|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 66
"That damned bath!" cried Mr. Wilkins, imperfectly concealed in
his towel, his shoulders exposed at one end and his legs at the other,
and Lady Caroline Dester, to meet whom he had swallowed all his anger
with his wife and come out to Italy.
For Lotty in her letter had told him who was at San Salvatore
besides herself and Mrs. Arbuthnot, and Mr. Wilkins at once had
perceived that this was an opportunity which might never recur. Lotty
had merely said, "There are two other women here, Mrs. Fisher and Lady
Caroline Dester," but that was enough. He knew all about the
Droitwiches, their wealth, their connections, their place in history,
and the power they had, should they choose to exert it, of making yet
another solicitor happy by adding him to those they already employed.
Some people employed one solicitor for one branch of their affairs, and
another for another. The affairs of the Droitwiches must have many
branches. He had also heard--for it was, he considered, part of his
business to hear, and having heard to remember--of the beauty of their
only daughter. Even if the Droitwiches themselves did not need his
services, their daughter might. Beauty led one into strange
situations; advice could never come amiss. And should none of them,
neither parents nor daughter nor any of their brilliant sons, need him
in his professional capacity, it yet was obviously a most valuable
acquaintance to make. It opened up vistas. It swelled with
possibilities. He might go on living in Hampstead for years, and not
again come across such another chance.
Directly his wife's letter reached him he telegraphed and packed.
This was business. He was not a man to lose time when it came to
business; nor was he a man to jeopardize a chance by neglecting to be
amiable. He met his wife perfectly amiably, aware that amiability
under such circumstances was wisdom. Besides, he actually felt
amiable--very. For once, Lotty was really helping him. He kissed her
affectionately on getting out of Beppo's fly, and was afraid she must
have got up extremely early; he made no complaints of the steepness of
the walk up; he told her pleasantly of his journey, and when called
upon, obediently admired the views. It was all neatly mapped out in
his mind, what he was going to do that first day--have a shave, have a
bath, put on clean clothes, sleep a while, and then would come lunch
and the introduction to Lady Caroline.
In the train he had selected the words of his greeting, going
over them with care--some slight expression of his gratification in
meeting one of whom he, in common with the whole world, had heard--but
of course put delicately, very delicately; some slight reference to her
distinguished parents and the part her family had played in the history
of England--made, of course, with proper tact; a sentence or two about
her eldest brother Lord Winchcombe, who had won his V.C. in the late
war under circumstances which could only cause--he might or might not
add this--every Englishman's heart to beat higher than ever with pride,
and the first steps towards what might well be the turning-point in his
career would have been taken.
And here he was . . . no, it was too terrible, what could be more
terrible? Only a towel on, water running off his legs, and that
exclamation. He knew at once the lady was Lady Caroline--the minute
the exclamation was out he knew it. Rarely did Mr. Wilkins use that
word, and never, never in the presence of a lady or a client. While as
for the towel--why had he come? Why had he not stayed in Hampstead?
It would be impossible to live this down.
But Mr. Wilkins was reckoning without Scrap. She, indeed,
screwed up her face at the first flash of him on her astonished sight
in an enormous effort not to laugh, and having choked the laughter down
and got her face serious again, she said as composedly as if he had had
all his clothes on, "How do you do."
What perfect tact. Mr. Wilkins could have worshipped her. This
exquisite ignoring. Blue blood, of course, coming out.
Overwhelmed with gratitude he took her offered hand and said "How
do you do," in his turn, and merely to repeat the ordinary words seemed
magically to restore the situation to the normal. Indeed, he was so
much relieved, and it was so natural to be shaking hands, to be
conventionally greeting, that he forgot he had only a towel on and his
professional manner came back to him. He forgot what he was looking
like, but he did not forget that this was Lady Caroline Dester, the
lady he had come all the way to Italy to see, and he did not forget
that it was in her face, her lovely and important face, that he had
flung his terrible exclamation. He must at once entreat her
forgiveness. To say such a word to a lady--to any lady, but of all
ladies to just this one . . .
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|