Part 8 (1/2)
”I should say, without a doubt,” Kendricks declared, ”that he was at present working hard for the safety and welfare of the British Empire.
If you've suddenly recognized the man, I'll tell you who the girl is.
She's a manicurist at the Milan.”
Julien looked round and watched them for a moment curiously. Again he noticed that his interest in the young man was at least reciprocated.
”The fellow has recognized me, of course,” he said. ”You know, Kendricks, I remember two or three years ago a most amazing item of news was brought to us--one that made a real difference, too--through a manicurist.”
”Shouldn't be a bit surprised,” Kendricks replied.
”Things drop out in the most unexpected places, as you'd find out if you'd been a journalist.”
”She was sent for into the room of some princess--at Claridge's, I think it was, or one of the west-end hotels--and while she was there a man came from one of the inner rooms and said a few words in Russian.
The girl had been in St. Petersburg and understood. It made quite a difference. I remember the story.”
”Might have been the same man and the same manicurist,” Kendricks remarked.
Julien shook his head.
”There was trouble about the manicurist,” he said, ”and she had to leave the country. She's in South Africa now.”
”I can't say that I like the appearance of the fellow,” Kendricks declared. ”Don't funk the soup, Julien--it's better than it looks. He's a slimy-looking sort of chap. I have a theory that the modern sort of Secret Service agent ought to be a person like myself--breezy and obvious. Julien, if that girl doesn't stop gazing at you sideways, you'll be in trouble with your late employee.”
Julien looked across at the opposite table. The girl, as he had noticed before, was stealing frequent glances at him. For some reason or other, she seemed anxious to attract his attention.
”Quite a conquest!” Kendricks murmured. ”Drink some more of that chianti, man, and bring some color to your cheeks. There's a charming little manicurist wants to flirt with you. What teeth and what a smile!”
”Considering that she has been listening to my history for the last quarter of an hour, I imagine that her interest is of a less sentimental nature,” Julien said. ”I have probably been pointed out to her as the biggest fool in Christendom.”
”Not you,” Kendricks declared. ”I a.s.sure you that I am a critic in such matters. She looks when the young man who is with her is engaged upon his dinner, or speaking to the waiter. I am not positive, even, that she wants to flirt, Julien. I think she wants to say something to you.”
Julien laughed.
”What shall I do? Present myself? Bah!” he added, almost fiercely. ”I wish the girl would keep her black eyes to herself. I want to tell you this, Kendricks. You've talked some splendid common sense to me without going out of your way to do it. I am not going to whine, now or at any other time, but as long as I live I never want anything more to do with a woman. That sounds about the most futile and empty-headed thing a man can say--I know that. But there it is. I tell you the very thought of them makes me shudder. They're like pampered, highly-groomed animals, with their mouths open for the t.i.t-bits of life. They have to be fed with whatever food it may be they crave for, and that's the end of it.”
Kendricks motioned with his head across the room to where the little woman with the blackened eyebrows was eating her dinner.
”What about that?” he asked.
”I don't know anything about that sort,” Julien admitted. ”What you told me sounded like one of the things you read of in newspapers and never believe. I don't believe it. Mind you, I don't say it's false, but I don't believe it because I have never spoken to the woman whom I could imagine capable of such unselfishness. If I patch up the pieces again, Kendricks,” he added, and his face was suddenly very dark and very set--the face of an older man, ”whatever cement I use, it won't be the cement of love or any sentiment whatsoever connected with women.”
Kendricks nodded.
”It's my belief,” he began, then he stopped short. ”Julien,” he continued kindly, ”you're nothing but a big baby. You think you've moved in the big places. So you have, in a way. But there was a hideous mistake about your life. You've never had to build. No one can climb who doesn't build first. These ready-made ladders don't count. Now,” he added, dropping his voice and glancing quickly across the room, ”you will have an opportunity to put into force your new and magnificent principles of misogyny. Our little sandy-headed friend has been summoned from the room. I saw the _commissionaire_ come up and whisper in his ear. Mademoiselle is writing a note. A hundred to one it is to you!”
Julien frowned. He, too, turned his head, and he met the girl's eyes.
She was looking at him curiously. It was not the look of the woman who invites so much as the look of the woman who appeals for an understanding, who has something to say. She smiled ever so faintly and touched with her finger the sc.r.a.p of paper which she thrust into the waiter's hand. Then she bent once more over her plate. The man came across to Julien.