CHAPTER III

IN THE DRAWING-ROOM

After dinner, when the men came into the drawing-room, Francis Lingen

went directly to Lucy and began to talk to her. Lancelot fidgeted for

Urquhart who, however, was in easy converse with the Judge and his

host--looking at the water-colours as the talk went on, and cutting in

as a thought struck him. Lucy, seeing that all her guests were

reasonably occupied, lent herself to Lingen's murmured conversation,

and felt for it just so much tolerance, so much compassion, you may

say, as to be able to brave Mabel's quizzing looks from across the

room. Mabel always had a gibe for Francis Lingen. She called him the

Ewe Lamb, and that kind of thing. It was plain that she scorned him.

Lucy, on the other hand, pitied him without knowing it, which was even

more desperate for the young man. It had never entered Lingen's head,

however, that anybody could pity him. True, he was poor; but then he

was very expensive. He liked good things; he liked them choice. And

they must have distinction; above all, they must be rare. He had some

things which were unique: a chair in ivory and bronze, one of a set

made for Mme. de Lamballe, and two of Horace Walpole's snuff-boxes. He

had a private printing-press, and did his own poems, on vellum. He had

turned off a poem to Lucy while she was inspecting the _appareil_

once. "To L. M. from the Fount." "Sonnets while you wait," said Mabel,

curving her upper lip; but there was nothing in it, because many

ladies had received the same tribute. He had borrowed that too from

Horace Walpole, and only wanted notice. Now you don't pity a man who

can do these things, even if he has got no money; and for what else

but want of money could you pity a man of taste?

I believe myself that both Mabel and Lucy overrated Francis Lingen's

attentions. I don't think that they amounted to much more than

providing himself with a sounding-board, and occasional looking-glass.

He loved to talk, and to know himself listened to; he loved to look

and to know himself looked at. You learned a lot about yourself that

way. You saw how your things were taken. A poet--for he called himself

poet, and had once so described himself in a hotel visitors' book--a

poet can only practise his art by exerting it, and only learn its

effect by studying his hearers. He preferred ladies for audience, and

one lady at a time: there were obvious reasons for that. Men never

like other men's poetry. Wordsworth, we know, avowedly read but his

own.

But Mabel, and Lucy too, read all sorts of implications. His lowered

tones, his frequency, his persistence--"My dear, he caresses you with

his eyes. You know he does," Mabel used to say. Lucy wondered whether

he really did, and ended by supposing it.

Just now, therefore, Francis Lingen flowed murmuring on his way, like

a purling brook, rippling, fluctuant, carrying insignificant straws,

insects of the hour, on his course, never jamming, or heaving up,

monotonous but soothing. And as for implications--! Good Heavens, he

was stuffed with them like a Michaelmas goose.... "I do so wish that

you could talk with her. You could do so much to straighten things out

for the poor child. You are so wise. There's a kind of balm in your

touch upon life, something that's aromatic and healing at once.

_Sainfoin_, the healing herb--that should be your emblem. I have

always thought so. By the by, have you an emblem? I wish you'd let me

find you one. Old Gerrard will give it me--and I will give it to you.

Some patient, nimble-fingered good soul has coloured my copy. You

shall have it faithfully rendered; and it shall be framed by Le Notre

of Vigo Street--do you know his work? You must--and stand on your

writing-table.... I see you are shaping a protest. Frugality? Another

of your shining qualities. Not of mine? No, no. I admire it in you. It

is not a manly virtue. A 'frugal swain' means a harassed wife. Now,

confess. Would you have me board? I believe I would do it if you asked

me...." Not very exciting, all this; but if you want implications--!

It was while this was going on that Lancelot, hovering and full of

purpose, annexed Urquhart. The Judge, suddenly aware of him between

them, put a hand upon his head as you might fondle the top of a

pedestal--which Lancelot, intent upon his prey, endured. Then his

moment came, a decent subsidence of anecdotes, and his upturned eyes

caught Urquhart's.

"I say, will you come and see my orange-tree? It's just over there,

in the conservatory. It's rather interesting--to me, you know."

Urquhart considered the proposition. "Yes," he said, "I'll do that."

And they went off, Lancelot on tiptoe. Lucy's attention strayed.

The orange-tree was exhibited, made the most of; its history was

related. There was nothing more to say about it. Lancelot, his purpose

growing, gave a nervous laugh.

"No Turk could hide in that, I expect," he said, and trembled.

Urquhart gazed at the weedy little growth.

"No," he said, "he couldn't--yet. But a ladybird could." He picked out

a dormant specimen. But Lancelot was now committed to action beyond

recall. The words burned his lips. "I say," he said, twiddling a leaf

of his orange-tree, "I expect you've been a pirate?"

The Judge had wandered in, and was surveying the pair, his hands deep

in his trousers-pockets.

Urquhart nodded. "You've bit it," he said.

Lancelot had been certain of it. Good Lord! The questions crowded upon

him. "What kind of a ship was yours?"

