CHAPTER XI

DINNER WITH BILL

Bundle set out to keep her appointment with Bill on the following

evening full of expectation.

Bill greeted her with every sign of elation.

"Bill really _is_ rather nice," thought Bundle to herself. "Just like a

large, clumsy dog that wags its tail when it's pleased to see you."

The large dog was uttering short staccato yelps of comment and

information.

"You look tremendously fit, Bundle. I can't tell you how pleased I am

to see you. I've ordered oysters--you do like oysters, don't you? And

how's everything? What did you want to go mouldering about abroad so

long? Were you having a very gay time?"

"No, deadly," said Bundle. "Perfectly foul. Old diseased colonels

creeping about in the sun, and active, wizened spinsters running

libraries and churches."

"Give me England," said Bill. "I bar this foreign business--except

Switzerland. Switzerland's all right. I'm thinking of going this

Christmas. Why don't you come along?"

"I'll think of it," said Bundle. "What have you been doing with

yourself lately, Bill?"

It was an incautious query. Bundle had merely made it out of politeness

and as a preliminary to introducing her own topics of conversation. It

was, however, the opening for which Bill had been waiting.

"That's just what I've been wanting to tell you about. You're brainy,

Bundle, and I want your advice. You know that musical show, 'Damn Your

Eyes'?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm going to tell you about one of the dirtiest pieces of work

imaginable. My God! the theatrical crowd. There's a girl--a Yankee

girl--a perfect stunner--"

Bundle's heart sank. The grievances of Bill's lady friends were always

interminable--they went on and on and there was no stemming them.

"This girl, Babe St. Maur her name is--"

"I wonder how she got that name?" said Bundle sarcastically.

Bill replied literally.

"She got it out of _Who's Who_. Opened it and jabbed her finger down on

a page without looking. Pretty nifty, eh? Her real name's Goldschmidt

or Abrameier--something quite impossible."

"Oh! quite," agreed Bundle.

"Well, Babe St. Maur is pretty smart. And she's got muscles. She was

one of the eight girls who made the living bridge--"

"Bill," said Bundle desperately, "I went to see Jimmy Thesiger

yesterday morning."

"Good old Jimmy," said Bill. "Well, as I was telling you, Babe's

pretty smart. You've got to be nowadays. She can put it over on most

theatrical people. If you want to live, be high-handed, that's what

Babe says. And mind you, she's the goods all right. She can act--it's

marvellous how that girl can act. She'd not much chance in 'Damn Your

Eyes'--just swamped in a pack of good-looking girls. I said why not try

the legitimate stage--you know, Mrs. Tanqueray--that sort of stuff--but

Babe just laughed--"

"Have you seen Jimmy at all?"

"Saw him this morning. Let me see, where was I? Oh, yes, I hadn't

got to the rumpus yet. And mind you it was jealousy--sheer, spiteful

jealousy. The other girl wasn't a patch on Babe for looks and she knew

it. So she went behind her back--"

Bundle resigned herself to the inevitable and heard the whole story

of the unfortunate circumstances which had led up to Babe St. Maur's

summary disappearance from the cast of "Damn Your Eyes." It took a long

time. When Bill finally paused for breath and sympathy, Bundle said:

"You're quite right, Bill, it's a rotten shame. There must be a lot of

jealousy about--"

"The whole theatrical world's rotten with it."

"It must be. Did Jimmy say anything to you about coming down to the

Abbey next week?"

For the first time, Bill gave his attention to what Bundle was saying.

"He was full of a long rigmarole he wanted me to stuff Codders with.

About wanting to stand in the Conservative interest. But you know,

Bundle, it's too damned risky."

"Stuff," said Bundle. "If George _does_ find him out, he won't blame

you. You'll just have been taken in, that's all."

"That's not it at all," said Bill. "I mean it's too damned risky for

Jimmy. Before he knows where he is, he'll be parked down somewhere like

Tooting West, pledged to kiss babies and make speeches. You don't know

how thorough Codders is and how frightfully energetic."

"Well, we'll have to risk that," said Bundle. "Jimmy can take care of

himself all right."

"You don't know Codders," repeated Bill.

"Who's coming to this party, Bill? Is it anything very special?"

"Only the usual sort of muck. Mrs. Macatta for one."

"The M.P.?"

"Yes, you know, always going off the deep end about Welfare and Pure

Milk and Save the Children. Think of poor Jimmy being talked to by her."

"Never mind Jimmy. Go on telling me."

"Then there's a Hungarian, what they call a Young Hungarian. Countess

something unpronounceable. She's all right."

He swallowed as though embarrassed and Bundle observed that he was

crumbling his bread nervously.

"Young and beautiful?" she inquired delicately.

"Oh! rather."

"I didn't know George went in for female beauty much."

"Oh! he doesn't. She runs baby feeding in Buda Pesth--something like

that. Naturally she and Mrs. Macatta want to get together."

"Who else?"

"Sir Stanley Digby--"

"The Air Minister?"

"Yes. And his secretary, Terence O'Rourke. He's rather a lad, by

the way--or used to be in his flying days. Then there's a perfectly

poisonous German chap called Herr Eberhard. I don't know who he is, but

we're all making the hell of a fuss about him. I've been twice told off

to take him out to lunch, and I can tell you, Bundle, it was no joke.

He's not like the Embassy chaps, who are all very decent. This man

sucks in soup and eats peas with a knife. Not only that, but the brute

is always biting his finger-nails--positively gnaws at them."

"Pretty foul."

