A Servant of the Public. Anthony Hope

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      "Why not?" he urged, leaning forward.

      She broke into a light laugh.

      "There's no reason why not—"

      "Ah, that's right!"

      "Except that I'm not sure I want to," continued Ora. She put her head a little on one side, with a critical air. "I wonder if you'd amuse me for a whole day," she said.

      "You quite mistake my point of view," he replied, smiling. "I never expected to amuse you. I want you to amuse me. I'm quite selfish about it."

      "That's just making use of me," she objected. "I don't think I was created only to amuse you, you know."

      "Perhaps not; but let me have the amusement first. The trouble'll come soon enough."

      "Will it? Then why—"

      "Oh, you understand that well enough really, Miss Pinsent."

      "What would that nice serious girl you're going to marry say if she heard of our outing?"

      "I haven't received the news of my engagement yet."

      "Irene says you're certain to marry her."

      "Well, at any rate she doesn't say I've done it yet, does she?"

      "No," admitted Ora, smiling.

      "And that's the point, isn't it? Will you come on Sunday?"

      Sunday had looked rather grey; there was nothing but a lunch party, to meet a Dean who thought that the stage might be made an engine for good, and therefore wished to be introduced to Miss Pinsent. Oh, and there was a dinner to celebrate somebody's birthday—she had forgotten whose. Yes, Sunday was quite a free day. The sun shone here; it would shine merrily in the country. In short she wanted to go.

      "Oh, well, I don't mind trying to prevent you being bored for just one day," she said, with her eyes merry and mocking.

      "That's very kind of you," observed Ashley in a composed tone. "I'll call for you at eleven and carry you off."

      "Where to?"

      "I shall settle that. It's entirely for my sake we're going, you know, so I shall have my choice."

      "It sounds as if you might enjoy yourself, Mr. Mead."

      "Yes, quite, doesn't it?" he answered, laughing. Ora joined in his laugh; the world was no longer harsh; Lord Bowdon was nothing; there were no more reminiscences of the way Jack Fenning used to talk. There was frolic, there was a touch of adventure, a savour of mischief.

      "It'll be rather fun," she mused softly, clasping her hands on her knee.

      Behind the man's restrained bearing lay a sense of triumph. He had carried out his little campaign well. He did not look ahead, the success of the hour served. No doubt after that Sunday other things would happen again, and might even be of importance; meanwhile except that Sunday there was nothing. Merely that she came was not all—with her was not even very much. But he knew that her heart was eager to come, and that the Sunday was a joy to her also.

      "It's dinner-time," she said, springing up. "Go away, Mr. Mead."

      He was as obedient as Bowdon had been; enough had been done for to-day. But a farewell may be said in many ways.

      "Sunday, then," he said, taking both her hands which she had held out to him in her cordial fashion. Lady Kilnorton said that Ora always seemed to expect to be kissed. "Just manner, of course," she would add, since Ora was her friend.

      "Yes, Sunday—unless I change my mind. I often do."

      "You won't this time." The assertion had not a shred of question about it; it was positive and confident.

      She looked up in his face, laughing.

      "Good-bye," she said.

      Bowdon had kissed her hand, but Ashley did not follow that example. They enjoyed another laugh together, and he was laughing still as he left her and took his way downstairs.

      "Oh, dear!" she said, passing her hand over her eyes, as she went to get ready for dinner. She felt a reaction from some kind of excitement; yet what reason for excitement had there been?

      With regard to the theatre the Muddock family displayed a variety of practice. Sir James never went; Bob frequented with assiduity those houses where the lighter forms of the drama were presented; Lady Muddock and Alice were occasional visitors at the highest class of entertainment. Neither cared much about evenings so spent as a rule; but Lady Muddock, having entertained Miss Pinsent, was eager to see her act. Ora was the only member of her profession whom Lady Muddock had met; to be acquainted with one of the performers added a new flavour. Lady Muddock felt an increased importance in herself as she looked round the house; there must be a great many people there who knew nobody on the stage; she knew Miss Pinsent; she would have liked the fact mentioned, or at any rate to have it get about in some unobtrusive way. Before the first act was over she had fully persuaded herself that Ora had noticed her presence; she had looked twice quite directly at the box! The little woman, flattered by this wholly fictitious recognition, decided audaciously that Sir James' attitude towards the stage was old-fashioned and rather uncharitable; everybody was not bad on the stage; she felt sure that there were exceptions. Anyhow it was nice to know somebody; it gave one a feeling of what Bob called—she smiled shyly to herself—"being in it." She was very careful never to talk slang herself, but sometimes it expressed just what she wanted to say. She pulled out her pink silk sleeves to their fullest volume (sleeves were large then) and leant forward in the box.

      Between the acts Babba Flint came in. He was a club acquaintance of Bob's, and had met the ladies of the family at a charity bazaar. It was a slender basis for friendship, but Babba was not ceremonious. Nobody knew why he was called Babba (which was not his name), but he always was. He was a small fair man, very smartly dressed; he seldom stopped talking and was generally considered agreeable. He talked now, and, seeing the bent of Lady Muddock's interest, he made Ora his theme. Lady Muddock was a little vexed to find that Babba also knew Ora, and most of her colleagues besides; but there was recompense in his string of anecdotes. Alice was silent, looking and wondering at Babba—strange to be such a person!—and yet listening to what he was saying. Babba lisped a little; at least when he said "Miss Pinsent," the S's were blurred and indistinct. He had met her husband once a long while ago; "a fellow named Denning, no, Fenning; a good-looking fellow." "A gentleman?" Babba supposed so, but deuced hard-up and not very fond of work. She led him no end of a life, Babba had heard; so at last he bolted to America or somewhere. Babba expressed some surprise that Mr. Fenning did not now return—he knew the amount of Ora's salary and mentioned it by way of enforcing this point—and declared that he himself would put up with a good deal at the hands of a lady so prepossessing as Miss Pinsent. Then Lady Muddock asked whether Miss Pinsent were really nice, and Babba said that she wasn't a bad sort to meet about the place but (Here he broke into a quotation from a song popular in its day), "You never know what happens downstairs." Lady Muddock tried to look as though she had received information, and Babba withdrew, in order to refresh himself before the rise of the curtain.

      Ora played well that night, indeed played Mr. Hazlewood off the stage, according to his own confession and phraseology. There was a ring in her laugh, a rush in her passion, a triumph in her very walk. Alice found herself wondering whether what happened СКАЧАТЬ