“He would make such an excellent husband for poor Bridget.”
“Or Gladys. I wonder how old Gladys really is?”
“Such a nice, kind little man.”
“And when one thinks of the sort of men that are married, it does seem such a pity!”
“I wonder why he never has married, because he’s just the sort of man you’d think would have married.”
“I wonder if he ever was in love.”
“Oh, my dear, you don’t mean to tell me that a man has reached the age of forty without ever being in love!”
The ladies would sigh.
“I do hope if ever he does marry, it will be somebody nice. Men are so easily deceived.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised myself a bit if something came of it with Bridget. She’s a dear girl, Bridget—so genuine.”
“Well, I think myself, dear, if it’s anyone, it’s Gladys. I should be so glad to see poor dear Gladys settled.”
The unmarried kept their thoughts more to themselves. Each one, upon reflection, saw ground for thinking that Joseph Loveredge had given proof of feeling preference for herself. The irritating thing was that, on further reflection, it was equally clear that Joseph Loveredge had shown signs of preferring most of the others.
Meanwhile Joseph Loveredge went undisturbed upon his way. At eight o’clock in the morning Joseph’s housekeeper20 entered the room with a cup of tea and a dry biscuit. At eight-fifteen Joseph Loveredge arose and performed complicated exercises on an indiarubber pulley, warranted, if persevered21 in, to bestow22 grace upon the figure and elasticity23 upon the limbs. Joseph Loveredge persevered steadily24, and had done so for years, and was himself contented25 with the result, which, seeing it concerned nobody else, was all that could be desired. At half-past eight on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Joseph Loveredge breakfasted on one cup of tea, brewed26 by himself; one egg, boiled by himself; and two pieces of toast, the first one spread with marmalade, the second with butter. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Joseph Loveredge discarded eggs and ate a rasher of bacon. On Sundays Joseph Loveredge had both eggs and bacon, but then allowed himself half an hour longer for reading the paper. At nine-thirty Joseph Loveredge left the house for the office of the old-established journal of which he was the incorruptible and honoured City editor. At one-forty-five, having left his office at one-thirty, Joseph Loveredge entered the Autolycus Club and sat down to lunch. Everything else in Joseph’s life was arranged with similar preciseness, so far as was possible with the duties of a City editor. Monday evening Joseph spent with musical friends at Brixton. Friday was Joseph’s theatre night. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he was open to receive invitations out to dinner; on Wednesdays and Saturdays he invited four friends to dine with him at Regent’s Park. On Sundays, whatever the season, Joseph Loveredge took an excursion into the country. He had his regular hours for reading, his regular hours for thinking. Whether in Fleet Street, or the Tyrol, on the Thames, or in the Vatican, you might recognise him from afar by his grey frock-coat, his patent-leather boots, his brown felt hat, his lavender tie. The man was a born bachelor. When the news of his engagement crept through the smoky portals of the Autolycus Club nobody believed it.
“Impossible!” asserted Jack27 Herring. “I’ve known Joey’s life for fifteen years. Every five minutes is arranged for. He could never have found the time to do it.”
“He doesn’t like women, not in that way; I’ve heard him say so,” explained Alexander the Poet. “His opinion is that women are the artists of Society—delightful as entertainers, but troublesome to live with.”
“I call to mind,” said the Wee Laddie, “a story he told me in this verra room, barely three months agone: Some half a dozen of them were gong home together from the Devonshire. They had had a joyous29 evening, and one of them—Joey did not notice which—suggested their dropping in at his place just for a final whisky. They were laughing and talking in the dining-room, when their hostess suddenly appeared upon the scene in a costume—so Joey described it—the charm of which was its variety. She was a nice-looking woman, Joey said, but talked too much; and when the first lull30 occurred, Joey turned to the man sitting nighest to him, and who looked bored, and suggested in a whisper that it was about time they went.
“‘Perhaps you had better go,’ assented31 the bored-looking man. ‘Wish I could come with you; but, you see, I live here.’”
“I don’t believe it,” said Somerville the Briefless. “He’s been cracking his jokes, and some silly woman has taken him seriously.”
But the rumour32 grew into report, developed detail, lost all charm, expanded into plain recital33 of fact. Joey had not been seen within the Club for more than a week—in itself a deadly confirmation34. The question became: Who was she—what was she like?
“It’s none of our set, or we should have heard something from her side before now,” argued acutely Somerville the Briefless.
