Part 21 (1/2)
Mr. Talfourd twiddled the bunch of La France roses between his fingers with a smile which was scarcely one of satisfaction.
They were very fine roses--in just that stage of bursting bud in which the La France is seen at its best. In London La France roses cost money, even when they are poor examples of their kind; those were good enough for exhibition. There were a great many of them, and they were tied about with a beautiful green ribbon, in charming contrast with the blooms. They had probably cost some one at least half a sovereign. They were for him; they had cost him nothing; yet they did not seem to afford him pleasure.
The fact was he was puzzled. He did not quite know what to make of the situation; what he did understand he did not like.
”This gets beyond a jest,” he told himself. ”Because I happened to mention, accidentally, that La France roses were my favourite flowers, I didn't expect to find a bouquet of them on my table every morning awaiting my arrival. Either it means something or it doesn't; either way I don't like it. I'm getting three hundred pounds a year in cash for doing I don't quite know what, and apparently half as much again in flowers. It won't do--it will not do.” He gave the unoffending roses an impatient twirl.
”The point of the joke is that when I said La France roses were my favourite flowers I was speaking a little beside the mark. I don't know that I have a favourite flower. They're Meg's--I was thinking of her at the time, as I generally am. I don't want Mrs. Lamb to think that she is giving me flowers, when she is really giving them to Meg, to whom I invariably pa.s.s them on. I don't know that she would really relish the notion of my giving her flowers to some one else. Confound her impudence!”
He threw the roses from him on to the table with a show of roughness which they, at any rate, had done nothing to deserve.
As if conscious that his temper was being vented in the wrong quarter, picking them up again he regarded them with looks of whimsical self-reproach.
While he was still eyeing them the door was opened, and a masculine voice inquired from without--
”May I come in?”
Without waiting for a reply the inquirer entered. It was Mr.
Gregory Lamb. A much more resplendent Gregory Lamb than the one whose acquaintance we have previously made. The Gregory Lamb we met in the wood was purely an affair of make-believe--not of very plausible make-believe. His attire then looked as if it wished you to think it had cost a great deal of money--but the trained eye knew better. There could be no doubt that everything about this Gregory Lamb was the most expensive of its kind--only the trained eye knew really how expensive. The impression he conveyed was that he had got as much on him in the way of money as he conveniently could--probably that impression was not far wrong. Yet the result was scarcely satisfactory. Especially was this shown to be the case when he brought himself into comparison with the man who was already in the room.
Both were young; both bore themselves well; both were good-looking; yet there could not be a moment's doubt as to which was the pleasanter to look upon. It was not only that one was obviously a gentleman, and the other just as obviously was not; nor was it that one looked a clever, an intellectual, man, and the other emphatically did not; still less was it an affair of costume, since Gregory Lamb was overdressed and Harry Talfourd's attire was simply plain and neat. It was something subtler than any of these things which made the one attractive and the other the reverse. Gregory Lamb had never made a friend worth having in all his life--and never would; Talfourd made friends wherever he went. He could not himself have said why; it was certainly not because he tried.
To begin with, Mr. Lamb's manner was unfortunate. His intention was to be on terms of hail-fellow-well-met with every one; to be no respecter of persons; to be ”my dear chap” with Tom, d.i.c.k and Harry. As a matter of fact, there was an air of patronage about everything he said and did which was perhaps the more insufferable because unconscious. He came into the room with what he meant to be an air of jaunty geniality.
”All alone? I thought you would be. It's not your time for receiving visitors, is it? Just come; I heard you knock; must have time to breathe before you let them in--eh? Those are fine roses.”
”They are not bad ones.”
”Bad ones!--I should think they weren't. They oughtn't to be; I happen to know what my wife paid for them.” He laughed, as if he sneered. ”Sends you them every morning, doesn't she? Standing order, I hear. Talfourd, you're in luck.”
Mr. Talfourd's manner was as cold as the other's was warm.
”Mrs. Lamb is very kind--kinder than I deserve.”
”Perhaps she knows what you deserve better than you do--trust her, she's no simpleton. When she takes a fancy she has her reasons. I say, old man, I want you to do me a favour.”
”I shall be happy to do you a service if I can.”
”There's no doubt about the can--not the least in the world--you'll find that it's as easy as winking. I want you to get my wife to let me go for a little run to Monte Carlo.”
”I beg your pardon?--I don't understand.”
”It's this way. I'll be frank with you, Talfourd. I look upon you as a friend, my boy. I can't go without cash; I'm stony-broke; my wife holds the money-bags. You tell her--you know how!”--Mr. Lamb winked--”that you think the run would do me good, and tell her to give me a thousand to do it with, and--I'll do as much for you one day, upon my soul I will.”
Mr. Talfourd stared at the speaker in undisguised amazement.
”You credit me with powers of persuasion which are altogether beyond any I possess.”
”Oh no, I don't”--Mr. Lamb laughed again--”I know better than that! You tell her what I've asked you to tell her, and I bet you anything I cross by to-night's boat, with notes for a thousand in my pocket. She'd send me to the North Pole at a hint from you.”