Chapter 4
"Christopher Selby!" said Lady Underhill reflectively. "Yes! I have often heard your father speak of him. He was the man who gave your father an I.O.U. to pay a card debt, and redeemed it with a cheque which was returned by the bank!"
"What!"
"Didn't you hear what I said? I will repeat it, if you wish."
"There must have been some mistake."
"Only the one your father made when he trusted the man."
"It must have been some other fellow."
"Of course!" said Lady Underhill satirically. "No doubt your father knew hundreds of Christopher Selbys!"
Derek bit his lip.
"Well, after all," he said doggedly, "whether it's true or not...."
"I see no reason why your father should not have spoken the truth."
"All right. We'll say it _is_ true, then. But what does it matter? I am marrying Jill, not her uncle."
"Nevertheless, it would be pleasanter if her only living relative were not a swindler!... Tell me, where and how did you meet this girl?"
"I should be glad if you would not refer to her as 'this girl.' The name, if you have forgotten it, is Mariner."
"Well, where did you meet Miss Mariner?"
"At Prince's. Just after you left for Mentone. Freddie Rooke introduced me."
"Oh, your intellectual friend Mr. Rooke knows her?"
"They were children together. Her people lived next to the Rookes in Worcesters.h.i.+re."
"I thought you said she was an American."
"I said her father was. He settled in England. Jill hasn't been in America since she was eight or nine."
"The fact," said Lady Underhill, "that the girl is a friend of Mr.
Rooke is no great recommendation."
Derek kicked angrily at a box of matches which someone had thrown down on the platform.
"I wonder if you could possibly get it into your head, mother, that I want to marry Jill, not engage her as an under-housemaid. I don't consider that she requires recommendations, as you call them. However, don't you think the most sensible thing is for you to wait till you meet her at dinner to-night, and then you can form your own opinion?
I'm beginning to get a little bored by this futile discussion."
"As you seem quite unable to talk on the subject of this girl without becoming rude," said Lady Underhill, "I agree with you. Let us hope that my first impression will be a favourable one. Experience has taught me that first impressions are everything."
"I'm glad you think so," said Derek, "for I fell in love with Jill the very first moment I saw her!"
IV
Barker stepped back and surveyed with modest pride the dinner-table to which he had been putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches. It was an artistic job and a credit to him.
"That's that!" said Barker, satisfied.
He went to the window and looked out. The fog which
As he stood there, the front-door bell rang, and continued to ring in little spurts of sound. If character can be deduced from bell-ringing, as nowadays it apparently can be from every other form of human activity, one might have hazarded the guess that whoever was on the other side of the door was determined, impetuous, and energetic.
"Barker!"
Freddie Rooke pushed a tousled head, which had yet to be brushed into the smooth sleekness that made a delight to the public eye, out of a room down the pa.s.sage.
"Sir?"
"Somebody ringing."
"I heard, sir. I was about to answer the bell."
"If it's Lady Underhill, tell her I'll be in in a minute."
"I fancy it is Miss Mariner, sir. I think I recognize her touch."
He made his way down the pa.s.sage to the front-door, and opened it. A girl was standing outside. She wore a long grey fur coat, and a filmy hood covered her hair. As Barker opened the door, she scampered in like a grey kitten.
"Brrh! It's cold!" she exclaimed. "Hullo, Barker!"
"Good evening, miss."
"Am I the last or the first or what?"
Barker moved to help her with her cloak.
"Sir Derek and her ladys.h.i.+p have not yet arrived, miss. Sir Derek went to bring her ladys.h.i.+p from the Savoy Hotel. Mr. Rooke is dressing in his bedroom and will be ready very shortly."
The girl had slipped out of the fur coat, and Barker cast a swift glance of approval at her. He had the valet's unerring eye for a thoroughbred, and Jill Mariner was manifestly that. It showed in her walk, in every move of her small, active body, in the way she looked at you, in the way she talked to you, in the little tilt of her resolute chin. Her hair was pale gold, and had the brightness of colouring of a child's. Her face glowed, and her grey eyes sparkled.
She looked very much alive.
It was this liveliness of hers that was her chief charm. Her eyes were good and her mouth, with its small, even teeth, attractive, but she would have laughed if anybody had called her beautiful. She sometimes doubted if she Were even pretty. Yet few men had met her and remained entirely undisturbed. She had a magnetism. One hapless youth, who had laid his heart at her feet and had been commanded to pick it up again, had endeavoured subsequently to explain her attraction (to a bosom friend over a mournful bottle of the best in the club smoking-room) in these words: "I don't know what it is about her, old man, but she somehow makes a feller feel she's so d.a.m.ned _interested_ in a chap, if you know what I mean." And though not generally credited in his circle with any great acuteness, there is no doubt that the speaker had achieved something approaching a true a.n.a.lysis of Jill's fascination for his s.e.x. She was interested in everything Life presented to her notice, from a Coronation to a stray cat. She was vivid. She had sympathy. She listened to you as though you really mattered. It takes a man of tough fibre to resist these qualities. Women, on the other hand, especially of the Lady Underhill type, can resist them without an effort.
"Go and stir him up," said Jill, alluding to the absent Mr. Rooke.
"Tell him to come and talk to me. Where's the nearest fire? I want to get right over it and huddle."
"The fire's burning nicely in the sitting-room, miss."
Jill hurried into the sitting-room, and increased her hold on Barker's esteem by exclaiming rapturously at the sight that greeted her. Barker had expended time and trouble over the sitting-room. There was no dust, no untidiness. The pictures all hung straight; the cus.h.i.+ons were smooth and unrumpled; and a fire of exactly the right dimensions burned cheerfully in the grate, flickering cosily on the small piano by the couch, on the deep leather arm-chairs which Freddie had brought with him from Oxford, that home of comfortable chairs, and on the photographs that studded the walls. In the centre of the mantelpiece, the place of honour, was the photograph of herself which she had given Derek a week ago.