“Bill, old scout,” I said, “there aren't any frightful girls or any rot of that sort stopping here, are there?”
“Wish there were,” he said. “No such luck.”
As we pulled up at the front door, it opened, and a woman's figure appeared.
“Have you got him, Bill?” she said, which in my present frame of mind struck me as a jolly creepy way of putting it. The sort of thing Lady Macbeth might have said to Macbeth, don't you know.
“Do you mean me?” I said.
She came down into the light. It was Elizabeth, looking just the same as in the old days.
“Is that you, Reggie? I'm so glad you were able to come. I was afraid you might have forgotten all about it. You know what you are. Come along in and have some tea.”
* * * * *
Have you ever been turned down by a girl who afterwards married and then been introduced to her husband? If so you'll understand how I felt when Clarence burst on me. You know the feeling. First of all, when you hear about the marriage, you say to yourself, “I wonder what he's like.” Then you meet him, and think, “There must be some mistake. She can't have preferred this to me!” That's what I thought, when I set eyes on Clarence.
He was a little thin, nervous-looking chappie of about thirty-five. His hair was getting grey at the temples and straggly on top. He wore pince-nez, and he had a drooping moustache. I'm no Bombardier Wells myself, but in front of Clarence I felt quite a nut. And Elizabeth, mind you, is one of those tall, splendid girls who look like princesses. Honestly, I believe women do it out of pure cussedness.
“How do you do, Mr. Pepper? Hark! Can you hear a mewing cat?” said Clarence. All in one breath, don't you know.
“Eh?” I said.
“A mewing cat. I feel sure I hear a mewing cat. Listen!”
While we were listening the door opened, and a white-haired old gentleman came in. He was built on the same lines as Clarence, but was an earlier model. I took him correctly, to be Mr. Yeardsley, senior. Elizabeth introduced us.
“Father,” said Clarence, “did you meet a mewing cat outside? I feel positive I heard a cat mewing.”
“No,” said the father, shaking his head; “no mewing cat.”
“I can't bear mewing cats,” said Clarence. “A mewing cat gets on my nerves!”
“A mewing cat is so trying,” said Elizabeth.
“I dislike mewing cats,” said old Mr. Yeardsley.
That was all about mewing cats for the moment. They seemed to think they had covered the ground satisfactorily, and they went back to pictures.
We talked pictures steadily till it was time to dress for dinner. At least, they did. I just sort of sat around. Presently the subject of picture-robberies came up. Somebody mentioned the “Monna Lisa,” and then I happened to remember seeing something in the evening paper, as I was coming down in the train, about some fellow somewhere having had a valuable painting pinched by burglars the night before. It was the first time I had had a chance of breaking into the conversation with any effect, and I meant to make the most of it. The paper was in the pocket of my overcoat in the hall. I went and fetched it.
“Here it is,” I said. “A Romney belonging to Sir Bellamy Palmer——”
They all shouted “What!” exactly at the same time, like a chorus. Elizabeth grabbed the paper.
“Let me look! Yes. 'Late last night burglars entered the residence of Sir Bellamy Palmer, Dryden Park, Midford, Hants——'
“Why, that's near here,” I said. “I passed through Midford——”
“Dryden Park is only two miles from this house,” said Elizabeth. I noticed her eyes were sparkling.
“Only two miles!” she said. “It might have been us! It might have been the 'Venus'!”
Old Mr. Yeardsley bounded in his chair.
“The 'Venus'!” he cried.
They all seemed wonderfully excited. My little contribution to the evening's chat had made quite a hit.
Why I didn't notice it before I don't know, but it was not till Elizabeth showed it to me after dinner that I had my first look at the Yeardsley “Venus.” When she led me up to it, and switched on the light, it seemed impossible that I could have sat right through dinner without noticing it. But then, at meals, my attention is pretty well riveted on the foodstuffs. Anyway, it was not till Elizabeth showed it to me that I was aware of its existence.
She and I were alone in the drawing-room after dinner. Old Yeardsley was writing letters in the morning-room, while Bill and Clarence were rollicking on the half-size billiard table with the pink silk tapestry effects. All, in fact, was joy, jollity, and song, so to speak, when Elizabeth, who had been sitting wrapped in thought for a bit, bent towards me and said, “Reggie.”
And the moment she said it I knew something was going to happen. You know that pre-what-d'you-call-it you get sometimes? Well, I got it then.
“What-o?” I said nervously.
“Reggie,” she said, “I want to ask a great favour of you.”
“Yes?”
She stooped down and put a log on the fire, and went on, with her back to me:
“Do you remember, Reggie, once saying you would do anything in the world for me?”
There! That's what I meant when I said that about the cheek of Woman as a sex. What I mean is, after what had happened, you'd have thought she would have preferred to let the dead past bury its dead, and all that sort of thing, what?
Mind you, I had said I would do anything in the world for her. I admit that. But it was a distinctly pre-Clarence remark. He hadn't appeared on the scene then, and it stands to reason that a fellow who may have been a perfect knight-errant to a girl when he was engaged to her, doesn't feel nearly so keen on spreading himself in that direction when she has given him the miss-in-baulk, and gone and married a man who reason and instinct both tell him is a decided blighter.
I couldn't think of anything to say but “Oh, yes.”
“There's something you can do for me now, which will make me everlastingly grateful.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know, Reggie,” she said suddenly, “that only a few months ago Clarence was very fond of cats?”
“Eh! Well, he still seems—er—interested in them, what?”
“Now they get on his nerves. Everything gets on his nerves.”
“Some fellows swear by that stuff you see advertised all over the——”
“No, that wouldn't help him. He doesn't need to take anything. He wants to get rid of something.”
“I don't quite fellow. Get rid of something?”
“The 'Venus,'“ said Elizabeth.
She looked up and caught my bulging eye.
“You saw the 'Venus,'“ she said.
“Not that I remember.”
“Well, come into the dining-room.”
We went into the dining-room, and she switched on the lights.
“There,” she said.
On the wall close to the door—that may have been why I hadn't noticed it before; I had sat with my back to it—was a large oil-painting. It was what you'd call a classical picture, I suppose. What I mean is—well, you know what I mean. All I can say is that it's funny I hadn't noticed it.
“Is that the 'Venus'?” I said.
She nodded.
“How would you like to have to look at that every time you sat down to a meal?”