"Isn't it? I believe he invents things--something of the kind. Well,

that's all. Oh! yes, Sir Oswald Coote."

"And Lady Coote?"

"Yes, I believe she's coming too."

Bundle sat lost in thought for some minutes. Bill's list was

suggestive, but she hadn't time to think out various possibilities just

now. She must get on to the next point.

"Bill?" she said. "What's all this about Seven Dials?"

Bill at once looked horribly embarrassed. He blinked and avoided her

glance.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"Nonsense," said Bundle. "I was told you know all about it."

"About what?"

This was rather a poser. Bundle shifted her ground.

"I don't see what you want to be so secretive for," she complained.

"Nothing to be secretive about. Nobody goes there much now. It was only

a craze."

This sounded puzzling.

"One gets so out of things when one is away," said Bundle in a sad

voice.

"Oh! you haven't missed much," said Bill. "Everyone went there just to

say they had been. It was boring really, and, my God, you _can_ get

tired of fried fish."

"Where did everyone go?"

"To the Seven Dials Club, of course," said Bill, staring. "Wasn't that

what you were asking about?"

"I didn't know it by that name," said Bundle.

"Used to be a slummy sort of district round about Tottenham Court Road

way. It's all pulled down and cleaned up now. But the Seven Dials Club

keeps to the old atmosphere. Fried fish and chips. General squalor.

Kind of East End stunt, but awfully handy to get at after a show."

"It's a night club, I suppose," said Bundle. "Dancing and all that?"

"That's it. Awfully mixed crowd. Not a posh affair. Artists, you know,

and all sorts of odd women and a sprinkling of our lot. They say quite

a lot of things, but I think that that's all bunkum myself, just said

to make the place go."

"Good," said Bundle. "We'll go there to-night."

"Oh! I shouldn't do that," said Bill. His embarrassment had returned.

"I tell you it's played out. Nobody goes there now."

"Well, we're going."

"You wouldn't care for it, Bundle. You wouldn't really."

"You're going to take me to the Seven Dials Club and nowhere else,

Bill. And I should like to know why you are so unwilling?"

"I? Unwilling?"

"Painfully so. What's the guilty secret?"

"Guilty secret?"

"Don't keep repeating what I say. You do it to give yourself time."

"I don't," said Bill indignantly. "It's only--"

"Well? I know there's something. You never can conceal anything."

"I've got nothing to conceal. It's only--"

"Well?"

"It's a long story--You see, I took Babe St. Maur there one night--"

"Oh! Babe St. Maur again."

"Why not?"

"I didn't know it was about her--" said Bundle, stifling a yawn.

"As I say, I took Babe there. She rather fancied a lobster. I had a

lobster under my arm--"

The story went on--When the lobster had been finally dismembered in

a struggle between Bill and a fellow who was a rank outsider, Bundle

brought her attention back to him.

"I see," she said. "And there was a row?"

"Yes, but it was _my_ lobster. I'd bought it and paid for it. I had a

perfect right--"

"Oh! you had, you had," said Bundle hastily. "But I'm sure that's all

forgotten now. And I don't care for lobsters anyway. So let's go."

"We may be raided by the police. There's a room upstairs where they

play baccarat."

"Father will have to come out and bail me out, that's all. Come on,

Bill."

Bill still seemed rather reluctant, but Bundle was adamant, and they

were soon speeding to their destination in a taxi.

The place, when they got to it, was much as she imagined it would be.

It was a tall house in a narrow street, 14 Hunstanton Street; she noted

the number.

A man whose face was strangely familiar opened the door. She thought he

started slightly when he saw her, but he greeted Bill with respectful

recognition. He was a tall man, with fair hair, a rather weak, anaemic

face and slightly shifty eyes. Bundle puzzled to herself where she

could have seen him before.

Bill had recovered his equilibrium now and quite enjoyed doing showman.

They danced in the cellar, which was very full of smoke--so much so

that you saw everyone through a blue haze. The smell of fried fish was

almost overpowering.

On the wall were rough charcoal sketches, some of them executed with

real talent. The company was extremely mixed. There were portly

foreigners, opulent Jewesses, a sprinkling of the really smart, and

several ladies belonging to the oldest profession in the world.

Soon Bill led Bundle upstairs. There the weak-faced man was on guard,

watching all those admitted to the gambling room with a lynx eye.

Suddenly recognition came to Bundle.

"Of course," she said. "How stupid of me. It's Alfred, who used to be

second footman at Chimneys. How are you, Alfred?"

"Nicely, thank you, your ladyship."

"When did you leave Chimneys, Alfred? Was it long before we got back?"

"It was about a month ago, m'lady. I got a chance of bettering myself,

and it seemed a pity not to take it."

"I suppose they pay you very well here," remarked Bundle.

"Very fair, m'lady."

Bundle passed in. It seemed to her that in this room the real life

of the club was exposed. The stakes were high, she saw that at

once, and the people gathered round the two tables were of the true

type--hawk-eyed, haggard, with the gambling fever in their blood.

She and Bill stayed there for about half an hour. Then Bill grew

restive.

"Let's get out of this place, Bundle, and go on dancing."

Bundle agreed. There was nothing to be seen here. They went down again.

They danced for another half hour, had fish and chips, and then Bundle

declared herself ready to go home.

"But it's so early," Bill protested.

"No, it isn't. Not really. And, anyway, I've got a long day in front of

me to-morrow."

"What are you going to do?"

"That depends," said Bundle mysteriously. "But I can tell you this,

Bill, the grass is not going to grow under my feet."

"It never does," said Mr. Eversleigh.