Part 15 (2/2)

THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN

At the age of twenty-six one cannot claim to have attained to the position of a person of experience. Nevertheless, the knowledge of human nature acc.u.mulated in that brief period sufficed to make me feel pretty confident that, at some time during the evening, I should receive a visit from Miss Oman. And circ.u.mstances justified my confidence; for the clock yet stood at two minutes to seven when a premonitory tap at the surgery door heralded her arrival.

”I happened to be pa.s.sing,” she explained, and I forbore to smile at the coincidence, ”so I thought I might as well drop in and hear what you wanted to ask me about.”

She seated herself in the patients' chair and, laying a bundle of newspapers on the table, glared at me expectantly.

”Thank you, Miss Oman,” I said. ”It is very good of you to look in on me. I am ashamed to give you all this trouble about such a trifling matter.”

She rapped her knuckles impatiently on the table.

”Never mind about the trouble,” she exclaimed tartly.

”What--is--it--that--you--want--to--_ask_--me about?”

I stated my difficulties in respect of the supper-party, and, as I proceeded, an expression of disgust and disappointment spread over her countenance. ”I don't see why you need have been so mysterious about it,” she said glumly.

”I didn't mean to be mysterious; I was only anxious not to make a mess of the affair. It's all very fine to a.s.sume a lofty scorn of the pleasures of the table, but there is great virtue in a really good feed, especially when low-living and high-thinking have been the order of the day.”

”Coa.r.s.ely put,” said Miss Oman, ”but perfectly true.”

”Very well. Now, if I leave the management to Mrs. Gummer, she will probably provide a tepid Irish stew with flakes of congealed fat on it, and a plastic suet-pudding or something of that kind, and turn the house upside-down in getting it ready. So I thought of having a cold spread and getting the things in from outside. But I don't want it to look as if I had been making enormous preparations.”

”They won't think the things came down from heaven,” said Miss Oman.

”No, I suppose they won't. But you know what I mean. Now, where do you advise me to go for the raw materials of conviviality?”

Miss Oman reflected. ”You'd better let me do your shopping and manage the whole business,” was her final verdict.

This was precisely what I had wanted, and I accepted thankfully, regardless of the feelings of Mrs. Gummer. I handed her two pounds, and, after some protests at my extravagance, she bestowed them in her purse; a process that occupied time, since that receptacle, besides and time-stained bills, already bulged with a lading of draper's samples, ends of tape, a card of linen b.u.t.tons, another of hooks and eyes, a lump of beeswax, a rat-eaten stump of lead-pencil, and other trifles that I have forgotten. As she closed the purse at the imminent risk of wrenching off its fastenings she looked at me severely and pursed up her lips.

”You're a very plausible young man,” she remarked.

”What makes you say that?” I asked.

”Philandering about museums,” she continued, ”with handsome young ladies on the pretence of work. Work, indeed! Oh, I heard her telling her father about it. She thinks you were perfectly enthralled by the mummies and dried cats and chunks of stone and all the other trash. She doesn't know what humbugs men are.”

”Really, Miss Oman--” I began.

”Oh, don't talk to me!” she snapped. ”I can see it all. You can't impose on _me_. I can see you staring into those gla.s.s cases, egging her on to talk and listening open-mouthed and bulging-eyed and sitting at her feet--now, didn't you?”

”I don't know about sitting at her feet,” I said, ”though it might easily have come to that with those infernal slippery floors; but I had a very jolly time, and I mean to go again if I can. Miss Bellingham is the cleverest and most accomplished woman I have ever spoken to.”

This was a poser for Miss Oman, whose admiration and loyalty, I knew, were only equalled by my own. She would have liked to contradict me, but the thing was impossible. To cover her defeat she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the bundle of newspapers and began to open them out.

”What sort of stuff is 'hibernation'?” she demanded suddenly.

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