The Red Rat's Daughter. Boothby Guy

he had never in his life before seen so beautiful and so desirable a woman. And yet, had a female critic been present, it is quite possible – nay, it is almost probable that more than one hole might have been picked in her appearance. Her skirt – in order to show my knowledge of the technicalities of woman's attire – was of plain merino, and she also wore a painting blouse that, like Joseph's coat, was of many colours. To go further, a detractor would probably have observed that her hair might have been better arranged. Browne, however, thought her perfection in every respect, and drank his tea in a whirl of enchantment. He found an inexplicable fascination in the mere swish of her skirts as she moved about the room, and a pleasure that he had never known before in the movement of her slender hands above the tray. And when, their tea finished, she brought him a case of cigarettes, and bade him smoke if he cared to, it might very well have been said that that studio contained the happiest man in England. Outside, they could hear the steady patter of the rain, and the rattle of traffic reached them from the High Street; but inside there was a silence of a Norwegian fjord, and the memory of one hour that never could be effaced from their recollections as long as they both should live. Under the influence of the tea, and with the assistance of the cigarette, which she insisted he should smoke, Browne gradually recovered his presence of mind. One thing, however, puzzled him. He remembered what the shopman had told him, and for this reason he could not understand how she came to be the possessor of so comfortable a studio. This, however, was soon explained. The girl informed him that after his departure from Merok (though I feel sure she was not aware that he was the owner of the magnificent vessel she had seen in the harbour) she had been unable to move for upwards of a week. After that she and her companion, Madame Bernstein, had left for Christiania, travelling thence to Copenhagen, and afterwards to Berlin. In the latter city she had met an English woman, also an artist. They had struck up a friendship, with the result that the lady in question, having made up her mind to winter in Venice, had offered her the free use of her London studio for that time, if she cared to cross the Channel and take possession of it.

      "Accordingly, in the daytime, I paint here," said the girl; "but Madame Bernstein and I have our lodgings in the Warwick Road. I hope you did not think this was my studio; I should not like to sail under false colours."

      Browne felt that he would have liked to give her the finest studio that ever artist had used a brush and pencil in. He was wise enough, however, not to say so. He changed the conversation, therefore, by informing her that he had wintered in Petersburg, remarking at the same time that he had hoped to have had the pleasure of meeting her there.

      "You will never meet me in Petersburg," she answered, her face changing colour as she spoke. "You do not know, perhaps, why I say this. But I assure you, you will never meet me or mine within the Czar's dominions."

      Browne would have given all he possessed in the world not to have given utterance to that foolish speech. He apologised immediately, and with a sincerity that made her at once take pity on him.

      "Please do not feel so sorry for what you said," she replied. "It was impossible for you to know that you had transgressed. The truth is, my family are supposed to be very dangerous persons. I do not think, with one exception, we are more so than our neighbours; but, as the law now stands, we are prohibited. Whether it will ever be different I cannot say. That is enough, however, about myself. Let us talk of something else."

      She had seated herself in a low chair opposite him, with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on her hand. Browne glanced at her, and remembered that he had once carried her in his arms for upwards of a mile. At this thought such a thrill went through him that his teacup, which he had placed on a table beside him, trembled in its saucer. Unable to trust himself any further in that direction, he talked of London, of the weather, of anything that occurred to him; curiously enough, however, he did not mention his proposed departure for the Mediterranean on the morrow. In his heart he had an uneasy feeling that he had no right to be where he was. But when he thought of the foggy street outside, and realised how comfortable this room was, with its easy chairs, its polished floor, on which the firelight danced and played, to say nothing of the girl seated opposite him, he could not summon up sufficient courage to say good-bye.

      "How strange it seems," she said at last – "does it not? – that you and I should be sitting here like this! I had no idea, when we bade each other good-bye in Norway, that we should ever meet again."

      "I felt certain of it," Browne replied, but he failed to add why he was so sure. "Is it settled how long you remain in England?"

      "I do not think so," she answered. "We may be here some weeks; we may be only a few days. It all depends upon Madame Bernstein."

      "Upon Madame Bernstein?" he said, with some surprise.

      "Yes," she answered; "she makes our arrangements. You have no idea how busy she is."

      Browne certainly had no idea upon that point, and up to that moment he was not sure that he was at all interested; now, however, since it appeared that madame controlled the girl's movements, she became a matter of overwhelming importance to him.

      For more than an hour they continued to chat; then Browne rose to bid her good-bye.

      "Would you think me intrusive if I were to call upon you again?" he asked as he took her hand.

      "Do so by all means, if you like," she answered, with charming frankness. "I shall be very glad to see you."

      Then an idea occurred to him – an idea so magnificent, so delightful, that it almost took his breath away.

      "Would you think me impertinent if I inquired how you and Madame Bernstein amuse yourselves in the evenings? Have you been to any theatres or to the opera?"

      The girl shook her head. "I have never been inside a theatre in London," she replied.

      "Then perhaps I might be able to persuade you to let me take you to one," he answered. "I might write to Madame Bernstein and arrange an evening. Would she care about it, do you think?"

      "I am sure she would," she answered. "And I know that I should enjoy it immensely. It is very kind of you to ask us."

      "It is very kind of you to promise to come," he said gratefully. "Then I will arrange it for to-morrow night if possible. Good-bye."

      "Good-bye," she answered, and held out her little hand to him for the second time.

      When the front door had closed behind him and he was fairly out in the foggy street once more, Browne set off along the pavement on his return journey, swinging his umbrella and whistling like a schoolboy. To a crusty old bachelor his state of mind would have appeared inexplicable. There was no sort of doubt about it, however, that he was happy; he walked as if he were treading on air. It was a good suggestion, that one about the theatre, he said to himself, and he would take care that they enjoyed themselves. He would endeavour to obtain the best box at the opera; they were playing Lohengrin at the time, he remembered. He would send one of his own carriages to meet them, and it should take them home again. Then a still more brilliant idea occurred to him. Why should he not arrange a nice little dinner at some restaurant first? Not one of your flash dining-places but a quiet, comfortable little place – Lallemand's, for instance, where the cooking is irreproachable, the wine and waiting faultless, and the company who frequent it beyond suspicion. And yet another notion, and as it occurred to him he laughed aloud in the public street.

      "There will be three of us," he said, "and the chaperon will need an escort. By Jove! Jimmy called me mad, did he? Well, I'll be revenged on him. He shall sit beside Madame Bernstein."

      CHAPTER V

      If Browne had ever looked forward to anything in his life, he did to the dinner-party he had arranged for the evening following his visit to the studio in the German Park Road. On more than one occasion he had entertained royalty at his house in Park Lane, and at various times he had invited London society to functions which, for magnificence and completeness, had scarcely ever been equalled and never excelled. Upon none of these affairs, however, had he bestowed half so much care and attention as he did upon the dinner which it is now my duty to describe. Having written the formal invitation, he posted it himself; after which he drove to the restaurant which was to be honoured with Katherine Petrovitch's presence, and interviewed the proprietor in his