“Of course, he won’t mind,” said Lady Windermere, “that is what he is here for. All my lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, and jump through hoops whenever I ask them. But I must warn you beforehand that I shall tell Sybil everything. She is coming to lunch with me tomorrow, to talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgers finds out that you have a bad temper, or a tendency to gout, or a wife living in Bayswater, I shall certainly let her know all about it.”
Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. “I am not afraid,” he answered. “Sybil knows me as well as I know her.”
“Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basis for marriage is a mutual misunderstanding. No, I am not at all cynical, I have merely got experience, which, however, is very much the same thing. Mr. Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have his hand read. Don’t tell him that he is engaged to one of the most beautiful girls in London, because that appeared in the Morning Post a month ago.
“Dear Lady Windermere,” cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, “do let Mr. Podgers stay here a little longer. He has just told me I should go on the stage, and I am so interested.”
“If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take him away. Come over at once, Mr. Podgers, and read Lord Arthur’s hand.”
“Well,” said Lady Jedburgh, making a little moue as she rose from the sofa, “if I am not to be allowed to go on the stage, I must be allowed to be part of the audience at any rate.”
“Of course; we are all going to be part of the audience,” said Lady Windermere; “and now, Mr. Podgers, be sure and tell us something nice. Lord Arthur is one of my special favourites.”
But when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur’s hand he grew curiously pale, and said nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and his great bushy eyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritating way they had when he was puzzled. Then some huge beads of perspiration broke out on his yellow forehead, like a poisonous dew, and his fat fingers grew cold and clammy.
Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation, and, for the first time in his life, he himself felt fear. His impulse was to rush from the room, but he restrained himself. It was better to know the worst, whatever it was, than to be left in this hideous uncertainty.
“I am waiting, Mr. Podgers,” he said.
“We are all waiting,” cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient manner, but the cheiromantist made no reply.
“I believe Arthur is going on the stage,” said Lady Jedburgh, “and that, after your scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so.”
Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur’s right hand, and seized hold of his left, bending down so low to examine it that the gold rims of his spectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For a moment his face became a white mask of horror, but he soon recovered his sangfroid, and looking up at Lady Windermere, said with a forced smile, “It is the hand of a charming young man.”
“Of course it is!” answered Lady Windermere, “but will he be a charming husband? That is what I want to know.”
“All charming young men are,” said Mr. Podgers.
“I don’t think a husband should be too fascinating,” murmured Lady Jedburgh pensively, “it is so dangerous.”
“My dear child, they never are too fascinating,” cried Lady Windermere. “But what I want are details. Details are the only things that interest. What is going to happen to Lord Arthur?”
“Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a voyage—”
“Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!”
“And lose a relative.”
“Not his sister, I hope?” said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone of voice.
“Certainly not his sister,” answered Mr. Podgers, with a deprecating wave of the hand, “a distant relative merely.”
“Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,” said Lady Windermere. “I have absolutely nothing to tell Sybil tomorrow. No one cares about distant relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago. However, I suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it always does for church, you know. And now let us go to supper. They are sure to have eaten everything up, but we may find some hot soup. François used to make excellent soup once, but he is so agitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certain about him. I do wish General Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure you are tired?”
“Not at all, dear Gladys,” answered the Duchess, waddling towards the door. “I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean the cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my tortoiseshell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my lace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I’m sure,” and the worthy creature finally managed to get downstairs without dropping her scent-bottle more than twice.
All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the fireplace, with the same feeling of dread over him, the same sickening sense of coming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, as she swept past him on Lord Plymdale’s arm, looking lovely in her pink brocade and pearls, and he hardly heard Lady Windermere when she called to him to follow her. He thought of Sybil Merton, and the idea that anything could come between them made his eyes dim with tears.
Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the shield of Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon’s head. He seemed turned to stone, and his face was like marble in its melancholy. He had lived the delicate and luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and now for the first time he became conscious of the terrible mystery
