Part 25 (2/2)

”G.o.d forbid,” said Mr. Finn.

Presently the cab stopped before a fairly large detached house standing back from the road. A name which Paul could not decipher was painted on the top bar of the gate. They trooped through and up some steps to the front door, which Mr. Finn opened with his latchkey. The first impression that Paul had on entering a wide vestibule was a blaze of gilt frames containing ma.s.ses of bright, fresh paint. A parlour-maid appeared, and helped with hats and coats.

”We are having a very simple supper, Mr. Savelli. Will you join us?”

said Mr. Finn.

”With the greatest pleasure,” said Paul.

The host threw open the dining-room door on the right. Jane and Paul entered; were alone for a few moments, during which Paul heard Barney Bill say in a hoa.r.s.e whisper: ”Let me have my hunk of bread and beef in the kitchen, Silas. You know as how I hates a fork and I likes to eat in my s.h.i.+rt sleeves.”

Paul seized Jane by the arms and regarded her luminously. He murmured: ”Did you hear? The dear old chap!”

She raised clear, calm eyes. ”Aren't you shocked?”

He shook her. ”What do you take me for?”

Jane was rebellious. ”For what girls in my position generally call a 'toff.' You---”

”You're horrid,” said Paul.

”The word's horrid, not me. You're away up above us.”

”'Us' seems to be very prosperous, anyhow,” said Paul, looking round him. Jane watched him jealously and saw his face change. The dining room, s.p.a.ciously proportioned, was, like the vestibule, a ma.s.s of gilt frames and staring paint. Not an inch of wall above the oak dado was visible. Crude landscapes, wooden portraits, sea studies with waves of corrugated iron, subject pictures of childishly sentimental appeal, blinded the eyes. It looked as if a kindergarten had been the selecting committee for an exhibition of the Royal Academy. It looked also as if the kindergarten had replaced the hanging committee also. It was a conglomerate ma.s.sacre. It was pictorial anarchy. It was individualism baresark, amok, crazily frantic. And an execrably vile, nerve-destroying individualism at that.

Paul released Jane, who kept cool, defiant eyes on him.

”What do you think of it?”

He smiled. ”A bit disconcerting.”

”The whole house is like this.”

”It's so new,” said Paul.

He looked about him again. The long table was plainly laid for three at the far end. The fare consisted of a joint of cold beef, a cold tart suggestive of apple, a bit of Ches.h.i.+re cheese, and celery in a gla.s.s vase. Of table decoration of any kind there was no sign. A great walnut monstrosity meagrely equipped performed the functions of a sideboard.

The chairs, ten straight-backed, and two easy by the fireplace, of which one was armless, were upholstered in saddlebag, yellow and green.

In the bay of the red-curtained window was a huge terra-cotta bust of an ivy-crowned and inane Austrian female. There was a great fireplace in which a huge fire blazed cheerily, and on the broad, deep hearth stood little coloured plaster figures of stags, of gnomes, of rabbits, one ear dropping, the other ear c.o.c.ked, of galloping hounds unknown to the fancy, scenting and pursuing an invisible foe.

She watched him as he scanned the room.

”Who is Mr. Finn?” he asked in a low voice.

”Many years ago he was 'Finn's Fried Fish.' Now he's 'Fish Palaces, Limited.' They're all over London. You can't help seeing them even from a motor car.”

”I've seen them,” said Paul.

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