The mutter of the traffic from Park Lane formed a sort of ground base to her rebellious misery. She became so restless that she could not lie in bed, and, putting on her dressing gown, stole noiselessly about her room till she was chilled by the late October air coming through the opened window. Perhaps there was something in being married, after all; you had a chest to snuggle against and if need be weep on; you had an ear to pour complaint into; and lips that would make the mooing sounds of sympathy. But worse than being single during this time of trial was being inactive. She envied those who, like her father and Sir Lawrence, were at least taking cabs and going about; greatly she envied Jean and Alan. Whatever they were up to was better than being up to nothing, like herself! She took out the emerald pendant and looked at it. That at least was something to do on the morrow, and she pictured herself with this in her hand forcing large sums of money out of some flinty person with a tendency towards the art of lending.
Placing the pendant beneath her pillow, as though its proximity were an insurance against her sense of helplessness, she fell asleep at last.
Next morning she was down early. It had occurred to her that she could perhaps pawn the pendant, get the money, and take it to Jean before she left. And she decided to consult the butler, Blore. After all, she had known him since she was five; he was an institution and had never divulged any of the iniquities she had confided in him in her childhood.
She went up to him, therefore, when he appeared with her Aunt’s special coffee machine.
“Blore.”
“Yes, Miss Dinny.”
“Will you be frightfully nice and tell me, IN CONFIDENCE, who is supposed to be the best pawnbroker in London?”
Surprised but impassive—for, after all, anybody might have to ‘pop’ anything in these days—the butler placed the coffee machine at the head of the table and stood reflecting.
“Well, Miss Dinny, of course there’s Attenborough’s, but I’m told the best people go to a man called Frewen in South Molton Street. I can get you the number from the telephone book. They say he’s reliable and very fair.”
“Splendid, Blore! It’s just a little matter.”
“Quite so, Miss.”
“Oh! And, Blore, would you—should I give my own name?”
“No, Miss Dinny; if I might suggest: give my wife’s name and this address. Then, if there has to be any communication, I could get it to you by telephone, and no one the wiser.”
“Oh! that’s a great relief. But wouldn’t Mrs. Blore mind?”
“Oh! no, Miss, only too glad to oblige you. I could do the matter for you if you wish.”
“Thank you, Blore, but I’m afraid I must do it myself.”
The butler caressed his chin and regarded her; his eye seemed to Dinny benevolent but faintly quizzical.
“Well, Miss, if I may say so, a little nonchalance goes a long way even with the best of them. There are others if he doesn’t offer value.”
“Thank you frightfully, Blore; I’ll let you know if he doesn’t. Would half past nine be too early?”
“From what I hear, Miss, that is the best hour; you get him fresh and hearty.”
“Dear Blore!”
“I’m told he’s an understanding gent, who can tell a lady when he sees one. He won’t confuse you with some of those Tottie madams.”
Dinny laid her finger to her lips.
“Cross your heart, Blore.”
“Oh! absolutely, Miss. After Mr. Michael you were always my favourite.”
“And so were you, Blore.” She took up ‘The Times’ as her father entered, and Blore withdrew.
“Sleep well, Dad?”
The General nodded.
“And Mother’s head?”
“Better. She’s coming down. We’ve decided that it’s no use to worry, Dinny.”
“No, darling, it isn’t, of course. D’you think we could begin breakfast?”
“Em won’t be down, and Lawrence has his at eight. You make the coffee.”
Dinny, who shared her Aunt’s passion for good coffee went reverentially to work.
“What about Jean?” asked the General, suddenly. “Is she coming to us?”
Dinny did not raise her eyes.
“I don’t think so, Dad; she’ll be too restless; I expect she’ll just make out by herself. I should want to, if I were her.”
“I daresay, poor girl. She’s got pluck, anyway. I’m glad Hubert married a girl of spirit. Those Tasburghs have got their hearts in the right place. I remember an uncle of hers in India—daring chap, a Goorkha regiment, they swore by him. Let me see, where was he killed?”
Dinny bent lower over the coffee.
It was barely half past nine when she went out with the pendant in her vanity bag, and her best hat on. At half past nine precisely she was going up to the first floor above a shop in South Molton Street. Within a large room, at a mahogany table, were two seated gentlemen, who might have seemed to her like high-class bookmakers if she had known what such were like. She looked at them anxiously, seeking for signs of heartiness. They appeared, at least, to be fresh, and one of them came towards her.
Dinny passed an invisible tongue over her lips.
“I’m told that you are so good as to lend money on valuable jewellery?”
“Quite, Madam.” He was grey, and rather bald, and rather red, with light eyes, and he stood regarding her through a pair of pince-nez which he held in his hand. Placing them on his nose, he drew a chair up to the table, made a motion with one hand, and resumed his seat. Dinny sat down.
“I want rather a lot, five hundred,” and she smiled: “It was an heirloom, quite nice.”
Both the seated gentlemen bowed slightly.
“And I want it at once, because I have to make a payment. Here it is!” And out of her bag she drew the pendant, unwrapped it and pushed it forward on the table. Then, remembering the needed touch of nonchalance, she leaned back and crossed her knees.
Both of them looked at the pendant for a full minute without movement or speech. Then the second gentleman opened a drawer and took out a magnifying glass. While he was examining the pendant, Dinny was conscious that the first gentleman was examining herself. That—she supposed—was the way they divided labour. Which would they decide was the more genuine piece? She felt rather breathless, but kept her eyebrows slightly raised and her eyelids half closed.
“Your own property, Madam?” said the first gentleman.
Remembering once more the old proverb, Dinny uttered an emphatic: “Yes.”
The second gentleman lowered his glass, and seemed to weigh the pendant in his hand.
“Very nice,” he said. “Old-fashioned, but very nice. And for how long would you want the money?”
Dinny, who had no idea, said boldly: “Six months; but I suppose I could redeem it before?”
“Oh! yes. Five hundred, did you say?”
“Please.”
“If you are satisfied, Mr. Bondy,” said the second gentleman, “I am.”