“Lady Wantridge WILL—?”
“Yes, though she says she won’t.”
“She says she won’t? O-oh!” Mrs. Medwin moaned.
“Sit tight all the same. I HAVE her!”
“But how?”
“Through Scott—whom she wants.”
“Your bad brother!” Mrs. Medwin stared. “What does she want of him?”
“To amuse them at Catchmore. Anything for that. And he WOULD. But he shan’t!” Mamie declared. “He shan’t go unless she comes. She must meet you first—you’re my condition.”
“O-o-oh!” Mrs. Medwin’s tone was a wonder of hope and fear. “But doesn’t he want to go?”
“He wants what I want. She draws the line at YOU. I draw the line at HIM.”
“But SHE—doesn’t she mind that he’s bad?”
It was so artless that Mamie laughed. “No—it doesn’t touch her. Besides, perhaps he isn’t. It isn’t as for you— people seem not to know. He has settled everything, at all events, by going to see her. It’s before her that he’s the thing she’ll have to have.”
“Have to?”
“For Sundays in the country. A feature—THE feature.”
“So she has asked him?”
“Yes—and he has declined.”
“For ME?” Mrs. Medwin panted.
“For me,” said Mamie on the door-step. “But I don’t leave him for long.” Her hansom had waited. “She’ll come.”
Lady Wantridge did come. She met in South Audley Street, on the fourteenth, at tea, the ladies whom Mamie had named to her, together with three or four others, and it was rather a master-stroke for Miss Cutter that if Mrs. Medwin was modestly present Scott Homer was as markedly not. This occasion, however, is a medal that would take rare casting, as would also, for that matter, even the minor light and shade, the lower relief, of the pecuniary transaction that Mrs. Medwin’s flushed gratitude scarce awaited the dispersal of the company munificently to complete. A new understanding indeed on the spot rebounded from it, the conception of which, in Mamie’s mind, had promptly bloomed. “He shan’t go now unless he takes you.” Then, as her fancy always moved quicker for her client than her client’s own—”Down with him to Catchmore! When he goes to amuse them YOU,” she serenely developed, “shall amuse them too.” Mrs. Medwin’s response was again rather oddly divided, but she was sufficiently intelligible when it came to meeting the hint that this latter provision would represent success to the tune of a separate fee. “Say,” Mamie had suggested, “the same.”
“Very well; the same.”
The knowledge that it was to be the same had perhaps something to do also with the obliging spirit in which Scott eventually went. It was all at the last rather hurried—a party rapidly got together for the Grand Duke, who was in England but for the hour, who had good-naturedly proposed himself, and who liked his parties small, intimate and funny. This one was of the smallest and was finally judged to conform neither too little nor too much to the other conditions—after a brief whirlwind of wires and counterwires, and an iterated waiting of hansoms at various doors—to include Mrs. Medwin. It was from Catchmore itself that, snatching, a moment—on the wondrous Sunday afternoon, this lady had the harmonious thought of sending the new cheque. She was in bliss enough, but her scribble none the less intimated that it was Scott who amused them most. He WAS the feature.
End of the Project Gutenberg eText Some Short Stories by Henry James