“Some beastly kid who will invite us to dances and forget the supper,” feared Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called the Babe. “Old men always fall in love with young girls.”
“Forty,” explained severely35 Peter Hope, editor and part proprietor36 of Good Humour, “is not old.”
“Well, it isn’t young,” persisted Johnny.
“Good thing for you, Johnny, if it is a girl,” thought Jack Herring. “Somebody for you to play with. I often feel sorry for you, having nobody but grown-up people to talk to.”
“I am hoping,” said Peter, “it will be some sensible, pleasant woman, a little over thirty. He is a dear fellow, Loveredge; and forty is a very good age for a man to marry.”
“Well, if I’m not married before I’m forty—” said the Babe.
“Oh, don’t you fret,” Jack Herring interrupted him—“a pretty boy like you! We will give a ball next season, and bring you out, if you’re good—get you off our hands in no time.”
It was August. Joey went away for his holiday without again entering the Club. The lady’s name was Henrietta Elizabeth Doone. It was said by the Morning Post that she was connected with the Doones of Gloucestershire.
Doones of Gloucestershire—Doones of Gloucestershire mused38 Miss Ramsbotham, Society journalist, who wrote the weekly Letter to Clorinda, discussing the matter with Peter Hope in the editorial office of Good Humour. “Knew a Doon who kept a big second-hand39 store in Euston Road and called himself an auctioneer. He bought a small place in Gloucestershire and added an ‘e’ to his name. Wonder if it’s the same?”
“I had a cat called Elizabeth once,” said Peter Hope.
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”
“No, of course not,” agreed Peter. “But I was rather fond of it. It was a quaint40 sort of animal, considered as a cat—would never speak to another cat, and hated being out after ten o’clock at night.”
“What happened to it?” demanded Miss Ramsbotham.
“Fell off a roof,” sighed Peter Hope. “Wasn’t used to them.”
The marriage took place abroad, at the English Church at Montreux. Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge returned at the end of September. The Autolycus Club subscribed41 to send a present of a punch-bowl, left cards, and waited with curiosity to see the bride. But no invitation arrived. Nor for a month was Joey himself seen within the Club. Then, one foggy afternoon, waking after a doze28, with a cold cigar in his mouth, Jack Herring noticed he was not the only occupant of the smoking-room. In a far corner, near a window, sat Joseph Loveredge reading a magazine. Jack Herring rubbed his eyes, then rose and crossed the room.
“I thought at first,” explained Jack Herring, recounting the incident later in the evening, “that I must be dreaming. There he sat, drinking his five o’clock whisky-and-soda, the same Joey Loveredge I had known for fifteen years; yet not the same. Not a feature altered, not a hair on his head changed, yet the whole face was different; the same body, the same clothes, but another man. We talked for half an hour; he remembered everything that Joey Loveredge had known. I couldn’t understand it. Then, as the clock struck, and he rose, saying he must be home at half-past five, the explanation suddenly occurred to me: Joey Loveredge was dead; this was a married man.”
“We don’t want your feeble efforts at psychological romance,” told him Somerville the Briefless. “We want to know what you talked about. Dead or married, the man who can drink whisky-and-soda must be held responsible for his actions. What’s the little beggar mean by cutting us all in this way? Did he ask after any of us? Did he leave any message for any of us? Did he invite any of us to come an see him?”
“Yes, he did ask after nearly everybody; I was coming to that. But he didn’t leave any message. I didn’t gather that he was pining for old relationships with any of us.”
“Well, I shall go round to the office to-morrow morning,” said Somerville the Briefless, “and force my way in if necessary. This is getting mysterious.”
But Somerville returned only to puzzle the Autolycus Club still further. Joey had talked about the weather, the state of political parties, had received with unfeigned interest all gossip concerning his old friends; but about himself, his wife, nothing had been gleaned43. Mrs. Loveredge was well; Mrs. Loveredge’s relations were also well. But at present Mrs. Loveredge was not receiving.
Members of the Autolycus Club with time upon their hands took up the business of private detectives. Mrs. Loveredge turned out to be a handsome, well-dressed lady of about thirty, as Peter Hope had desired. At eleven in the morning, Mrs. Loveredge shopped in the neighbourhood of the Hampstead Road. In the afternoon, Mrs. Loveredge, in a hired carriage, would slowly promenade44 the Park, looking, it was noticed, with intense interest at the occupants of other carriages as they passed, but evidently having no acquaintances among them. The carriage, as a general rule, would call at Joey’s office at five, and Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge would drive home. Jack Herring, as the oldest friend, urged by the other members, took the bull by the horns and called boldly. On neither occasion was Mrs. Loveredge at home.
