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There were two reasons why Lord Dawlish was unaware of ClaireFenwick's presence at Reigelheimer's Restaurant: Reigelheimer's issituated in a basement below a ten-storey building, and in orderto prevent this edifice from falling into his patrons' soup theproprietor had been obliged to shore up his ceiling with massivepillars. One of these protruded itself between the table whichNutty had secured for his supper-party and the table at whichClaire was sitting with her friend, Lady Wetherby, and her steameracquaintance, Mr Dudley Pickering. That was why Bill had not seenClaire from where he sat; and the reason that he had not seen herwhen he left his seat and began to dance was that he was not oneof your dancers who glance airily about them. When Bill danced hedanced.
He would have been stunned with amazement if he had known thatClaire was at Reigelheimer's that night. And yet it would havebeen remarkable, seeing that she was the guest of Lady Wetherby,if she had not been there. When you have travelled three thousandmiles to enjoy the hospitality of a friend who does near-Greekdances at a popular restaurant, the least you can do is to go tothe restaurant and watch her step. Claire had arrived with PollyWetherby and Mr Dudley Pickering at about the time when Nutty, hisgloom melting rapidly, was instructing the waiter to open thesecond bottle.
Of Claire's movements between the time when she secured her ticketat the steamship offices at Southampton and the moment when sheentered Reigelheimer's Restaurant it is not necessary to give adetailed record. She had had the usual experiences of the oceanvoyager. She had fed, read, and gone to bed. The only notableevent in her trip had been her intimacy with Mr Dudley Pickering.
Dudley Pickering was a middle-aged Middle Westerner, who by thriftand industry had amassed a considerable fortune out of automobiles.Everybody spoke well of Dudley Pickering. The papers spoke well ofhim, Bradstreet spoke well of him, and he spoke well of himself. Onboard the liner he had poured the saga of his life into Claire'sattentive ears, and there was a gentle sweetness in her manner whichencouraged Mr Pickering mightily, for he had fallen in love withClaire on sight.
It would seem that a schoolgirl in these advanced days would knowwhat to do when she found that a man worth millions was in lovewith her; yet there were factors in the situation which gaveClaire pause. Lord Dawlish, of course, was one of them. She hadnot mentioned Lord Dawlish to Mr Pickering, and--doubtless lestthe sight of it might pain him--she had abstained from wearing herengagement ring during the voyage. But she had not completely lostsight of the fact that she was engaged to Bill. Another thing thatcaused her to hesitate was the fact that Dudley Pickering, howeverwealthy, was a most colossal bore. As far as Claire couldascertain on their short acquaintance, he had but one subject ofconversation--automobiles.
To Claire an automobile was a shiny thing with padded seats, inwhich you rode if you were lucky enough to know somebody who ownedone. She had no wish to go more deeply into the matter. DudleyPickering's attitude towards automobiles, on the other hand, morenearly resembled that of a surgeon towards the human body. To hima car was something to dissect, something with an interior bothinteresting to explore and fascinating to talk about. Clairelistened with a radiant display of interest, but she had herdoubts as to whether any amount of money would make it worth whileto undergo this sort of thing for life. She was still in thishesitant frame of mind when she entered Reigelheimer's Restaurant,and it perturbed her that she could not come to some definitedecision on Mr Pickering, for those subtle signs which every womancan recognize and interpret told her that the latter, having pavedthe way by talking machinery for a week, was about to boil overand speak of higher things.
At the very next opportunity, she was certain, he intended topropose.
The presence of Lady Wetherby acted as a temporary check on thedevelopment of the situation, but after they had been seated attheir table a short time the lights of the restaurant weresuddenly lowered, a coloured limelight became manifest near theroof, and classical music made itself heard from the fiddles inthe orchestra.
You could tell it was classical, because the banjo players wereleaning back and chewing gum; and in New York restaurants onlydeath or a classical speciality can stop banjoists.
There was a spatter of applause, and Lady Wetherby rose.
'This,' she explained to Claire, 'is where I do my stunt. Watchit. I invented the steps myself. Classical stuff. It's called theDream of Psyche.'
