George Lord Bramleigh, roundest and youngest of men of six-and-twenty, overtaking Jocelyn Lord Gunner in St. James’s-street, tipped him on the shoulder with his stick-handle. Gunner turned, red in the face. “Damn you, Bramleigh, shut up,” he said.
“Couldn’t shut up to save my life, old chap,” his friend replied. “I’m so fit I don’t know what to do with myself. Come back into the Fencing Club and make passes at me.”
Gunner growled, “See you shot first,” and walked on. Bramleigh joined him, humming an air.
“Look here,” said Gunner, after a time. “D’you know a man called Duplessis?”
“Rather,” says Lord Bramleigh. “Go on.”
“That’s what he’s doing,” Lord Gunner mused. “His goings-on are awful. He’ll make the lady talked about—and she don’t deserve it.”
The lady must be named, and Lord Bramleigh whistled at her name. Reminiscences of a morning at San Sebastian came upon him, but were withheld. Lord Gunner poured out his grievances.
“I don’t mind a chap hanging round—not one bit. If I wasn’t hanging round myself a good lot I shouldn’t see it, and shouldn’t much care if I did. There’s nothing in that. Besides, there are plenty of us. But he messes about; that’s what I can’t stand. He messes about. And he seems to think she belongs to him.”
“That’s the way to make her,” said the sapient youth. “That’s his little plan.”
“No, it’s not, my boy,” he was corrected. “You’re off the line. That’s what he really thinks—and, by God, he shows it. He’s like a dog with a bone. He snarls and turns up his lip the moment you come into the place. Or if he comes late and finds any one there—as he mostly does—he sulks. ’Pon my soul, I hate the brute.” The young man tilted back his hat, and looked up at the sky—a pale blue sky, irradiated by the sun and by the burnished copper wires of our affairs. “Where are we now—end of April?—beginning of May? She came to town in February—and here we are in May. I believe he’s only been away from the house for three days on end—and that’s just now when he’s in Paris.”
“You ought to know,” said Bramleigh: the other snorted.
“I do know. He’s up to no good, that chap, I’ll bet you he’s not. He’s not a good sort with women, I happen to know. Now—”
“May a man ask,” Lord Bramleigh interjected, “what you are up to?”
Lord Gunner looked down at him in surprise.
“Oh, you may, Bramleigh. I can stand it from you. I’m all right, you know; I wouldn’t hurt her. She’d have a pretty stiff time of it with old Fowls-of-the-air Germain[A] if it wasn’t for some of us, who go and amuse her. She’s a jolly girl, you know, and she deserves something.”
“Dash it all,” cried Bramleigh, “she got something when she married old Germain. She had nothing at all. I’m told he picked her up in a nursery.” Lord Gunner jerked an angry head.
“Yes, I know, I know. That wasn’t the game, I’ll be shot. Why, any one could have done it! He played the God in the Machine; came bouncing out of the sky, and sent the servant in for her. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but here’s the Archangel Michael come for you. Best clothes, please, shut your eyes, and you’ll be married to-morrow.’ That was the way it was sprung upon her. What was a girl to do but bless her stars, and say she’d be with him directly? Well, and what I say is, If old Fowls-of-the-air finds he ain’t up to the part, he can’t drop it and leave her in the lurch. If he can’t make himself entertaining, he must be helped.”
“That’s what Duplessis says,” Lord Bramleigh supposed. But Gunner could not allow it.
“I beg your pardon. He says, ‘My bread, I believe.’ He’s a grabber. The mischief of it is that I can’t say anything.”
“I think not,” said Bramleigh tersely. “But I know a man who could. Just left him.”
“Who’s your friend, Bramleigh?”
Lord Bramleigh would not be drawn. “Oh—man you wouldn’t know. Not your sort. But the lady knows him.”
“Couldn’t you give him a hint?”
“I could,” said Bramleigh with deliberation. “I could, but”—he looked up at his tall friend—“but if I did, I shouldn’t leave you out, old chap.”
Lord Gunner halted and faced him. “You may say what you please about me. I don’t care what you say.” He looked over to Bond-street. “That’s my road,” he said.
“The way to Hill-street?” asked Bramleigh.
“The way to Hill-street,” he was told.
Lord Bramleigh remained upon the Piccadilly pavement for some minutes, lost in what must be described as thought. His lips were framed for whistling, but no sound came. His eyes stared at nothing in particular. Then he was heard to say, “I’ll do it, by Gad,” and seen to turn on his heel. He walked down the hill again, the way he had come up.
Her life was such a whirl, it may well be that she had no time to wonder whither she was flying. At any rate, she marked neither time nor direction, nor was aware that her friends were remarking on both. If you had checked her suddenly with the question, Was she happy? she would have stared before she answered you, Of course!
From day to day she hardly saw her husband alone. He breakfasted, as of old, in his room; his secretary came at ten, and stayed to luncheon. He had a nap after that, and went down to the House at four. He might return to dinner, he might join her at a party in time to take her home; but by then he would be so tired that he would dro............