“I’m damned if I go again!” said Jack. “She was in the second time, I know. I watched her into the house. Confound the stuck-up pair of them!”
Bewilderment gave place to indignation. Now and again Joey would creep, a mental shadow of his former self, into the Club where once every member would have risen with a smile to greet him. They gave him curt45 answers and turned away from him. Peter Hope one afternoon found him there alone, standing46 with his hands in his pockets looking out of window. Peter was fifty, so he said, maybe a little older; men of forty were to him mere47 boys. So Peter, who hated mysteries, stepped forward with a determined48 air and clapped Joey on the shoulder.
“I want to know, Joey,” said Peter, “I want to know whether I am to go on liking49 you, or whether I’ve got to think poorly of you. Out with it.”
Joey turned to him a face so full of misery50 that Peter’s heart was touched. “You can’t tell how wretched it makes me,” said Joey. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel so uncomfortable as I have felt during these last three months.”
“It’s the wife, I suppose?” suggested Peter.
“She’s a dear girl. She only has one fault.”
“It’s a pretty big one,” returned Peter. “I should try and break her of it if I were you.”
“Break her of it!” cried the little man. “You might as well advise me to break a brick wall with my head. I had no idea what they were like. I never dreamt it.”
“But what is her objection to us? We are clean, we are fairly intelligent—”
“My dear Peter, do you think I haven’t said all that, and a hundred things more? A woman! she gets an idea into her head, and every argument against it hammers it in further. She has gained her notion of what she calls Bohemia from the comic journals. It’s our own fault, we have done it ourselves. There’s no persuading her that it’s a libel.”
“Won’t she see a few of us—judge for herself? There’s Porson—why Porson might have been a bishop51. Or Somerville—Somerville’s Oxford52 accent is wasted here. It has no chance.”
“It isn’t only that,” explained Joey; “she has ambitions, social ambitions. She thinks that if we begin with the wrong set, we’ll never get into the right. We have three friends at present, and, so far as I can see, are never likely to have any more. My dear boy, you’d never believe there could exist such bores. There’s a man and his wife named Holyoake. They dine with us on Thursdays, and we dine with them on Tuesdays. Their only title to existence consists in their having a cousin in the House of Lords; they claim no other right themselves. He is a widower53, getting on for eighty. Apparently54 he’s the only relative they have, and when he dies, they talk of retiring into the country. There’s a fellow named Cutler, who visited once at Marlborough House in connection with a charity. You’d think to listen to him that he had designs upon the throne. The most tiresome55 of them all is a noisy woman who, as far as I can make out, hasn’t any name at all. ‘Miss Montgomery’ is on her cards, but that is only what she calls herself. Who she really is! It would shake the foundations of European society if known. We sit and talk about the aristocracy; we don’t seem to know anybody else. I tried on one occasion a little sarcasm56 as a corrective—recounted conversations between myself and the Prince of Wales, in which I invariably addressed him as ‘Teddy.’ It sounds tall, I know, but those people took it in. I was too astonished to undeceive them at the time, the consequence is I am a sort of little god to them. They come round me and ask for more. What am I to do? I am helpless among them. I’ve never had anything to do before with the really first-prize idiot; the usual type, of course, one knows, but these, if you haven’t met them, are inconceivable. I try insulting them; they don’t even know I am insulting them. Short of dragging them out of their chairs and kicking them round the room, I don’t see how to make them understand it.”
“And Mrs. Loveredge?” asked the sympathetic Peter, “is she—”
“Between ourselves,” said Joey, sinking his voice to a needless whisper, seeing he and Peter were the sole occupants of the smoking-room—“I couldn’t, of course, say it to a younger man—but between ourselves, my wife is a charming woman. You don’t know her.”
“Doesn’t seem much chance of my ever doing so,” laughed Peter.
“So graceful57, so dignified58, so—so queenly,” continued the little man, with rising enthusiasm. “She has only one fault—she has no sense of humour.”
To Peter, as it has been said, men of forty were mere boys.
“My dear fellow, whatever could have induced you—”
“I know—I know all that,” interrupted the mere boy. “Nature arranges it on purpose. Tall and solemn prigs marry little women with turned-up noses. Cheerful little fellows like myself—we marry serious, stately women. If it were otherwise, the human race would be split up into species.”