It was difficult for one who knew her as Claire did to associatePolly Wetherby with anything classical. On the road, in England,when they had been fellow-members of the Number Two company of_The Heavenly Waltz_, Polly had been remarkable chiefly for afund of humorous anecdote and a gift, amounting almost to genius,for doing battle with militant landladies. And renewing theirintimacy after a hiatus of a little less than a year Claire hadfound her unchanged.
It was a truculent affair, this Dream of Psyche. It was not so muchdancing as shadow boxing. It began mildly enough to the accompanimentof _pizzicato_ strains from the orchestra--Psyche in her trainingquarters. _Rallentando_--Psyche punching the bag. _Diminuendo_--Psycheusing the medicine ball. _Presto_--Psyche doing road work. _Forte_--Thenight of the fight. And then things began to move to a climax. Withthe fiddles working themselves to the bone and the piano boundingunder its persecutor's blows, Lady Wetherby ducked, side-stepped,rushed, and sprang, moving her arms in a manner that may have beenclassical Greek, but to the untrained eye looked much more like thelast round of some open-air bout.
It was half-way through the exhibition, when you could smell thesawdust and hear the seconds shouting advice under the ropes, thatClaire, who, never having seen anything in her life like thisextraordinary performance, had been staring spellbound, awoke tothe realization that Dudley Pickering was proposing to her. Itrequired a woman's intuition to divine this fact, for Mr Pickeringwas not coherent. He did not go straight to the point. He rambled.But Claire understood, and it came to her that this thing hadtaken her before she was ready. In a brief while she would have togive an answer of some sort, and she had not clearly decided whatanswer she meant to give.
Then, while he was still skirting his subject, before he hadwandered to what he really wished to say, the music stopped, theapplause broke out again, and Lady Wetherby returned to the tablelike a pugilist seeking his corner at the end of a round. Her facewas flushed and she was breathing hard.
'They pay me money for that!' she observed, genially. 'Can youbeat it?'
The spell was broken. Mr Pickering sank back in his chair in apunctured manner. And Claire, making monosyllabic replies to herfriend's remarks, was able to bend her mind to the task of findingout how she stood on this important Pickering issue. That he wouldreturn to the attack as soon as possible she knew; and the nexttime she must have her attitude clearly defined one way or theother.
Lady Wetherby, having got the Dance of Psyche out of her system,and replaced it with a glass of iced coffee, was inclined forconversation.
'Algie called me up on the phone this evening, Claire.'
'Yes?'
Claire was examining Mr Pickering with furtive side glances. Hewas not handsome, nor, on the other hand, was he repulsive.'Undistinguished' was the adjective that would have described him.He was inclined to stoutness, but not unpardonably so; his hairwas thin, but he was not aggressively bald; his face was dull, butcertainly not stupid. There was nothing in his outer man which hismillions would not offset. As regarded his other qualities, hisconversation was certainly not exhilarating. But that also wasnot, under certain conditions, an unforgivable thing. No, lookingat the matter all round and weighing it with care, the realobstacle, Claire decided, was not any quality or lack of qualitiesin Dudley Pickering--it was Lord Dawlish and the simple fact thatit would be extremely difficult, if she discarded him in favour of aricher man without any ostensible cause, to retain her self-respect.
'I think he's weakening.'
'Yes?'
Yes, that was the crux of the matter. She wanted to retain hergood opinion of herself. And in
order to achieve that end it wasessential that she find some excuse, however trivial, for breakingoff the engagement.
'Yes?'
A waiter approached the table.
'Mr Pickering!'
The thwarted lover came to life with a start.
'Eh?'
'A gentleman wishes to speak to you on the telephone.'
'Oh, yes. I was expecting a long-distance call, Lady Wetherby, andleft word I would be here. Will you excuse me?'
Lady Wetherby watched him as he bustled across the room.
'What do you think of him, Claire?'
'Mr Pickering? I think he's very nice.'
'He admires you frantically. I hoped he would. That's why I wantedyou to come over on the same ship with him.'
'Polly! I had no notion you were such a schemer.'
'I would just love to see you two fix it up,' continued LadyWetherby, earnestly. 'He may not be what you might call a genius,but he's a darned good sort; and all his millions help, don'tthey? You don't want to overlook these millions, Claire!'
