"I―I don't see the peacock," said I, looking round.
"Peacock?" she echoed, and her brows puckered, "What peacock?"
Then I laughed.
"Why bless me, it's you, Jessie. Your pardon; I mistook you for Juno."
"Oh?" And to get level she drew unflattering parallels between me and every god, demi-god and hero of the ancients, and wound up by asking me whither I was going.
"To the dogs," said I, mournfully.
"I mean this afternoon," she explained.
"Oh, anywhere. It doesn't matter."
"Come with me then."
I shook my head.
"You look too gay for me; I feel too sad for you. No doubt you are as anxious to preserve your gaiety as I am to harbour my melancholy. By association we should probably both suffer."
But she insisted, and when Jessie insists she is difficult to withstand. Five minutes later we were on our way to her studio in a hansom. She was expecting, she told me, some friends to tea. Jessie Willoughby was an artist―at least she believed herself one, as did also a few admiring friends; admirers, it must be confessed, of her delightful personality, her toilettes and her beauty, rather than of her art. Blessed with a sufficiency of this world's goods, Jessie could afford to play at being a Bohemian, make nasty messes with colours and enjoy the emancipation from conventional trammels that is the prerogative of the class to which she claimed―by the slenderest of artistic rights―to belong.
Surrounded by the daubs that marred what otherwise might have been a handsome room, I took Jessie into my confidence before the others arrived. She heard me through patiently and sympathetically.
"My poor Paddy, what a sombre tragedy! Won't you tell me her name?"
"Millie," said I.
"How fresh and innocent," she rhapsodised, "how pretty, how sweet, how suggestive of buttercups and things."
"Jessie, you are laughing at me," I protested.
"Indeed, no. But what is her other name? Who is she?"
"Millie Dewbury."
"Of Stollbridge?" she asked, looking up with what seemed a new interest.
"Why, yes. Do you know her?"
"No, I don't know her," she replied. Her eyes danced with an amusement that I could not understand, and from her parted lips came a soft, cooing laugh.
"What amuses you?" I asked a trifle sulkily, for although we realise that our sufferings may prove a source of entertainment to the rest of the world, we hardly care for the friend to whom we expose them to laugh in our face for answer.
"Paddy," she said gravely, "I remember that you used to have a poor opinion of a woman's wit. I am going to show you how very wrong you were. Be guided by me; follow my advice implicitly, and in a week your engagement to this Millie of yours shall receive her uncle's sanction."
I think that my stare was justified.
"How can you help me?" I asked at last, and then, before she could reply, the door was opened, and to my disgust her maid announced a visitor. On the heels of this one―a young man with a flowing necktie, straw-coloured hair and pince-nez―came a host of others, until her room was filled by as motley an assemblage of men and women as ever the gregariousness of human nature drew together. They were mostly Bohemians, some in stern reality, others mere make-believes like herself, and in a more placid frame of mind I might have found much to interest and amuse me in the observation of them. As it was I sat preoccupied, making abortive attempts at conversation with a fluffy-haired little girl―a musician, I think―who for her sins had been entrusted to me by our hostess. Jessie had told her that I was a young man of parts, a writer of some promise. From my general dullness she may have been justified in assuming me a humorist.
Of a sudden, however, my interest in my surroundings was vigorously aroused by the shock of surprise that I received when the maid announced―"Mr. Dewbury." He was certainly the last man in the world I expected to see, and this was the last place in the world in which I expected to see him.
He came forward now, the very incarnation of geniality and eagerness―a sort of transfigured Dewbury whom hitherto I had never met―and as he shook hands with Jessie, I clearly heard her thank him for the flowers he had sent, whereat my wonder grew. She gave him some tea, and then leaving him in conversation with a struggling young painter―whether struggling to live or struggling to paint was not made clear to me―she came to sit beside me.
"Well?" she inquired, "Are you surprised?"
"Of course I am. I had no notion that he was in town, nor even that you knew him."
"To the observer," she murmured tritely, "life is a never-ending round of surprises. I may have one or two more for you before long. Paddy, I am your good angel."
She was smiling at me with eyes so full of adoration that but for the memory of Mildred they might have proved my undoing. I looked across at Mildred's uncle to find his glance riveted upon me. Where now was the geniality? Where now the eagerness? The Dewbury that sat there now was the Dewbury that I knew―scowling and malevolent. I smiled and nodded easily. He acknowledged my greeting without warmth, and turned to struggle into conversation with the struggling painter.
Jessie seemed to forget her guests. She drew me into a spirited conversation, consisting on my part of endless inquiries into the methods she intended to pursue to assist me, and on hers of endless, evasive persiflage, which, however amusing to her, was peculiarly trying to me. Ever and anon Dewbury would glance in our direction, his eyes eloquent with unrest. It occurred to me that he wished to speak to Jessie, but that my presence restrained him.
At last her guests began to depart, and little by little the number ebbed until only Dewbury and I were left. We carried on a conversation for some moments―that is to say, Jessie talked, addressing her remarks mainly to me―until with an unconscious sigh Mr. Dewbury rose and murmured that he must be going.
"I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you at the Hampshire's to-night," said he. But Jessie shook her head.
"I am afraid not. Paddy has asked me to dinner," she added in her breezy way, "and we are killing the fatted calf in honour of his return to town."
Now I had done nothing of the sort, and I was aghast to hear her. But my feelings must have been as water to wine compared with Dewbury's. His eyebrows went up until they threatened to join forces with his hair, and in tones of unmistakable horror―
"You are having dinner with Mr. Holford?" he gasped.
She laughed, and as if to explain―
"Why Paddy and I are old friends," she cried, and he, forced to accept that explanation, withdrew.
She watched him depart, and her merry eyes became for a second quite serious. "Poor fellow," she murmured in a voice that was like a caress, and which set me thinking. Then she turned to me―
"Run along now, Paddy, there's a good child. You may come and see me in the morning. Eleven o'clock sharp. And if you would serve your interests you had better bring me some flowers."
"But are you not coming to dinner?" I inquired, more and more puzzled.
"I have changed my mind."
"Yes, but―"
The merriest of laughs rippled from her lips, and her grey eyes were a-dance with amusement.
"Oh, Paddy, Paddy, I always thought a writer was a professional observer. I am afraid you will never achieve greatness. But there―if you can't see what I'm doing for you, I am not going to explain. It's something I wouldn't do for anyone else, Paddy; and, anyhow, it is something that is going to lead you to buy an engagement ring this week for your little, rustic Millie."
It may be that I am, after all, a singularly dull-witted person; it certainly seems to me now that I should have understood it all along, but my mind was dense as a fog that evening. At least, however, the fog was pierced by the ray of hope she cast upon me with such encouraging assurance, and influenced by it, I grew sanguine and cheerful.