“Of course, if you were actuated by a sense of public duty—”
“Don’t be a fool, Peter Hope,” returned the little man. “I’m in love with my wife just as she is, and always shall be. I know the woman with a sense of humour, and of the two I prefer the one without. The Juno type is my ideal. I must take the rough with the smooth. One can’t have a jolly, chirpy Juno, and wouldn’t care for her if one could.”
“Then are you going to give up all your old friends?”
“Don’t suggest it,” pleaded the little man. “You don’t know how miserable59 it makes me—the mere idea. Tell them to be patient. The secret of dealing60 with women, I have found, is to do nothing rashly.” The clock struck five. “I must go now,” said Joey. “Don’t misjudge her, Peter, and don’t let the others. She’s a dear girl. You’ll like her, all of you, when you know her. A dear girl! She only has that one fault.”
Joey went out.
Peter did his best that evening to explain the true position of affairs without imputing61 snobbery62 to Mrs. Loveredge. It was a difficult task, and Peter cannot be said to have accomplished63 it successfully. Anger and indignation against Joey gave place to pity. The members of the Autolycus Club also experienced a little irritation64 on their own account.
“What does the woman take us for?” demanded Somerville the Briefless. “Doesn’t she know that we lunch with real actors and actresses, that once a year we are invited to dine at the Mansion65 House?”
“Has she never heard of the aristocracy of genius?” demanded Alexander the Poet.
“The explanation may be that possibly she has seen it,” feared the Wee Laddie.
“One of us ought to waylay66 the woman,” argued the Babe—“insist upon her talking to him for ten minutes. I’ve half a mind to do it myself.”
Jack Herring said nothing—seemed thoughtful.
The next morning Jack Herring, still thoughtful, called at the editorial offices of Good Humour, in Crane Court, and borrowed Miss Ramsbotham’s Debrett. Three days later Jack Herring informed the Club casually67 that he had dined the night before with Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge. The Club gave Jack Herring politely to understand that they regarded him as a liar68, and proceeded to demand particulars.
“If I wasn’t there,” explained Jack Herring, with unanswerable logic42, “how can I tell you anything about it?”
This annoyed the Club, whose curiosity had been whetted69. Three members, acting70 in the interests of the whole, solemnly undertook to believe whatever he might tell them. But Jack Herring’s feelings had been wounded.
“When gentlemen cast a doubt upon another gentleman’s veracity—”
“We didn’t cast a doubt,” explained Somerville the Briefless. “We merely said that we personally did not believe you. We didn’t say we couldn’t believe you; it is a case for individual effort. If you give us particulars bearing the impress of reality, supported by details that do not unduly71 contradict each other, we are prepared to put aside our natural suspicions and face the possibility of your statement being correct.”
“It was foolish of me,” said Jack Herring. “I thought perhaps it would amuse you to hear what sort of a woman Mrs. Loveredge was like—some description of Mrs. Loveredge’s uncle. Miss Montgomery, friend of Mrs. Loveredge, is certainly one of the most remarkable72 women I have ever met. Of course, that isn’t her real name. But, as I have said, it was foolish of me. These people—you will never meet them, you will never see them; of what interest can they be to you?”
“They had forgotten to draw down the blinds, and he climbed up a lamp-post and looked through the window,” was the solution of the problem put forward by the Wee Laddie.
“I’m dining there again on Saturday,” volunteered Jack Herring. “If any of you will promise not to make a disturbance73, you can hang about on the Park side, underneath74 the shadow of the fence, and watch me go in. My hansom will draw up at the door within a few minutes of eight.”
The Babe and the Poet agreed to undertake the test.
“You won’t mind our hanging round a little while, in case you’re thrown out again?” asked the Babe.
“Not in the least, so far as I am concerned,” replied Jack Herring. “Don’t leave it too late and make your mother anxious.”
“It’s true enough,” the Babe recounted afterwards. “The door was opened by a manservant and he went straight in. We walked up and down for half an hour, and unless they put him out the back way, he’s telling the truth.”
“Did you hear him give his name?” asked Somerville, who was stroking his moustache.
“No, we were too far off,” explained the Babe. “But—I’ll swear it was Jack—there couldn’t be any mistake about that.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Somerville the Briefless.
Somerville the Briefless called at the offices of Good Humour, in Crane Court, the following morning, and he also borrowed Miss Ramsbotham’s Debrett.
“What’s the meaning of it?” demanded the sub-editor.