'I do like Mr Pickering.'
'Claire, he asked me if you were engaged.'
'What!'
'When I told him you weren't, he beamed. Honestly, you've only gotto lift your little finger and--Oh, good Lord, there's Algie!'
Claire looked up. A dapper, trim little man of about forty wasthreading his way among the tables in their direction. It was ayear since Claire had seen Lord Wetherby, but she recognized himat once. He had a red, weather-beaten face with a suspicion ofside-whiskers, small, pink-rimmed eyes with sandy eyebrows, thesmoothest of sandy hair, and a chin so cleanly shaven that it wasdifficult to believe that hair had ever grown there. Although hisevening-dress was perfect in every detail, he conveyed a subtlesuggestion of horsiness. He reached the table and sat down withoutinvitation in the vacant chair.
'Pauline!' he said, sorrowfully.
'Algie!' said Lady Wetherby, tensely. 'I don't know what you'vecome here for, and I don't remember asking you to sit down and putyour elbows on that table, but I want to begin by saying that Iwill not be called Pauline. My name's Polly. You've got a way ofsaying Pauline, as if it were a gentlemanly cuss-word, that makesme want to scream. And while you're about it, why don't you sayhow-d'you-do to Claire? You ought to remember her, she was mybridesmaid.'
'How do you do, Miss Fenwick. Of course, I remember you perfectly.I'm glad to see you again.'
'And now, Algie, what is it? Why have you come here?' LordWetherby looked doubtfully at Claire. 'Oh, that's all right,' saidLady Wetherby. 'Claire knows all about it--I told her.'
'Then I appeal to Miss Fenwick, if, as you say, she knows all thefacts of the case, to say whether it is reasonable to expect a manof my temperament, a nervous, highly-strung artist, to welcome thepresence of snakes at the breakfast-table. I trust that I am notan unreasonable man, but I decline to admit that a long, greensnake is a proper thing to keep about the house.'
'You had no right to strike the poor thing.'
'In that one respect I was perhaps a little hasty. I happened tobe stirring my tea at the moment his head rose above the edge ofthe table. I was not entirely myself that morning. My nerves weresomewhat disordered. I had lain awake much of the night planning acanvas.'
'Planning a what?'
'A canvas--a picture.'
Lady Wetherby turned to Claire.
'I want you to listen to Algie, Claire. A year ago he did not knowone end of a paint-brush from the other. He didn't know he had anynerves. If you had brought him the artistic temperament on a platewith a bit of watercress round it, he wouldn't have recognized it.And now, just because he's got a studio, he thinks he has a rightto go up in the air if you speak to him suddenly and run about theplace hitting snakes with teaspoons as if he were Michelangelo!'
'You do me an injustice. It is true that as an artist I developedlate--But why should we quarrel? If it will help to pave the wayto a renewed understanding between us, I am prepared to apologizefor striking Clarence. That is conciliatory, I think, MissFenwick?'
'Very.'
'Miss Fenwick considers my attitude conciliatory.'
'It's something,' admitted Lady Wetherby, grudgingly.
Lord Wetherby drained the whisky-and-soda which Dudley Pickeringhad left behind him, and seemed to draw strength from it, for henow struck a firmer note.
'But, though expressing regret for my momentary loss of self-control,I cannot recede from the position I have taken up as regards theessential unfitness of Clarence's presence in the home.'
Lady Wetherby looked despairingly at Claire.
'The very first words I heard Algie speak, Claire, were atNewmarket during the three o'clock race one May afternoon. He washanging over the rail, yelling like an Indian, and what he wasyelling was, "Come on, you blighter, come on! By the living jingo,Brickbat wins in a walk!" And now he's talking about receding fromessential positions! Oh, well, he wasn't an artist then!'
'My dear Pau--Polly. I am purposely picking my words on thepresent occasion in order to prevent the possibility of furthermisunderstandings. I consider myself an ambassador.'
'You would be shocked if you knew what I consider you!'
