He was generous, did
all he had to do handsomely, was naturally amiable, could be most
resolute—if occasion arose. His pleasant personality had much to answer
for. Whenever he made an acquaintance, Challenger made a friend.
“Good lord!” cried Julia suddenly, leaping to her feet. “We’ve never
been to see South Street.”
Her _fiancé_ started guiltily.
“Nor—nor we have,” he stammered.
With a withering glance, Julia sped to the mantelpiece and began in
feverish haste to powder her nose.
Hubert stared at his watch.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit late, dear?”
“Why?” demanded Julia over her shoulder. “We said ‘before six.’”
“Did—did we?”
“You know we did,” said Julia, seizing her hat.
Challenger smothered a groan.
“Let’s have tea first,” he suggested.
“Then it would be too late, wouldn’t it? Hubert, you make me tired.”
Challenger laughed wildly.
“Supposing,” he said shakily, “supposing I said I was whacked—whacked
to the blinkin’ wide, lame, over at the knees an’ ripe for palsy. Whose
fault would that be?”
“Come on,” said Julia shortly. “We can pick up a taxi on the way.”
“Just let me have the drink,” pleaded Challenger. “Not all of it.
Just——”
“When we get back,” said Julia, opening the door. “I’m going without my
tea.”
With a frightful look, Hubert rose from the sofa and followed his lady
out. . . .
Five minutes later the two were in South Street.
The flat, which had just been finished, took them by storm. It was
ideal. Apart from its excellent style, every convenience that the wit of
man can devise seemed to have been embodied in its construction. Its
walls were sound-proof: so were its ceilings and floors. Its rooms were
invisibly lit: it could be centrally heated at will: there were four
bathrooms: the servants’ quarters were paved with rubber throughout: the
telephone could be connected to a private exchange: there was even a
chute to a private posting box in the common hall. Light, airy,
perfectly arranged and admirably decorated, it had only come into the
market the day before, and that by accident.
The porter who showed them over was patently proud of his charge.
“She’ll go on Monday,” he said. “If you don’t take ’er, madam, there’s
plenty as will.”
It was long after six when at last the two emerged, swearing to be at
the agents’ on Monday at nine o’clock.