“Meaning of what?”
“This sudden interest of all you fellows in the British Peerage.”
“All of us?”
“Well, Herring was here last week, poring over that book for half an hour, with the Morning Post spread out before him. Now you’re doing the same thing.”
“Ah! Jack Herring, was he? I thought as much. Don’t talk about it, Tommy. I’ll tell you later on.”
On the following Monday, the Briefless one announced to the Club that he had received an invitation to dine at the Loveredges’ on the following Wednesday. On Tuesday, the Briefless one entered the Club with a slow and stately step. Halting opposite old Goslin the porter, who had emerged from his box with the idea of discussing the Oxford and Cambridge boat race, Somerville, removing his hat with a sweep of the arm, held it out in silence. Old Goslin, much astonished, took it mechanically, whereupon the Briefless one, shaking himself free from his Inverness cape75, flung it lightly after the hat, and strolled on, not noticing that old Goslin, unaccustomed to coats lightly and elegantly thrown at him, dropping the hat, had caught it on his head, and had been, in the language of the prompt-book, “left struggling.” The Briefless one, entering the smoking-room, lifted a chair and let it fall again with a crash, and sitting down upon it, crossed his legs and rang the bell.
“Ye’re doing it verra weel,” remarked approvingly the Wee Laddie. “Ye’re just fitted for it by nature.”
“Fitted for what?” demanded the Briefless one, waking up apparently from a dream.
“For an Adelphi guest at eighteenpence the night,” assured him the Wee Laddie. “Ye’re just splendid at it.”
The Briefless one, muttering that the worst of mixing with journalists was that if you did not watch yourself, you fell into their ways, drank his whisky in silence. Later, the Babe swore on a copy of Sell’s Advertising76 Guide that, crossing the Park, he had seen the Briefless one leaning over the railings of Rotten Row, clad in a pair of new kid gloves, swinging a silver-headed cane77.
One morning towards the end of the week, Joseph Loveredge, looking twenty years younger than when Peter had last seen him, dropped in at the editorial office of Good Humour and demanded of Peter Hope how he felt and what he thought of the present price of Emma Mines.
“I want you to dine with us on Sunday,” said Joseph Loveredge. “Jack Herring will be there. You might bring Tommy with you.”
Peter Hope gulped79 down his astonishment80 and said he should be delighted; he thought that Tommy also was disengaged. “Mrs. Loveredge out of town, I presume?” questioned Peter Hope.
“On the contrary,” replied Joseph Loveredge, “I want you to meet her.”
Joseph Loveredge removed a pile of books from one chair and placed them carefully upon another, after which he went and stood before the fire.
“Don’t if you don’t like,” said Joseph Loveredge; “but if you don’t mind, you might call yourself, just for the evening—say, the Duke of Warrington.”
“Say the what?” demanded Peter Hope.
“The Duke of Warrington,” repeated Joey. “We are rather short of dukes. Tommy can be the Lady Adelaide, your daughter.”
“I’m not an ass,” assured him Joseph Loveredge. “He is wintering in Egypt. You have run back for a week to attend to business. There is no Lady Adelaide, so that’s quite simple.”
“But what in the name of—” began Peter Hope.
“Don’t you see what I’m driving at?” persisted Joey. “It was Jack’s idea at the beginning. I was frightened myself at first, but it is working to perfection. She sees you, and sees that you are a gentleman. When the truth comes out—as, of course, it must later on—the laugh will be against her.”
“You think—you think that’ll comfort her?” suggested Peter Hope.
“It’s the only way, and it is really wonderfully simple. We never mention the aristocracy now—it would be like talking shop. We just enjoy ourselves. You, by the way, I met in connection with the movement for rational dress. You are a bit of a crank, fond of frequenting Bohemian circles.”
“I am risking something, I know,” continued Joey; “but it’s worth it. I couldn’t have existed much longer. We go slowly, and are very careful. Jack is Lord Mount-Primrose, who has taken up with anti-vaccination and who never goes out into Society. Somerville is Sir Francis Baldwin, the great authority on centipedes. The Wee Laddie is coming next week as Lord Garrick, who married that dancing-girl, Prissy Something, and started a furniture shop in Bond Street. I had some difficulty at first. She wanted to send out paragraphs, but I explained that was only done by vulgar persons—that when the nobility came to you as friends, it was considered bad taste. She is a dear girl, as I have always told you, with only one fault. A woman easier to deceive one could not wish for. I don’t myself see why the truth ever need come out—provided we keep our heads.”