'I am endeavouring to the best of my ability--'
'Algie, listen to me! I am quite calm at present, but there's noknowing how soon I may hit you with a chair if you don't come toearth quick and talk like an ordinary human being. What is it thatyou are driving at?'
'Very well, it's this: I'll come home if you get rid of thatsnake.'
'Never!'
'It's surely not much to ask of you, Polly?'
'I won't!'
Lord Wetherby sighed.
'When I led you to the altar,' he said, reproachfully, 'youpromised to love, honour, and obey me. I thought at the time itwas a bit of swank!'
Lady Wetherby's manner thawed. She became more friendly.
'When you talk like that, Algie, I feel there's hope for you afterall. That's how you used to talk in the dear old days when you'dcome to me to borrow half-a-crown to put on a horse! Listen, nowthat at last you seem to be getting more reasonable; I wish Icould make you understand that I don't keep Clarence for sheerlove of him. He's a commercial asset. He's an advertisement. Youmust know that I have got to have something to--'
'I admit that may be so as regards the monkey, Eustace. Monkeys asaids to publicity have, I believe, been tested and found valuableby other artistes. I am prepared to accept Eustace, but the snakeis worthless.'
'Oh, you don't object to Eustace, then?'
'I do strongly, but I concede his uses.'
'You would live in the same house as Eustace?'
'I would endeavour to do so. But not in the same house as Eustaceand Clarence.'
There was a pause.
'I don't know that I'm so stuck on Clarence myself,' said LadyWetherby, weakly.
'My darling!'
'Wait a minute. I've not said I would get rid of him.'
'But you will?'
Lady Wetherby's hesitation lasted but a moment. 'All right, Algie.I'll send him to the Zoo to-morrow.'
'My precious pet!'
A hand, reaching under the table, enveloped Claire's in a lovingclasp.
From the look on Lord Wetherby's face she supposed that he wasunder the delusion that he was bestowing this attention on hiswife.
'You know, Algie, darling,' said Lady Wetherby, melting completely,'when you get that yearning note in your voice I just flop and takethe full count.'
'My sweetheart, when I saw you doing that Dream ofWhat's-the-girl's-bally-name dance just now, it was all I coulddo to keep from rushing out on to the floor and hugging you.'
'Algie!'
'Polly!'
'Do you mind letting go of my hand, please, Lord Wetherby?' saidClaire, on whom these saccharine exchanges were beginning to havea cloying effect.
For a moment Lord Wetherby seemed somewhat confused, but, pullinghimself together, he covered his embarrassment with a pompos
itythat blended poorly with his horsy appearance.
'Married life, Miss Fenwick,' he said, 'as you will no doubtdiscover some day, must always be a series of mutual compromises,of cheerful give and take. The lamp of love--'
His remarks were cut short by a crash at the other end of theroom. There was a sharp cry and the splintering of glass. Theplace was full of a sudden, sharp confusion. They jumped up withone accord. Lady Wetherby spilled her iced coffee; Lord Wetherbydropped the lamp of love. Claire, who was nearest the pillar thatseparated them from the part of the restaurant where the accidenthad happened, was the first to see what had taken place.
A large man, dancing with a large girl, appeared to have chargedinto a small waiter, upsetting him and his tray and the contentsof his tray. The various actors in the drama were now engaged insorting themselves out from the ruins. The man had his back towardher, and it seemed to Claire that there was something familiarabout that back. Then he turned, and she recognized Lord Dawlish.
She stood transfixed. For a moment surprise was her only emotion.How came Bill to be in America? Then other feelings blended withher surprise. It is a fact that Lord Dawlish was lookingsingularly uncomfortable.
Claire's eyes travelled from Bill to his partner and took in withone swift feminine glance her large, exuberant blondeness. Thereis no denying that, seen with a somewhat biased eye, the GoodSport resembled rather closely a poster advertising a revue.
Claire returned to her seat. Lord and Lady Wetherby continued totalk, but she allowed them to conduct the conversation without herassistance.
'You're very quiet, Claire,' said Polly.
'I'm thinking.'
'A very good thing, too, so they tell me. I've never tried itmyself. Algie, darling, he was a bad boy to leave his nice home,wasn't he? He didn't deserve to have his hand held.'
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