Part 26 (1/2)

”You're Scotch yourself, my la.s.sie, on the best side of you; don't gird at your own birth. I ask your pardon, Mr. Talfourd, if I've said anything I ought not to say; but I've known this la.s.sie all her days. She's been to me as the apple of my eye, and--she tells me that you're to be her husband. Would it be going too far, Mr. Talfourd, if I were to ask you what's the name of the lady to whom you're acting as private secretary?”

”Mrs. Lamb--Mrs. Gregory Lamb.”

”Mrs. Gregory Lamb? That's odd.”

”How is it odd? I hope there's nothing improper about the name.”

”It's not that it's improper; it's that I once met a Gregory Lamb. What sort's your Gregory Lamb?”

”He's about my own age, perhaps a little older; not ill-looking; not, I should imagine, a bad fellow in his way.”

”Is he a poor man?”

”I believe his wife is very rich.”

”His wife? Of course, there's the wife--and she's very rich. The rich woman who married the Gregory Lamb I know would be a very foolish female.”

”Mrs. Lamb is certainly not that.”

”Then her Gregory's not mine, though it's an unusual conjunction of names. I'm thinking that none but a fool of a woman would ever have married him.”

CHAPTER XVIII

CRONIES

That evening Dr. Twelves dined with a fellow Scot, J. Andrew McTavish, of McTavish & Brown. Mr. McTavish lived in Mecklenberg Square. Although a bachelor he liked plenty of house room, and in Mecklenberg Square he had it. His house was perhaps the largest in the Square, and certainly not the least comfortable.

Comfort was to Mr. McTavish a sort of fetish: excepting money he set it above everything. He looked as if he did. Of medium height, he was of more than average size, his waist measurement was approaching a significant figure; his neck loved a generous collar, his chin overlapped; he had slight side whiskers, dark gray in hue, and the top of his head was so completely bald that one wondered if it could ever have been anything else. He and his guest presented an amazing contrast: three or four replicas of Dr. Twelves could have been contained in Mr. McTavish.

They dined _tete-a-tete_ at a small round table which stood in the centre of a big room. Mr. McTavish liked big rooms; he was never comfortable in a small one. During the meal the conversation was of a desultory character, princ.i.p.ally hovering around Pitmuir, where Mr. McTavish had lived till he came to London. Questions were asked and answered touching every soul in the parish Mr. McTavish could think of, and his memory was extensive. There was hardly a man, woman or child about Pitmuir whose name had not been mentioned before dinner was finished. If the inquiries were slightly acid, so were the replies. It seemed as if these two gentlemen had made it a point of honour to say nothing nice of any one. According to them the folk about Pitmuir were a very human lot--at least they had most of humanity's failings.

After dinner they retired to the study, another fine apartment.

There they had a cup of coffee, a liqueur, and a cigar apiece.

The doctor seemed lost in the huge chair which he had been invited to fill. His host regarded him with twinkling eyes.

”Have you had a good dinner, David?”

”You feed yourself too well; you're a hundred years behind the age.”

”How do you show it?”

”Our great-grandfathers pampered their bellies. We know better; we have learnt that it is the part of wisdom to starve them.

You're still where our grandsires were.”

”And where are you?”

”I'm on the high road to as fine an attack of indigestion as a man need have, and live.”