‘Wait, wait, wait!’ cried the banister.
‘Surely, surely it was to her that I gave a letter of introduction to Sir Clifford Oakleigh the other day. What did you say the matter was? Her nerves, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir, nerves. It was wonderful the way he put her right then and there. And no charge, sir, to a friend of yours, sir. He’s a wonderful man, sir. She only paid one visit and he cured her completely.’ Woefully he added, ‘And to think it was all no good.’
Then he went out of the room.
THAT night Harding fell in love.
It came about quite suddenly.
At first he did not know what was the matter with him, but gradually the conviction forced itself upon him that he, George Berkeley Harding, had fallen in love at first sight, just as a boy at Eton falls in love with a Dowager-Duchess.
It was during dinner at the Savoy that he became aware of his condition.
As the Courts did not sit on Saturday afternoons, he had walked up to King Street and inquired of Reggie for any news of Clifford Oakleigh.
Reggie had answered in the negative. He had suppressed the servant girl’s story, because he had not been convinced in his mind that she was a witness of truth. She might only have been making fun of him—a course of conduct which he would have resented. If, in very truth, Clifford had left the house drunk with a ‘creature’ he would certainly return, and he would not like the disagreeable fact recounted even to his best friend.
Harding had been in two minds. It was obviously his duty or Reggie’s to inform the police of the mysterious occurrence. But, at the same time, as the story was so completely incredible and rested solely on the evidence of Reggie, he thought it might be wise to wait another day. In the meantime, Clifford might return, or Reggie might develop some conspicuous symptom of insanity.
Throughout the afternoon he had vainly puzzled his brain for a solution.
With a clouded brow he had driven up to the Savoy to dine with old Mudge, the eminent family solicitor—solicitor incidentally to Clifford and himself.
From Mudge’s company or from the guests likely to be invited by Mudge he did not expect much amusement.
He found his host and hostess in the hall waiting for him.
Mrs Mudge was obviously Mrs Mudge. She had no figure, no individuality, and no features. Neither had she any colouring. She was, indeed, so colourless as to be almost invisible. When she was with Mr Mudge one could recognise her as his wife. Apart from Mr Mudge one would never have seen her at all.
Harding’s heart fell. He had expected, at worst, a party of men. However large the actual party was to be, Mrs Mudge’s presence would cast a gloom over it. A skeleton at a banquet would be the ‘life and soul of the party’ compared with Mrs Mudge. Horror of horrors, Mr Mudge announced that he was only waiting for one lady.
It flashed through Harding’s mind that it might be possible to say that he had suddenly been called to Scotland, or to state on oath that he was dead, or to tell some other monstrous lie and leave the building.
Then it was that the thing happened.
Sumptuously gowned, magnificently jewelled, a figure glided across the red velvet carpet. Her hair of deep brown was arranged in the French fashion, which on an English woman generally produces the effect of an over-elaborately dressed head, but was particularly becoming to her. Her profile was almost Greek, her violet eyes shone bewitchingly under long eyelashes. But the greatest beauty she possessed was her wonderful complexion like peaches and cream; it was daintily tinted, obviously caressing to the touch. Harding noticed that her figure was in keeping with her other gifts. She walked with all the grace and confidence of an American woman, and she could not be—well, she could not be more than twenty. Oh, if only he was to dine with her!
To his surprise she approached Mr Mudge. This marvel of grace and beauty deliberately went up to the old man with the snow-white Father Christmas beard—a polar beaver of the first water, to be technical—and said:
‘Mr Mudge, I think. Mr Mudge, I’m sure.’
‘May I introduce my wife…Miss Clive. Mr Harding…Miss Clive.’
When the introduction was effected the old man asked:
‘But how did you recognise me?’
‘Ask yourself, Mr Mudge,’ she replied, smiling.
‘Look round this room. Are there any other solicitors here? Obviously you are the only eminent family solicitor present. And you are clearly…oh, so clearly Mr Mudge.’
This little speech had revealed to Harding the additional fact that she was possessed of beautiful teeth. Was the woman in all things perfect? Perhaps she would turn out to be stupid.
He shuddered at the thought. How terrible! What ignominy to fall in love at first sight with a woman who was a dolt!
During dinner he became convinced of two things, one that she was a brilliant woman, and the other that Mr Mudge did not know how to order a meal.
On all subjects she talked, and on all subjects she talked well. Her mind, indeed, seemed to be filled with information that as a rule can only be acquired by personal experience.
He, himself, made every effort to interest her. He even made a sacrifice very uncommon in a barrister. He forbore to tell her anecdotes indicative of his forensic acumen.
The Mudge beard worked hard. He ate heartily and spoke little. Mrs Mudge, after the entrée, had practically ceased to be present.
Harding and Miss Clive performed a conversational duet. Her face mesmerised him. He absorbed it with his eyes. And strangely enough, although he realised he had never in his life seen any woman so beautiful as she, yet there was about her face something not unfamiliar. Was there any truth in the theory of the transmigration of souls? Had he, in a previous existence, wooed and won this marvellous woman? If he had seen her before in this life, he would certainly have remembered her. There were many men at the Savoy, dining at tables near, who stared at her. He was quite convinced that no one of those, if he met her again, would think he met her for the first time. Why was memory playing him such a strange trick? He, who always prided himself upon the fact that he never forgot names or faces, could not shake off the idea that he had seen her before.
He put the question to her:
‘I can’t help thinking, Miss Clive, that I have met you somewhere. Do you remember ever having seen me?’
‘Your name,’ she answered laughing, ‘is very familiar to me, but I have completely forgotten your face.’
As he handed her into her motor, he said:
‘May I come and see you?’
She smiled graciously.
‘Certainly, Mr Harding. I shall be delighted.’
‘On what day?’
‘I am often in about tea-time.’
‘But what day?’ he persisted.
Pouting her lips into a rose-bud, whilst her eyes twinkled, she answered:
‘Oh, please, won’t you take your chance, or am I asking too much? Besides, I am on the telephone. 2835 Mayfair.’
‘2835 Mayfair is the most beautiful telephone number in the world. But what is your address?’
‘Sixty-nine Pembroke Street.’