"She was a brigantine. Fifteen hundred tons."

"Oh! I say--" with the air of, You needn't tell me if you'd rather

not--"was she a good one?"

"She was a clipper."

"What name?"

"The _Dog Star_."

This was beyond everything. "Oh--good. Did you ever hang fellows?"

"We did."

"Many?"

"Some."

He had expected that too. He felt that he was being too obvious. The

man of the world in him came into use. "For treachery, I suppose, and

that kind of thing?"

"Yes," said Urquhart, "and for fun, of course."

Lancelot nodded gloomily. "I know," he said.

"So does Sir Matthew, now," he said. "You've led me into admissions,

you know."

"You are up to the neck," said the Judge. For a moment Lancelot looked

shrewdly from one to the other. Was it possible that--? No, no. He

settled all that. "It's all right. He's a guest, you see--the same as

you are."

Urquhart was looking about him. "I should smoke a cigarette, if I had

one," he said.

Lancelot's hospitality was awake. "Come into Father's room. He has

tons." He led the way for his two friends. They pierced the

conservatory and entered another open glass door. They were now in

James's private room.

On the threshold Lancelot paused to exhibit what he said was a jolly

convenient arrangement. These were two bay windows, with two glass

doors. Between them stretched the conservatory. "Jolly convenient,"

said Lancelot. "What, for burglars?" the Judge asked. "Yes, for

burglars, and policemen, and Father, you know ... I don't think," said

the terse Lancelot. "Why don't you think, my friend?" says the Judge,

and Lancelot became cautious. "Oh, Father won't come into the

drawing-room if he can possibly help it. He says it's Mamma's

province--but I expect he's afraid of meeting women, I mean ladies."

Urquhart blinked at him. "'Never be afraid of any one' will do for you

and me," he said; and Lancelot said deeply, "Rather not." Then they

went into the misogynist's study. The Judge and Urquhart were

accommodated with cigarettes, and Lancelot entertained them. But he

did not pry any further into Urquhart's past. A hint had been enough.

Conversation was easy. Lancelot talked freely of his father. "Father

will be awfully waxy with me for not going to bed. He might easily

come in here--hope he won't, all the same. But do you know what he

likes? He likes the same things to happen at the same time every day.

Now Mamma and I don't agree with him, you see. So it's rather pink

sometimes."

"I expect it is," Urquhart said.

"Mamma of course likes to be quiet a bit. She doesn't like

ructions--hay, and all that. So I keep myself pretty close."

"Quite right," said the Judge.

"I know," Lancelot said, dreamily, and then with great briskness,

"Beastly grind, all the same." The Judge had a fit of coughing, and

Urquhart got up and looked about. Then the Judge said that he too

should catch it if he didn't go back and make himself polite.

Lancelot led the way back, but at the entry of the drawing-room, where

the talk was buzzing like bees in a lime-tree, he put his hand on the

switch, and showed the whites of his eyes. "Shall I dare you to

switch it off?" he said to Urquhart, who replied, "Don't, or I shall

do it." Lancelot and he entered the room; but before the Judge

followed there was a momentary flicker of the lights. Lancelot nudged

Urquhart. "_He's_ all right," he said out of one corner of his mouth.

"Oh, he's all right," Urquhart agreed.

They both went to Lucy, and Lingen looked mildly round, interrupted in

his flow. Lancelot's greeting was, "Darling, you really must go to

bed." He knew it. It was so obvious--the abhorrent eyeglass

apart--that he didn't even try the pathetic "Only a week before

school."

He got up, enquiring of his mother if she would swear to come up

presently. "Well, good-bye," he said to Urquhart, and held out his

hand.

"Good night to you," said Urquhart. "Anyhow, you know the worst."

But Lancelot shook his cautious head. "No," he said, "not the

worst"--and then with a deep chuckle, "but the best. Hoho! Two wives!"

With that he went.

"Jolly chap," said Urquhart, and sat himself down by Lucy, to Lingen's

inexpressible weariness. She warmed to his praise, but denied him, her

conscience at work. "No, you mustn't sit down. I shall take you to

talk to Lady Bliss. You'll like her."

"No, I shan't," he said. "I can see that. And she'll think I've

corrupted her husband." But he had to go. Lingen, also, she recruited

for service. He had had a good innings and found himself able to be

enthusiastic about Urquhart. He could bear to discuss him--in possible

relations with himself, of course. Miss Bacchus sized him up aloud,

according to her habit. "Jimmy Urquhart--a good man? Yes, he's a live

man. No flies on Jimmy Urquhart. Been everywhere, had a bit of most

things. Why, I suppose Jimmy has eaten more things than you've ever

read about."

"I've read Brillat-Savarin," said Lingen modestly.

"I dare say Jimmy's had a notch out of _him_," said Miss Bacchus.

"He's what I call a blade."

Lingen didn't ask her what she called him.