“He wants to know whether you’ll be in at four o’clock this afternoon.”
“I shan’t. I shall be at Ranelagh. Why this sort of formal call? Is he going to propose to me, do you think?”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Because, if so, you can tell him that I much prefer men who propose on impulse.”
“Like me?”
“It’s not an impulse with you, Bill. It’s habit.”
“Virginia, won’t you ever—”
“No, no, no, Bill. I won’t have it in the morning before lunch. Do try and think of me as a nice motherly person approaching middle age who has your interests thoroughly at heart.”
“Virginia, I do love you so.”
“I know, Bill, I know. And I simply love being loved. Isn’t it wicked and dreadful of me? I should like every nice man in the world to be in love with me.”
“Most of them are, I expect,” said Bill gloomily.
“But I hope George isn’t in love with me. I don’t think he can be. He’s so wedded to his career. What else did he say?”
“Just that it was very important.”
“Bill, I’m getting intrigued. The things that George thinks important are so awfully limited. I think I must chuck Ranelagh. After all, I can go to Ranelagh any day. Tell George that I shall be awaiting him meekly at four o’clock.”
Bill looked at his wrist watch.
“It seems hardly worth while to go back before lunch. Come out and chew something, Virginia.”
“I’m going out to lunch somewhere or other.”
“That doesn’t matter. Make a day of it, and chuck everything all round.”
“It would be rather nice,” said Virginia, smiling at him.
“Virginia, you’re a darling. Tell me, you do like me rather, don’t you? Better than other people.”
“Bill, I adore you. If I had to marry someone—simply had to—I mean if it was in a book and a wicked mandarin said to me ‘Marry someone or die by slow torture,’ I should choose you at once—I should indeed. I should say, ‘Give me little Bill.’ ”
“Well, then—”
“Yes, but I haven’t got to marry anyone. I love being a wicked widow.”
“You could do all the same things still. Go about, and all that. You’d hardly notice me about the house.”
“Bill, you don’t understand. I’m the kind of person who marries enthusiastically if they marry at all.”
Bill gave a hollow groan.
“I shall shoot myself one of these days, I expect,” he murmured gloomily.
“No, you won’t, Bill darling. You’ll take a pretty girl out to supper—like you did the night before last.”
Mr. Eversleigh was momentarily confused.
“If you mean Dorothy Kirkpatrick, the girl who’s in ‘Hooks and Eyes,’ I—well, dash it all, she’s a thoroughly nice girl, straight as they make ’em. There was no harm in it.”
“Bill, darling, of course there wasn’t. I love you to enjoy yourself. But don’t pretend to be dying of a broken heart, that’s all.”
Mr. Eversleigh recovered his dignity.
“You don’t understand at all, Virginia,” he said severely. “Men—”
“Are polygamous! I know they are. Sometimes I have a shrewd suspicion that I am polyandrous. If you really love me, Bill, take me out to lunch quickly.”
V
First Night in London
There is often a flaw in the best-laid plans. George Lomax had made one mistake—there was a weak spot in his preparations. The weak spot was Bill.
Bill Eversleigh was an extremely nice lad. He was a good cricketer and a scratch golfer, he had pleasant manners, and an amiable disposition, but his position in the Foreign Office had been gained, not by brains, but by good connections. For the work he had to do he was quite suitable. He was more or less George’s dog. He did no responsible or brainy work. His part was to be constantly at George’s elbow, to interview unimportant people whom George didn’t want to see, to run errands, and generally to make himself useful. All this Bill carried out faithfully enough. When George was absent, Bill stretched himself out in the biggest chair and read the sporting news, and in so doing he was merely carrying out a time-honoured tradition.
Being accustomed to send Bill on errands, George had dispatched him to the Union Castle offices to find out when the Granarth Castle was due in. Now, in common with most well-educated young Englishmen, Bill had a pleasant, but quite inaudible voice. Any elocution master would have found fault with his pronunciation of the word “Granarth.” It might have been anything. The Clerk took it to be “Carnfrae.” The Carnfrae Castle was due in on the following Thursday. He said so. Bill thanked him and went out. George Lomax accepted the information and laid his plans accordingly. He knew nothing about Union Castle liners, and took it for granted that James McGrath would duly arrive on Thursday.
Therefore, at the moment he was buttonholing Lord Caterham on the steps of the club on Wednesday morning, he would have been greatly surprised to learn that the Granarth Castle had docked at Southampton the preceding afternoon.
At two o’clock that afternoon Anthony Cade, travelling under the name of Jimmy McGrath, stepped out of the boat train at Waterloo, hailed a taxi, and after a moment’s hesitation ordered the driver to proceed to the Blitz Hotel.
“One might as well be comfortable,” said Anthony to himself, as he looked with some interest out of the taxi windows.
It was exactly fourteen years since he had been in London.
He arrived at the hotel, booked a room, and then went for a short stroll along the Embankment. It was rather pleasant to be back in London again. Everything was changed of course. There had been a little restaurant there—just past Blackfriars Bridge—where he had dined fairly often, in company with other earnest lads. He had been a Socialist then, and worn a flowing red tie. Young—very young.
He retraced his steps back to the Blitz. Just as he was crossing the road, a man jostled against him, nearly making him lose his balance. They both recovered themselves, and the man muttered an apology, his eyes