“The more of us the better,” explained Joey; “we help each other. Besides, I particularly want you in it. There’s a sort of superior Pickwickian atmosphere surrounding you that disarms82 suspicion.”
“See here,” laughed Joey; “you come as the Duke of Warrington, and bring Tommy with you, and I’ll write your City article.”
“For how long?” snapped Peter. Incorruptible City editors are not easily picked up.
“Oh, well, for as long as you like.”
“On that understanding,” agreed Peter, “I’m willing to make a fool of myself in your company.”
“You’ll soon get used to it,” Joey told him; “eight o’clock, then, on Sunday; plain evening dress. If you like to wear a bit of red ribbon in your buttonhole, why, do so. You can get it at Evans’, in Covent Garden.”
“And Tommy is the Lady—”
“Adelaide. Let her have a taste for literature, then she needn’t wear gloves. I know she hates them.” Joey turned to go.
“Am I married?” asked Peter.
Joey paused. “I should avoid all reference to your matrimonial affairs if I were you,” was Joey’s advice. “You didn’t come out of that business too well.”
“Oh! as bad as that, was I? You don’t think Mrs. Loveredge will object to me?”
“I have asked her that. She’s a dear, broad-minded girl. I’ve promised not to leave you alone with Miss Montgomery, and Willis has had instructions not to let you mix your drinks.”
“We rather wanted a duke,” explained Joey, “and he was the only one that fitted in all round.”
The dinner a was a complete success. Tommy, entering into the spirit of the thing, bought a new pair of open-work stockings and assumed a languid drawl. Peter, who was growing forgetful, introduced her as the Lady Alexandra; it did not seem to matter, both beginning with an A. She greeted Lord Mount-Primrose as “Billy,” and asked affectionately after his mother. Joey told his raciest stories. The Duke of Warrington called everybody by their Christian85 names, and seemed well acquainted with Bohemian society—a more amiable86 nobleman it would have been impossible to discover. The lady whose real name was not Miss Montgomery sat in speechless admiration. The hostess was the personification of gracious devotion.
Other little dinners, equally successful, followed. Joey’s acquaintanceship appeared to be confined exclusively to the higher circles of the British aristocracy—with one exception: that of a German baron87, a short, stout88 gentleman, who talked English well, but with an accent, and who, when he desired to be impressive, laid his right forefinger89 on the right side of his nose and thrust his whole face forward. Mrs. Loveredge wondered why her husband had not introduced them sooner, but was too blissful to be suspicious. The Autolycus Club was gradually changing its tone. Friends could no longer recognise one another by the voice. Every corner had its solitary90 student practising high-class intonation91. Members dropped into the habit of addressing one another as “dear chappie,” and, discarding pipes, took to cheap cigars. Many of the older habitués resigned.
All might have gone well to the end of time if only Mrs. Loveredge had left all social arrangements in the hands of her husband—had not sought to aid his efforts. To a certain political garden-party, one day in the height of the season, were invited Joseph Loveredge and Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, his wife. Mr. Joseph Loveredge at the last moment found himself unable to attend. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge went alone, met there various members of the British aristocracy. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, accustomed to friendship with the aristocracy, felt at her ease and was natural and agreeable. The wife of an eminent92 peer talked to her and liked her. It occurred to Mrs. Joseph Loveredge that this lady might be induced to visit her house in Regent’s Park, there to mingle93 with those of her own class.
“Lord Mount-Primrose, the Duke of Warrington, and a few others will be dining with us on Sunday next,” suggested Mrs. Loveredge. “Will not you do us the honour of coming? We are, of course, only simple folk ourselves, but somehow people seem to like us.”
The wife of the eminent peer looked at Mrs. Loveredge, looked round the grounds, looked at Mrs. Loveredge again, and said she would like to come. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge intended at first to tell her husband of her success, but a little devil entering into her head and whispering to her that it would be amusing, she resolved to keep it as a surprise, to be sprung upon him at eight o’clock on Sunday. The surprise proved all she could have hoped for.
