LILIAN. Arnold Bennet

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      As he advanced into the room the man took off the glossy silk hat which he was wearing at the far back of his head. He had an overcoat, but carried it on his left arm. He was tall and broad--something, indeed, in the nature of a giant--with a florid, smooth face; aged perhaps thirty-three. He had a way of pinching his lips together and pressing his lower jaw against his high collar, thus making a false double chin or so; the result was to produce an effect of wise and tolerant good-humour, as of one who knew humanity and who while prepared for surprises was not going to judge us too harshly. He was in full evening-dress, and his clothes were superb. They glistened; they fitted without a crease. The vast curve of the gleaming stiff shirt-front sloped perfect in its contour; the white waistcoat was held round the stupendous form by three topaz buttons; from somewhere beneath the waistcoat a gold chain emerged and vanished somewhere into the hinterland of his person. The stout white kid gloves were thickly ridged on the backs and fitted the broad hands as well as the coat fitted the body--it was inconceivable that they had not been made to measure as everything else must have been made to measure. The man would have been overdressed had he not worn his marvellous and costly garments with absolute naturalness and simplicity.

      Lilian thought:

      "He must be a man-about-town, a clubman, the genuine article."

      She was impressed, secretly flustered, and very anxious to meet him as an equal on his own ground of fine manners. She divined that, having entered the room once and fairly caught her asleep, he had had the good taste to withdraw and cough and make a new entry in order to spare her modesty; and she was softly appreciative, while quite determined to demonstrate by her demeanour that she had not been asleep.

      She thought:

      "Gertie Jackson wouldn't have known where to look, in my place."

      Still, despite her disdain of Gertie Jackson's deportment, she felt herself to be terribly unproficient in the social art.

      "Is it anything urgent?" she asked.

      "Well, it is a bit urgent."

      He had a strong, full, pleasant voice.

      "Won't you sit down?"

      "Thanks."

      He sat down, disposing his hat by the side of her machine, and his overcoat on another chair, and drawing off his gloves.

      Lilian waited like a cat to pounce upon the slightest sign of familiarity and kill it; for she had understood that men-about-town regarded girl typists as their quarry and as nothing else. But there was no least lapse from deferential propriety; the clubman might have been in colloquy with his sister's friend--and his sister listening in the next room. He pulled a manuscript from his breast-pocket, and, after a loving glance at it, offered it to her.

      "I've only just written it," said he. "And I want to take it round to the Evening Standard

      office myself in the morning before 8.30. The editor's an acquaintance of mine and I might get it into to-morrow afternoon's paper. In fact, it must be to-morrow or never--because of the financial debate in the House, you see. Topical. I wonder whether you'd be good enough to do it for me."

      "Let me see," said Lilian professionally. "About fifteen hundred words, or hardly. Oh, yes! I will do it myself."

      "That's very kind of you. Will you mind looking at the writing? Do you think you'll be able to make it out? I was at a bit of a jolly to-night, and my hand's never too legible."

      Without glancing further at the manuscript, Lilian answered:

      "It's our business to make out writing."

      Suddenly she gave him her full smile.

      "I suppose it is," he said, also smiling. "Now shall I call for the copy about 8 o'clock?"

      "I'm afraid the office won't be open at 8 o'clock," said Lilian. "We close at 6.30 for an hour or two. But what's the address? Is it anywhere near here?"

      "6a Jermyn Street. You'll see it all on the back of the last page."

      "It could be delivered--dropped into your letter-box--by 6.30 this morning, and you could take it out of the box any time after that." The idea seemed to have spontaneously presented itself to her. She forbore to say that her intention was to deliver the copy herself on her way home.

      "But this is most awfully obliging of you!" he exclaimed.

      "Not at all. You see, we specialize in urgent things.... We charge double for night-work, I ought to tell you--in fact, three shillings a thousand, with a minimum."

      "Of course! Of course! I quite understand that. Perhaps you'll put the bill in the envelope." He drew forth a watch that looked like a gold half-crown. "Two o'clock. And I can count on it being in the letter-box at six-thirty."

      "Absolutely."

      "Well, all I say is, it's very wonderful."

      She smiled again: "It's just our business."

      He bowed gracefully in departing.

      As soon as he was gone she looked at the back of the last page. "Lord Mackworth." Never having heard of such a lord, she consulted the office Who's Who

      . Yes, he was there. "Mackworth, Lord. See Fermanagh, Earl of." She turned to the F pages. He was the e.s.

      of the Earl of Fermanagh. E.s.

      meant eldest son, she assumed. One day he would be an earl. She was thrilled.

      Eagerly she read the manuscript before starting to copy it. The subject was the fall in the exchange value of the French franc. "Abstruse," she called it to herself. Frightfully learned! Yet the article was quite amusing to read. In one or two places it was almost funny enough to make her laugh. And Lord Mackworth illustrated his points by the prices of commodities and pleasure at Monte Carlo. Evidently he had just returned from Monte Carlo. What a figure! He had everything--title, blood, wealth, style, a splendid presence, perfect manners; he was intellectual, he was clever, he was political, he wrote for the Press. And withal he was a man of pleasure, for he had been to Monte Carlo, and that very night he had taken part in a "jolly"--whatever a jolly was!

      No! He was not married; it was impossible that he should be married. But naturally he must keep mistresses. They always kept mistresses. Though what a man like him could see in that sort of girl passed Lilian. "You could marry anybody

      you liked if you put your mind to it," Mr. Grig had said. Absurdly, horribly untrue! How, for instance, could she set about to marry Lord Mackworth? She was for ever imprisoned; she could not possibly, by any device, break through the transparent, invisible, adamantine walls that surrounded her. Beautiful, was she? Gifts, had she? Well, she had sat opposite this lord, close to him, in a room secure from interruption, in the middle of the night. She had been obliging. And he had not been sufficiently interested to swerve by a hair's breadth from his finished and nonchalant formal politeness. Her rôle in relation to Lord Mackworth was to tap out his clever article on the old Underwood and to deliver it herself in the chilly darkness of the morning before going exhausted to her miserable lodging! She, lovely! She, burning with ambition! ... The visit of the man of title and of parts was like an act of God to teach her the realities of her situation and the dangerous folly of dreams.

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