The Corinthian

He took her hand. “Have you considered yourself betrothed to me these five years?” he enquired.

For the first time in their interview her eyes failed to meet his. “Certainly,” she replied.

“I see,” said Sir Richard, and took his leave of her.

He put in a belated appearance at Almack’s that evening. No one, admiring his point-de-vice appearance, or listening to his lazy drawl, could have supposed him to be on the eve of making the most momentous decision of his life. Only his uncle, rolling into the club some time after midnight, and observing the dead men at his elbow, guessed that the die had been cast. He told George Trevor, whom he found just rising from the basset-table, that Ricky was taking it hard, a pronouncement which distressed George, and made him say: “I have not exchanged two words with him. Do you tell me he has actually offered for Melissa Brandon?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” said Lucius. “All I say is that he’s drinking hard and plunging deep.”

In great concern, George seized the first opportunity that offered of engaging his brother-in-law’s attention. This was not until close on three o’clock, when Sir Richard at last rose from the pharaoh-table, and Sir Richard was not, by that time, in the mood for private conversation. He had lost quite a large sum of money, and had drunk quite a large quantity of brandy, but neither of these circumstances was troubling him.

“No luck, Ricky?” his uncle asked him.

A somewhat hazy but still perfectly intelligent glance mocked him. “Not at cards, Lucius. But think of the adage!”

George knew that Sir Richard could carry his wine as well as any man of his acquaintance, but a certain reckless note in his voice alarmed him. He plucked at his sleeve, and said in a lowered tone: “I wish you will let me have a word with you!”

“Dear George—my very dear George!” said Sir Richard, amiably smiling. “You must be aware that I am not —quite—sober. No words to-night.”

“I shall come round to see you in the morning, then,” said George, forgetting that it was already morning.

“I shall have the devil of a head,” said Sir Richard.

He made his way out of the club, his curly-brimmed hat at an angle on his head, his ebony cane tucked under one arm. He declined the porter’s offer to call up a chair, remarking sweetly: “I am devilish drunk, and I shall walk.”

The porter grinned. He had seen many gentlemen in all the various stages of inebriety, and he did not think that Sir Richard, who spoke with only the faintest slurring of his words, and who walked with quite wonderful balance, was in very desperate straits. If he had not known Sir Richard well, he would not, he thought, have seen anything amiss with him, beyond his setting off in quite the wrong direction for St James’s Square. He felt constrained to call Sir Richard’s attention to this, but begged pardon when Sir Richard said: “I know. The dawn is calling me, however. I am going for a long, long walk.”

“Quite so, sir,” said the porter, and stepped back.

Sir Richard, his head swimming a little from sudden contact with the cool air, strolled aimlessly away in a northerly direction.

His head cleared after a while. In a detached manner, he reflected that it would probably begin to ache in a short time, and he would feel extremely unwell, and not a little sorry for himself. At the moment, however, while the fumes of brandy still wreathed about his brain, a curious irresponsibility possessed him. He felt reckless, remote, divorced from his past and his future. The dawn was spreading a grey light over the quiet streets, and the breeze fanning his cheeks was cool, and fresh enough to make him glad of his light evening cloak. He wandered into Brook Street, and laughed up at the shuttered windows of Saar’s house. “My gentle bride!” he said, and kissed his fingers in the direction of the house. “God, what a damned fool I am!”

He repeated this, vaguely pleased with the remark, and walked down the long street. It occurred to him that his gentle bride would scarcely be flattered, if she could see him now, and this thought made him laugh again. The Watch, encountered at the north end of Grosvenor Square, eyed him dubiously, and gave him a wide berth. Gentlemen in Sir Richard’s condition not infrequently amused themselves with a light-hearted pastime known as Boxing the Watch, and this member of that praiseworthy force was not anxious to court trouble.

Sir Richard did not notice the Watch, nor, to do him justice, would he have felt in the least tempted to molest him if he had noticed him. Somewhere, in the recesses of his brain, Sir Richard was aware that he was the unluckiest dog alive. He felt very bitter about this, as though all the world were in league against him; and, as he branched off erratically down a quiet side street, he was cynically sorry for himself, that in ten years spent in the best circles he had not had the common good fortune to meet one female whose charms had cost him a single hour’s sleep. It did not seem probable that he would be more fortunate in the future. “Which, I suppose,” remarked Sir Richard to one of the new gas-lamps, “is a—is a consummation devoutly to be wished, since I am about to offer for Melissa Brandon.”

It was at this moment that he became aware of a peculiar circumstance. Someone was climbing out of a second-storey window of one of the prim houses on the opposite side of the street.

Sir Richard stood still, and blinked at this unexpected sight. His divine detachment still clung to him; he was interested in what he saw, but by no means concerned with it. “Undoubtedly a burglar,” he said, and leaned nonchalantly on his cane to watch the end of the adventure. His somewhat sleepy gaze discovered that whoever was escaping from the prim house was proposing to do so by means of knotted sheets, which fell disastrously short of the ground. “Not a burglar,” decided Sir Richard, and crossed the road.

By the time he had reached the opposite kerbstone, the mysterious fugitive had arrived, somewhat fortuitously, at the end of his improvised rope, and was dangling precariously above the shallow area, trying with one desperate foot to find some kind of a resting-place on the wall of the house. Sir Richard saw that he was a very slight youth, only a boy, in fact, and went in a leisurely fashion to the rescue.

The fugitive caught sight of him as he descended the area-steps, and gasped with a mixture of fright and thankfulness: “Oh! Could you help me, please? I didn’t know it was so far. I thought I should be able to jump, only I don’t think I can.”

“My engaging youth,” said Sir Richard, looking up at the flushed face peering down at him. “What, may I ask, are you doing on the end of that rope?”

“Hush!” begged the fugitive. “Do you think you could catch me, if I let go?”

“I will do my poor best,” promised Sir Richard.

The fugitive’s feet were only just above his reach, and in another five seconds the fugitive descended into his arms with a rush that made him stagger, and almost lose his balance. He retained it by a miracle, clasping strongly to his chest an unexpectedly light body.

Sir Richard was not precisely sober, but although the brandy fumes had produced in his brain a not unpleasant sense of irresponsibility, they had by no means fuddled his intellect. Sir Richard, his chin tickled by curls, and his arms full of fugitive, made a surprising discovery. He set the fugitive down, saying in a matter-of-fact voice: “Yes, but I don’t think you are a youth, after all.”

“No, I’m a girl,” replied the fugitive, apparently undismayed by his discovery. “But, please, will you come away before they wake up?”

“Who?” asked Sir Richard.

“My aunt—all of them!” whispered the fugitive. “I am very much obliged to you for helping me—and do you think you could untie this knot, if you please? You see, I had to tie my bundle on my back, and now I can’t undo it. And where is my hat?”

“It fell off,” said Sir Richard, picking it up, and dusting it on his sleeve. “I am not quite sober, you know—in fact, I am drunk—but I cannot help feeling that this is all a trifle—shall we say—irregular?”

“Yes, but there was nothing else to be done,” explained the fugitive, trying to look over her own shoulder at what Sir Richard was doing with the recalcitrant knot.

“Oblige me by standing still!” requested Sir Richard.

“Oh, I am sorry! I can’t think how it worked right round me like that. Thank you! I am truly grateful to you!”

Sir Richard was eyeing the bundle through his quizzing-glass. “Are you a burglar?” he enquired.

A chuckle, hastily choked, greeted this. “No, of course I’m not. I couldn’t manage a bandbox, so I had to tie all my things up in a shawl. And now I think I must be going, if you please.”