The Duke of Warrington, having journalistic matters to discuss with Joseph Loveredge, arrived at half-past seven, wearing on his shirt-front a silver star, purchased in Eagle Street the day before for eight-and-six. There accompanied him the Lady Alexandra, wearing the identical ruby94 necklace that every night for the past six months, and twice on Saturdays, “John Strongheart” had been falsely accused of stealing. Lord Garrick, having picked up his wife (Miss Ramsbotham) outside the Mother Redcap, arrived with her on foot at a quarter to eight. Lord Mount-Primrose, together with Sir Francis Baldwin, dashed up in a hansom at seven-fifty. His Lordship, having lost the toss, paid the fare. The Hon. Harry95 Sykes (commonly called “the Babe”) was ushered96 in five minutes later. The noble company assembled in the drawing-room chatted blithely97 while waiting for dinner to be announced. The Duke of Warrington was telling an anecdote98 about a cat, which nobody appeared to believe. Lord Mount-Primrose desired to know whether by any chance it might be the same animal that every night at half-past nine had been in the habit of climbing up his Grace’s railings and knocking at his Grace’s door. The Honourable99 Harry was saying that, speaking of cats, he once had a sort of terrier—when the door was thrown open and Willis announced the Lady Mary Sutton.
Mr. Joseph Loveredge, who was sitting near the fire, rose up. Lord Mount-Primrose, who was standing near the piano, sat down. The Lady Mary Sutton paused in the doorway100. Mrs. Loveredge crossed the room to greet her.
“Let me introduce you to my husband,” said Mrs. Loveredge. “Joey, my dear, the Lady Mary Sutton. I met the Lady Mary at the O’Meyers’ the other day, and she was good enough to accept my invitation. I forgot to tell you.”
Mr. Loveredge said he was delighted; after which, although as a rule a chatty man, he seemed to have nothing else to say. And a silence fell.
Somerville the Briefless—till then. That evening has always been reckoned the starting-point of his career. Up till then nobody thought he had much in him—walked up and held out his hand.
“You don’t remember me, Lady Mary,” said the Briefless one. “I met you some years ago; we had a most interesting conversation—Sir Francis Baldwin.”
The Lady Mary stood for a moment trying apparently to recollect101. She was a handsome, fresh-complexioned woman of about forty, with frank, agreeable eyes. The Lady Mary glanced at Lord Garrick, who was talking rapidly to Lord Mount-Primrose, who was not listening, and who could not have understood even if he had been, Lord Garrick, without being aware of it, having dropped into broad Scotch102. From him the Lady Mary glanced at her hostess, and from her hostess to her host.
The Lady Mary took the hand held out to her. “Of course,” said the Lady Mary; “how stupid of me! It was the day of my own wedding, too. You really must forgive me. We talked of quite a lot of things. I remember now.”
Mrs. Loveredge, who prided herself upon maintaining old-fashioned courtesies, proceeded to introduce the Lady Mary to her fellow-guests, a little surprised that her ladyship appeared to know so few of them. Her ladyship’s greeting of the Duke of Warrington was accompanied, it was remarked, by a somewhat curious smile. To the Duke of Warrington’s daughter alone did the Lady Mary address remark.
“My dear,” said the Lady Mary, “how you have grown since last we met!”
The announcement of dinner, as everybody felt, came none too soon.
It was not a merry feast. Joey told but one story; he told it three times, and twice left out the point. Lord Mount-Primrose took sifted103 sugar with pâtè de foie gras and ate it with a spoon. Lord Garrick, talking a mixture of Scotch and English, urged his wife to give up housekeeping and take a flat in Gower Street, which, as he pointed104 out, was central. She could have her meals sent in to her and so avoid all trouble. The Lady Alexandra’s behaviour appeared to Mrs. Loveredge not altogether well-bred. An eccentric young noblewoman Mrs. Loveredge had always found her, but wished on this occasion that she had been a little less eccentric. Every few minutes the Lady Alexandra buried her face in her serviette, and shook and rocked, emitting stifled105 sounds, apparently those of acute physical pain. Mrs. Loveredge hoped she was not feeling ill, but the Lady Alexandra appeared incapable106 of coherent reply. Twice during the meal the Duke of Warrington rose from the table and began wandering round the room; on each occasion, asked what he wanted, had replied meekly107 that he was merely looking for his snuff-box, and had sat down again. The only person who seemed to enjoy the dinner was the Lady Mary Sutton.
The ladies retired108 upstairs into the drawing-room. Mrs. Loveredge, breaking a long silence, remarked it as unusual that no sound of merriment reached them from the dining-room. The explanation was that the entire male portion of the party, on being left to themselves, had immediately and in a body crept on tiptoe into Joey’s study, which, fortunately, happened to be on the ground floor. Joey, unlocking the bookcase, had taken out his Debrett, but appeared incapable of understanding it. Sir Francis Baldwin had taken it from his unresisting hands; the remaining aristocracy huddled109 themselves into a corner and waited in silence.
