“I will,” said George enthusiastically. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, Hamilton, for giving me this information.”
“You needn’t be. It will do you no good whatever. When Sigsbee Waddington married for the second time, he to all intents and purposes sold himself down the river. To call him a cipher in the home would be to give a too glowing picture of his importance. He does what his wife tells him—that and nothing more. She is the one with whom you want to ingratiate yourself.”
“How can this be done?”
“It can’t be done. Mrs. Sigsbee Waddington is not an easy woman to conciliate.”
“A tough baby?” inquired George anxiously.
Hamilton Beamish frowned.
“I dislike the expression. It is the sort of expression Mullett would use: and I know few things more calculated to make a thinking man shudder than Mullett’s vocabulary. Nevertheless, in a certain crude, horrible way it does describe Mrs. Waddington. There is an ancient belief in Tibet that mankind is descended from a demoness named Drasrinmo and a monkey. Both Sigsbee H. and Mrs. Waddington do much to bear out this theory. I am loath to speak ill of a woman, but it is no use trying to conceal the fact that Mrs. Waddington is a bounder and a snob and has a soul like the underside of a flat stone. She worships wealth and importance. She likes only the rich and the titled. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that there is an English lord hanging about the place whom she wants Molly to marry.”
“Over my dead body,” said George.
“That could no doubt be arranged. My poor George,” said Hamilton Beamish, laying a dumbbell affectionately on his friend’s head, “you are taking on too big a contract. You are going out of your class. It is not as if you were one of these dashing, young Lochinvar fellows. You are mild and shy. You are diffident and timid. I class you among Nature’s white mice. It would take a woman like Mrs. Sigsbee Waddington about two and a quarter minutes to knock you for a row of Portuguese ashcans—er, as Mullett would say,” added Hamilton Beamish with a touch of confusion.
“She couldn’t eat me,” said George valiantly.
“I don’t know so much. She is not a vegetarian.”
“I was thinking,” said George, “that you might take me round and introduce me. …”
“And have your blood on my head? No, no.”
“What do you mean, my blood? You talk as if this woman were a syndicate of gunmen. I’m not afraid of her. To get to know Molly”—George gulped—“I would fight a mad bull.”
Hamilton Beamish was touched. This great man was human.
“These are brave words, George. You extort my admiration. I disapprove of the reckless, unconsidered way you are approaching this matter, and I still think you would be well advised to read The Marriage Sane and get a proper estimate of Love: but I cannot but like your spirit. If you really wish it, therefore, I will take you round and introduce you to Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
“Hamilton! Tonight?”
“Not tonight. I am lecturing to the West Orange Daughters of Minerva tonight on The Modern Drama. Some other time.”
“Then tonight,” said George, blushing faintly. “I think I may as well just stroll round Seventy-Ninth Street way and—er—well, just stroll round.”
“What is the good of that?”
“Well, I can look at the house, can’t I?”
“Young blood!” said Hamilton Beamish indulgently. “Young blood!”
He poised himself firmly on his No-Jars, and swung the dumbbell in a forceful arc.
V
“Mullett,” said George.
“Sir?”
“Have you pressed my dress clothes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And brushed them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My ties—are they laid out?”
“In a neat row, sir.”
George coughed.
“Mullett!”
“Sir?”
“You recollect the little chat we were having just now?”
“Sir?”
“About the young lady I—er. …”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“I understand you have seen her.”
“Just a glimpse, sir.”
George coughed again.
“Ah—rather attractive, Mullett, didn’t you think?”
“Extremely, sir. Very cuddly.”
“The exact adjective I would have used myself, Mullett!”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Cuddly! A beautiful word.”
“I think so, sir.”
George coughed for the third time.
“A lozenge, sir?” said Mullett solicitously.
“No, thank you.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Mullett!”
“Sir?”
“I find that Mr. Beamish is an intimate friend of this young lady.”
“Fancy that, sir!”
“He is going to introduce me.”
“Very gratifying, I am sure, sir.”
George sighed dreamily.
“Life is very sweet, Mullett.”
“For those that like it, sir—yes, sir.”
“Lead me to the ties,” said George.
II
I
At the hour of seven-thirty, just when George Finch was trying out his fifth tie, a woman stood pacing the floor in the Byzantine boudoir at Number 16, Seventy-Ninth Street, East.
At first sight this statement may seem contradictory. Is it possible, the captious critic may ask, for a person simultaneously to stand and pace the floor? The answer is Yes, if he or she is sufficiently agitated as to the soul. You do it by placing yourself on a given spot and scrabbling the feet alternately like a cat kneading a hearthrug. It is sometimes the only method by which strong women can keep from having hysterics.
Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington was a strong woman. In fact, so commanding was her physique that a stranger might have supposed her to be one in the technical, or circus, sense. She was not tall, but had bulged so generously in every possible direction that, when seen for the first time, she gave the impression of enormous size. No theatre, however little its programme had managed to attract the public, could be said to be “sparsely filled” if Mrs. Waddington had dropped in to look at the show. Public speakers, when Mrs. Waddington was present, had the illusion that they were addressing most of the population of the United States. And when she went to Carlsbad or Aix-les-Bains to take the waters, the authorities huddled together nervously and wondered if there would be enough to go round.
Her growing bulk was a perpetual sorrow—one
