of remorse, for it had
just come to him that he had churlishly omitted to chuck her so much as a word
of thanks for her splendid resourcefulness.
‘I
say,’ he said, ‘I forgot to mention it in the swirl and rush of recent events,
but I’m most frightfully obliged to you for the very sporting way you’ve
rallied round and saved me from the fate that is worse than death — viz,’
explained Pongo, ‘getting glared at by that goggle—eyed old Jack the Ripper
with the lip fungus.’
Elsie
Bean said she was only too pleased, to be sure, and he took her hand in his and
pressed it.
‘But
for you I should have been in the soup and going down for the third time. I owe
you more than words can tell.’
He was
still pressing her hand, and from that to kissing her in a grateful and
brotherly manner was but a short step. He took it, and Bill Oakshott, coming
round the corner after one of the long walks with which he was endeavouring
these days to allay the pangs of frustrated love, was able to observe the
courteous gesture from start to finish.
Pongo
sprang into the car with a lissom bound, waved his hand and drove off, and Bill
stared after him, stunned. Pongo belonged to the type of man which changes very
little in appearance with the passage of the years, and he recognized him
immediately. Still, to make sure ….
‘Wasn’t
that Mr Twistleton?’ he enquired of Elsie Bean.
‘Yes,
sir,’ said Elsie composedly. She had no inkling of the turmoil in his soul, and
would have been astounded to learn that anyone was taking exception to that
kiss. In Bottleton East everybody kisses everybody else as a matter of course,
like the early Christians. ‘He says you were wrong about the natives, Mr
William.’
‘The what?’
‘Those
natives in Brazil . They don’t
shoot birds with poisoned darts, only their wives’ relations. They use rude
slings.’
With an
effort that shook his powerful frame to its foundations Bill Oakshott contrived
to keep from saying something ruder about Brazilian natives than any sling
fashioned by them. There was no room in his thoughts for Brazilian natives. All
the available space was occupied by Pongo.
So
this, he was saying to himself, was the man to whom Hermione had entrusted her
happiness; a libertine who, once the Don Juan of his dancing class, now went
about kissing housemaids on doorsteps. How right, how unerringly right, old
Ickenham had been. Can the leopard change his spots, he had speculated. This
leopard didn’t even seem to want to.
Gosh! thought
Bill, aghast at the stark horror of the thing. A minor point presented itself.
‘Where’s
he off to?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘ London , sir.’
‘ London ?’
‘Yes,
sir.’
‘But
he’s only just arrived.’ ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he
say why he was going to London ?’
Elsie
Bean was a good accomplice, cautious, reliable, on the alert against verbal
slips. ‘No, sir. He just said “Coo! I think I’ll go to London ,” and popped off.’
Bill
Oakshott drew a deep breath. It seemed to him that in the years since he had
seen: him last, his old friend, never very strong in the head, have become
absolutely non compos. Do balanced men drive to country houses and
immediately upon arrival say ‘Coo! I think I’ll go to London ,’ and drive off again? They certainly do not.
His
heart, as he filled his pipe, was heavy. Sane libertines, he was thinking, are
bad enough, but loony libertines are the limit.
4
It was at a quarter to
eight that evening that Lord Ickenham, after a pleasant journey to London in
his car and a bath and change at his club, arrived in Budge Street, Chelsea, to
pick up Sally Painter and take her to dinner.
Budge
Street , Chelsea , in the heart of London ’s artistic quarter, is, like so many streets in the hearts of
artistic quarters, dark, dirty, dingy and depressing. Its residents would
appear to be great readers and very fond of fruit, for tattered newspapers can
always be found
just come to him that he had churlishly omitted to chuck her so much as a word
of thanks for her splendid resourcefulness.
‘I
say,’ he said, ‘I forgot to mention it in the swirl and rush of recent events,
but I’m most frightfully obliged to you for the very sporting way you’ve
rallied round and saved me from the fate that is worse than death — viz,’
explained Pongo, ‘getting glared at by that goggle—eyed old Jack the Ripper
with the lip fungus.’
Elsie
Bean said she was only too pleased, to be sure, and he took her hand in his and
pressed it.
‘But
for you I should have been in the soup and going down for the third time. I owe
you more than words can tell.’
He was
still pressing her hand, and from that to kissing her in a grateful and
brotherly manner was but a short step. He took it, and Bill Oakshott, coming
round the corner after one of the long walks with which he was endeavouring
these days to allay the pangs of frustrated love, was able to observe the
courteous gesture from start to finish.
Pongo
sprang into the car with a lissom bound, waved his hand and drove off, and Bill
stared after him, stunned. Pongo belonged to the type of man which changes very
little in appearance with the passage of the years, and he recognized him
immediately. Still, to make sure ….
‘Wasn’t
that Mr Twistleton?’ he enquired of Elsie Bean.
‘Yes,
sir,’ said Elsie composedly. She had no inkling of the turmoil in his soul, and
would have been astounded to learn that anyone was taking exception to that
kiss. In Bottleton East everybody kisses everybody else as a matter of course,
like the early Christians. ‘He says you were wrong about the natives, Mr
William.’
‘The what?’
‘Those
natives in Brazil . They don’t
shoot birds with poisoned darts, only their wives’ relations. They use rude
slings.’
With an
effort that shook his powerful frame to its foundations Bill Oakshott contrived
to keep from saying something ruder about Brazilian natives than any sling
fashioned by them. There was no room in his thoughts for Brazilian natives. All
the available space was occupied by Pongo.
So
this, he was saying to himself, was the man to whom Hermione had entrusted her
happiness; a libertine who, once the Don Juan of his dancing class, now went
about kissing housemaids on doorsteps. How right, how unerringly right, old
Ickenham had been. Can the leopard change his spots, he had speculated. This
leopard didn’t even seem to want to.
Gosh! thought
Bill, aghast at the stark horror of the thing. A minor point presented itself.
‘Where’s
he off to?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘ London , sir.’
‘ London ?’
‘Yes,
sir.’
‘But
he’s only just arrived.’ ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he
say why he was going to London ?’
Elsie
Bean was a good accomplice, cautious, reliable, on the alert against verbal
slips. ‘No, sir. He just said “Coo! I think I’ll go to London ,” and popped off.’
Bill
Oakshott drew a deep breath. It seemed to him that in the years since he had
seen: him last, his old friend, never very strong in the head, have become
absolutely non compos. Do balanced men drive to country houses and
immediately upon arrival say ‘Coo! I think I’ll go to London ,’ and drive off again? They certainly do not.
His
heart, as he filled his pipe, was heavy. Sane libertines, he was thinking, are
bad enough, but loony libertines are the limit.
4
It was at a quarter to
eight that evening that Lord Ickenham, after a pleasant journey to London in
his car and a bath and change at his club, arrived in Budge Street, Chelsea, to
pick up Sally Painter and take her to dinner.
Budge
Street , Chelsea , in the heart of London ’s artistic quarter, is, like so many streets in the hearts of
artistic quarters, dark, dirty, dingy and depressing. Its residents would
appear to be great readers and very fond of fruit, for tattered newspapers can
always be found
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