“I think I’ve got it all clearly,” announced Sir Francis Baldwin, after five minutes, which to the others had been an hour. “Yes, I don’t think I’m making any mistake. She’s the daughter of the Duke of Truro, married in ’53 the Duke of Warrington, at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square; gave birth in ’55 to a daughter, the Lady Grace Alexandra Warberton Sutton, which makes the child just thirteen. In ’63 divorced the Duke of Warrington. Lord Mount-Primrose, so far as I can make out, must be her second cousin. I appear to have married her in ’66 at Hastings. It doesn’t seem to me that we could have got together a homelier little party to meet her even if we had wanted to.”
Nobody spoke110; nobody had anything particularly worth saying. The door opened, and the Lady Alexandra (otherwise Tommy) entered the room.
“Isn’t it time,” suggested the Lady Alexandra, “that some of you came upstairs?”
“I was thinking myself,” explained Joey, the host, with a grim smile, “it was about time that I went out and drowned myself. The canal is handy.”
“Put it off till to-morrow,” Tommy advised him. “I have asked her ladyship to give me a lift home, and she has promised to do so. She is evidently a woman with a sense of humour. Wait till after I have had a talk with her.”
Six men, whispering at the same time, were prepared with advice; but Tommy was not taking advice.
“Come upstairs, all of you,” insisted Tommy, “and make yourselves agreeable. She’s going in a quarter of an hour.”
Six silent men, the host leading, the two husbands bringing up the rear, ascended111 the stairs, each with the sensation of being twice his usual weight. Six silent men entered the drawing-room and sat down on chairs. Six silent men tried to think of something interesting to say.
Miss Ramsbotham—it was that or hysterics, as she afterwards explained—stifling a sob9, opened the piano. But the only thing she could remember was “Champagne Charlie is my Name,” a song then popular in the halls. Five men, when she had finished, begged her to go on. Miss Ramsbotham, speaking in a shrill112 falsetto, explained it was the only tune113 she knew. Four of them begged her to play it again. Miss Ramsbotham played it a second time with involuntary variations.
The Lady Mary’s carriage was announced by the imperturbable114 Willis. The party, with the exception of the Lady Mary and the hostess, suppressed with difficulty an inclination to burst into a cheer. The Lady Mary thanked Mrs. Loveredge for a most interesting evening, and beckoned115 Tommy to accompany her. With her disappearance116, a wild hilarity117, uncanny in its suddenness, took possession of the remaining guests.
A few days later, the Lady Mary’s carriage again drew up before the little house in Regent’s Park. Mrs. Loveredge, fortunately, was at home. The carriage remained waiting for quite a long time. Mrs. Loveredge, after it was gone, locked herself in her own room. The under-housemaid reported to the kitchen that, passing the door, she had detected sounds indicative of strong emotion.
Through what ordeal118 Joseph Loveredge passed was never known. For a few weeks the Autolycus Club missed him. Then gradually, as aided by Time they have a habit of doing, things righted themselves. Joseph Loveredge received his old friends; his friends received Joseph Loveredge. Mrs. Loveredge, as a hostess, came to have only one failing—a marked coldness of demeanour towards all people with titles, whenever introduced to her.
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1
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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6
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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12
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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14
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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15
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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16
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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18
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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19
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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21
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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24
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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26
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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27
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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28
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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29
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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30
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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31
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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33
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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34
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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35
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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37
stodgy
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| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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39
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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40
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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41
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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42
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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43
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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44
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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45
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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46
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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48
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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49
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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50
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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51
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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52
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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53
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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54
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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55
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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56
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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57
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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58
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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59
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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60
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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61
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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62
snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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63
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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64
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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65
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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67
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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68
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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69
whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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70
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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71
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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72
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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73
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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74
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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75
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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76
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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77
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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78
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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79
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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80
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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81
overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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82
disarms
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| v.裁军( disarm的第三人称单数 )；使息怒 | |
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83
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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84
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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85
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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86
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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87
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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89
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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90
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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91
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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92
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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93
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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94
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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95
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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96
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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98
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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99
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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100
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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101
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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102
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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103
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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104
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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105
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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106
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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107
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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108
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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109
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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110
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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111
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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113
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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114
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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115
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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117
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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118
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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