“A delightful creature,” murmured Lord Caterham.
“That is settled, then.”
Mr. Lomax relaxed his hold on Lord Caterham’s lapel, and the latter was quick to avail himself of the chance.
“Bye-bye, Lomax, you’ll make all the arrangements, won’t you.”
He dived into a taxi. As far as it is possible for one upright Christian gentleman to dislike another upright Christian gentleman, Lord Caterham disliked the Hon. George Lomax. He disliked his puffy red face, his heavy breathing, and his prominent blue eyes. He thought of the coming week and sighed. A nuisance, an abominable nuisance. Then he thought of Virginia Revel and cheered up a little.
“A delightful creature,” he murmured to himself. “A most delightful creature.”
IV
Introducing a Very Charming Lady
George Lomax returned straightway to Whitehall. As he entered the sumptuous apartment in which he transacted affairs of State, there was a scuffling sound.
Mr. Bill Eversleigh was assiduously filing letters, but a large armchair near the window was still warm from contact with a human form.
A very likeable young man, Bill Eversleigh. Age at a guess, twenty-five, big and rather ungainly in his movements, a pleasurably ugly face, a splendid set of white teeth and a pair of honest brown eyes.
“Richardson sent up that report yet?”
“No, sir. Shall I get on to him about it?”
“It doesn’t matter. Any telephone messages?”
“Miss Oscar is dealing with most of them. Mr. Isaacstein wants to know if you can dine with him at the Savoy tomorrow.”
“Tell Miss Oscar to look in my engagement-book. If I’m not engaged, she can ring up and accept.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, Eversleigh, you might ring up a number for me now. Look it up in the book. Mrs. Revel, 487, Pont Street.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill seized the telephone-book, ran an unseeing eye down a column of M’s, shut the book with a bang and moved to the instrument on the desk. With his hand upon it, he paused, as though in sudden recollection.
“Oh, I say, sir, I’ve just remembered. Her line’s out of order. Mrs. Revel’s, I mean. I was trying to ring her up just now.”
George Lomax frowned.
“Annoying,” he said, “distinctly annoying.” He tapped the table undecidedly.
“If it’s anything important, sir, perhaps I might go round there now in a taxi. She’s sure to be in at this time in the morning.”
George Lomax hesitated, pondering the matter. Bill waited expectantly, poised for instant flight, should the reply be favourable.
“Perhaps that would be the best plan,” said Lomax at last. “Very well, then, take a taxi there, and ask Mrs. Revel if she will be at home this afternoon at four o’clock as I am very anxious to see her about an important matter.”
“Right, sir.”
Bill seized his hat and departed.
Ten minutes later, a taxi deposited him at 487, Pont Street. He rang the bell and executed a loud rat-tat on the knocker. The door was opened by a grave functionary to whom Bill nodded with the ease of long acquaintance.
“Morning, Chilvers, Mrs. Revel in?”
“I believe, sir, that she is just going out.”
“Is that you, Bill?” called a voice over the banisters. “I thought I recognized that muscular knock. Come up and talk to me.”
Bill looked up at the face that was laughing down on him, and which was always inclined to reduce him—and not him alone—to a state of babbling incoherency. He took the stairs two at a time and clasped Virginia Revel’s outstretched hands tightly in his.
“Hullo, Virginia!”
“Hullo, Bill!”
Charm is a very peculiar thing; hundreds of young women, some of them more beautiful than Virginia Revel, might have said “Hullo, Bill,” with exactly the same intonation, and yet have produced no effect whatever. But those two simple words, uttered by Virginia, had the most intoxicating effect upon Bill.
Virginia Revel was just twenty-seven. She was tall and of an exquisite slimness—indeed, a poem might have been written to her slimness, it was so exquisitely proportioned. Her hair was of real bronze, with the greenish tint in its gold; she had a determined little chin, a lovely nose, slanting blue eyes that showed a gleam of deepest cornflower between the half-closed lids, and a delicious and quite indescribable mouth that tilted ever so slightly at one corner in what is known as “the signature of Venus.” It was a wonderfully expressive face, and there was a sort of radiant vitality about her that always challenged attention. It would have been quite impossible ever to ignore Virginia Revel.
She drew Bill into the small drawing-room which was all pale and mauve and green and yellow, like crocuses surprised in a meadow.
“Bill, darling,” said Virginia, “isn’t the Foreign Office missing you? I thought they couldn’t get on without you.”
“I’ve brought a message for you from Codders.”
Thus irreverently did Bill allude to his chief.
“And by the way, Virginia, in case he asks, remember that your telephone was out of order this morning.”
“But it hasn’t been.”
“I know that. But I said it was.”
“Why? Enlighten me as to this Foreign Office touch.”
Bill threw her a reproachful glance.
“So that I could get here and see you, of course.”
“Oh, darling Bill, how dense of me! And how perfectly sweet of you!”
“Chilvers said you were going out.”
“So I was—to Sloane Street. There’s a place there where they’ve got a perfectly wonderful new hip band.”
“A hip band?”
“Yes, Bill, h-i-p hip, b-a-n-d band. A band to confine the hips. You wear it next the skin.”
“I blush for you, Virginia. You shouldn’t describe your underwear to a young man to whom you are not related. It isn’t delicate.”
“But, Bill dear, there’s nothing indelicate about hips. We’ve all got hips—although we poor women are trying awfully hard to pretend we haven’t. This hip band is made of red rubber and comes just to above the knee, and it’s simply impossible to walk in it.”
“How awful!” said Bill. “Why do you do it?”
“Oh, because it gives one such a noble feeling to suffer for one’s silhouette. But don’t let’s talk about my hip band.
