Read Ebook: The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh; and the Irish Sketch Book by Thackeray William Makepeace

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Ebook has 370 lines and 14935 words, and 8 pages

She was greatly astonished; she had to turn before she could credit it.

"I thought they were behind us," she repeated several times. "I'm sure they saw us move. Oh, well, they'll find it out in a minute, I expect! Never mind!"

They strolled up and down.

"Sorry you're going, Mr. Turquand? Your friend will miss you very much."

"I don't think so," he answered. "He knew I was only running over for a few days."

"He tells me it is the first holiday he has taken for years," she said. "His profession seems to engross him. I suppose it is an engrossing one. But he oughtn't to exhaust his strength. I needn't ask you if you've read his novel. What do you think of it?"

"I think it extremely clever work," said Turquand.

"It has certainly given him a literary position."

"They're dead," said Turquand.

Mrs. Walford was surprised again. She had "somehow taken it for granted that they were living," and as she understood that he had no brothers or sisters, it must be very lonely for him?

Her giggle announced that she found this entertaining, but the approval did not loosen his tongue. She fanned herself strenuously, and decided that, besides being untidy, he was dense.

"Of course, in one way," she pursued, "his condition is an advantage to him. Literary people have to work so hard if they depend on their writing, don't they?"

"I do," he assented, "I'm sorry to say."

His constant obtrusion of himself into the matter annoyed her very much. She had neither inquired nor cared if he worked hard, and she felt disposed to say so. Turquand, who realised now why honours had been thrust upon him this evening, regretted that loyalty to Kent prevented his doing him what he felt would be the greatest service that could be rendered and removing the temptation of the mauve girl permanently from his path.

"With talent and private means our author is fortunate?"

"I often tell him so," he said.

"'Wealth' is a big word," said he. "Kent certainly can't be called 'wealthy.'"

"But he doesn't depend on his pen?" she cried with painful carelessness.

"He has some private means, I believe; in fact, I know it."

"I'm not sure that I follow you."

She played with her fan airily.

"He is certain to succeed, I mean; he needn't fear anything, as he has a competence. Oh, I know what these professions are," she went on, laughing. "My son is in the artistic world, we are quite behind the scenes. I know how hard-up some of the biggest professionals are when they have nothing but their profession to depend on. A profession is so precarious--shocking--even when one has aptitude for it."

"Kent has more than 'aptitude,'" he said. "He has power. Perhaps he'll always work too much for himself and the reviewers to attract the widest public. Perhaps he's a trifle inclined to over-do the analytical element in his stuff; but that's the worst that can be said. And, then, it's a question of taste. For myself, I'm a believer, in the introspective school, and I think his method's It."

"Schools" and "methods" were meaningless to the lady in such a connection. Novels were novels, and they were either "good" or they were "rubbish," if she understood anything about them--and she had read them all her life. She looked perplexed, and reiterated the phrase that she had already used.

"Oh, extremely clever, brilliant--most brilliant, really! I quite agree with you."

"Your son writes, did you say, Mrs. Walford?"

"Oh no, not writes--no! No, my son sings. He sings. He is studying for the operatic stage." Her tone couldn't have been more impressive if she had said he was de Reszke. "His voice is quite magnificent."

"Really!" he replied with interest. "That's a great gift--a voice."

"He is 'coming out' soon," she said. "He--er--could get an engagement at any moment, but--he is so conscientious. He feels he must do himself justice when he makes his debut. Justice. In professional circles he is thought an immense amount of--immense!"

"Has he sung at any concerts?"

"In private," she explained--"socially. He visits among musicians a great deal. And of course it makes it very lively for us. He is quite --er--in the swim!"

"Yes, she is very much admired," she admitted--"very much! But a strange girl, Mr. Turquand. You wouldn't believe how strange!"

He did not press her to put him to the test, but she supplied the particulars as if glad of the opportunity. He remarked that, in narrating matters of which she was proud, she adopted a breathless, staccato delivery, which provoked the suspicion that she was inventing the facts as she went on.

"No?" he said.

"A Viscount!" she gasped. "She refused a Viscount in Monte Carlo last year. A splendid fellow! Enormously wealthy. Perfectly wild about her. She wouldn't look at him."

"You astonish me," he murmured.

Mrs. Walford shook her head speechlessly, with closed eyes.

"And there were others," she said in a reviving spasm--"dazzling positions! Treated them like dirt. She said, if she didn't care for a man, nothing would induce her. What can one do with such a romantic goose? Be grateful that you aren't a mother, Mr. Turquand."

"Some day," he opined, without returning thanks, "the young lady will be induced."

"She must have felt it a grave responsibility," observed the journalist politely, "that a young man said he wanted to commit suicide on her account."

"That's just it, she feels it a terrible responsibility. Oh, she's not fond of him! Sorry for him, you understand--sorry. And, between ourselves, I'm sure I really don't know what to think would be for the best--I don't indeed! But I wouldn't mind wagering a pair of gloves, that, if she doesn't meet Mr. Right soon, she'll end by giving in and Mr. Somebody-else will have stolen the prize before he comes--hee, hee, hee!"

Turquand groaned in his soul. In his mental vision his friend already flopped helplessly in the web, and he derived small encouragement from the reflection that she was mistaken in the succulence of her fly.

"You're not smoking," she said. "Do! I don't mind it a bit."

He scowled at her darkly, and was prepared to see betrothal in the eyes of the absent pair when they rejoined them.

As yet, however, they were still wedged in the crowd around the tables. On their right, a fat Frenchwoman cried "Assez! assez!" imploringly as her horse, leading by a foot, threatened at last to glide past the winning-post and leave victory in the rear; to their left, an English girl, evidently on her honeymoon, was making radiant demands on the bridegroom's gold. Kent had lost sixteen francs, and Miss Walford had lost five before they perceived that the others had retired.

"We had better go and look for them," she declared.

The well-bred sea shimmered in the moonlight now, and the terrace was so thronged that investigation could be made only in a saunter.

"I wonder where they have got to," she murmured.

Her companion was too contented to be curious.

"We're sure to come upon them in a minute," he said. "Do you abuse Dieppe, too, Miss Walford?"

"Not at all--no. It is mamma who is bored."

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