“And that,” Mannering told himself, “will keep Mr Lee off the grass for a little while. But he’s a crafty old devil. I’ll have to be careful.”
He did his best to forget the interview, and it was not long before he was thinking of a certain recent acquaintance. He smiled a little, and decided to pay a visit immediately.
Mr (late Herr) Karl Seltzer was a middle-aged, bullet-headed, placid, and kindly German, who specialised in the teaching of languages. In many ways Seltzer was unique. To hear him talk in English, French, German, Russian, or a dozen different languages, was a revelation. He sounded like a different man. Not only was the accent perfect, but he was able to adapt his voice to the very tones of the races whose language he was speaking.
Mannering had heard of him casually, and, realising that it was essential to be able to control — and if necessary change — his voice on occasions, he had started a course of lessons. The inflection was a matter of practice, and Seltzer was happy to find so adept a pupil; what he would have thought if he had known why Mannering was so anxious to be able to control the timbre and tone of his voice, Mannering preferred not to ask himself.
The German’s square face brightened as Mannering entered his office in Wardour Street, for Mannering was amiable as well as intelligent.
“A pleasure to see you, Mr Mannering,” he greeted.
“And not so bad to see you,” smiled Mannering. “I’ve just popped in for ten minutes,” he added, “to learn to be a Frenchman.”
“To learn the voice of a Frenchman,” corrected the tutor. “It would be a very difficult matter, Mr Mannering, to make you look anything but English.”
“That’s something,” Mannering murmured, but he grinned to himself. Seltzer would go a long way before delivering so effective a back-hander.
After twenty minutes Mannering left the office and surprised himself by asking for cigarettes in fluent French. The girl at the kiosk looked at him bemusedly and demanded, “Ai?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mannering, with a smile that made her think of him on and off for the rest of the day. “Fifty Virginia Fives, please.”
He paid for the cigarettes, smiled again, and walked on, thinking of the effectiveness of Seltzer’s lessons. The possibility that he might spoil his ability to act quickly in an emergency by developing technique too much did not worry him a great deal. The occasion for using two or three entirely different-sounding voices did not come frequently, it was true, but it was an angle of his new profession that he found fascinating. He wondered how many years would pass before he was really confident of himself in every way.
Then he put the thought on one side and dwelt pleasantly on the next few hours. He was meeting Lorna at the Elan, and he had been looking forward to it all day. He saw her frequently — almost too frequently for his peace of mind — and there had been no meeting yet that he had not enjoyed thoroughly. He believed she could say the same.
He walked slowly towards the hotel, knowing that he was in good time. He felt at peace with the world. A warm sun was shining, but London was not too hot. The inevitable streaming crowds passed him, coming from heaven knew where. He wondered what they would think if they knew who was passing.
He reached the Elan, and forgot the subject, for Lorna followed almost on his heels.
“Am I late or are you early?” she asked, as they shook hands.
“We’re both marvels of punctuality,” said Mannering. “Shall we eat here, or do you know of a better manger?”
“Here, I’m afraid. I must be home by half-past two.”
“Duty calling — or parents,” chuckled Mannering.
As she peered at the menu he studied her thick, well-marked brows, the delicacy of her skin, the upward curve of her lips. Not for the first time he wondered why she so often was quiet almost to sullenness, why the expression in her fine eyes was so often mutinous. She seemed to bear a grudge against life, although there were moments when she forgot it, and when he forgot everything but the fact that they were together.
A week never passed that he did not see her; usually they met three or four times. The verbal fencing of the first meeting had gone. They spoke little to each other, but both enjoyed the long silences of real companionship. The ghost of Marie Overndon was dimming.
“Still keeping busy?” he asked, as they waited.
“Plenty to do,” she said. “I’m still waiting to paint you.”
“I still prefer photographs,” Mannering laughed.
“I think I’ll have the clear soup,” said Lorna obscurely.
Mannering looked about him during the meal. The Elan, at that time, was reaching the peak of its fame. Twice in as many months foreign royalties had graced it with their presence, and the crowd of moneyed hopefuls, hangers-on, and dilettanti grew larger week by week. Although it had the largest exclusive-dining-floor in London only a table here and there was unoccupied, and two Cabinet Ministers were present.
“What’s attracting you ?” Lorna asked suddenly.
Mannering smiled, and motioned to a far corner.
“I was looking at the Countess,” he said. “She’s telling someone about a brooch . . .”
“Emma? Is she here?” Lorna Fauntley looked round, and smiled as she saw the Dowager Countess of Kenton talking animatedly with three companions at a table near the orchestra.
“With the Americans,” Lorna added, a moment later.
“Newcomers ?”
“H’m-h’m. I believe they’ve already been asked to meet the fascinating Mr Mannering.”
