Part 22 (1/2)

”No d.a.m.n fear,” returned Bill. ”Let's blow the lot while we're about it. I'm going back to-morrow. . . .”

Then Vane pushed past them, with that brief snapshot of a pair of lives photographed on his brain. And it would have effaced itself as quickly as it had come, but for the very new wedding ring he had seen on the girl's left hand--so new that to conceal it with a glove was simply not to be thought of.

Money--money--money; was there no getting away from it?

”Its value will not be measured by material things. It will leave nothing. And yet it will have everything, and whatever one takes from it, it will still have, so rich will it be. . . .” And as the words of Oscar Wilde came to his mind Vane laughed aloud.

”This is London, my lad,” he soliloquised. ”London in the twentieth century. We've a very nice war on where a man may develop his personality; fairy tales are out of date.”

He strolled on past the Ritz--his mind still busy with the problem.

Joan wanted to marry money; Joan had to marry money. At least he had gathered so. He had asked Margaret to marry him; she had said that in time she would--if he still wanted her. At least he had gathered so.

Those were the major issues.

The minor and more important one--because minor ones have a way of influencing the big fellows out of all proportion to their size--was that he had asked Joan to tea.

He sighed heavily and turned up Half Moon Street. Whatever happened afterwards he had his duty as a host to consider first. He decided to go in and talk to the worthy Mrs. Green, and see if by any chance that stalwart pillar would be able to provide a tea worthy of the occasion.

Mrs. Green had a way with her, which seemed to sweep through such bureaucratic absurdities as ration cards and food restrictions. Also, and perhaps it was more to the point, she had a sister in Devons.h.i.+re who kept cows.

”Mrs. Green,” called Vane, ”come up and confer with me on a matter of great importance. . . .”

With a wild rush Binks emerged from below as if shot from a catapult--to be followed by Mrs. Green wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n.

”A most important affair, Mrs. Green,” continued Vane, when he had let himself into his rooms, and pacified Binks temporarily with the squeaky indiarubber dog. ”Only you can save the situation. . . .”

Mrs. Green intimated by a magnificent gesture that she was fully prepared to save any situation.

”I have visitors for tea, or rather, to be correct--a visitor. A lady to comfort me--or perhaps torment me--as only your s.e.x can.” His eyes suddenly rested on Margaret's photo, and he stopped with a frown. Mrs.

Green's motherly face beamed with satisfaction. Here was a Romance with a capital R, which was as dear to her kindly heart as a Mary Pickford film.

”I'm sure I hope you'll be very happy, sir,” she said.

”So do I, Mrs. Green--though I've a shrewd suspicion, I shall be profoundly miserable.” He resolutely turned his back on the photo.

”I'm playing a little game this afternoon, most motherly of women.

Incidentally it's been played before--but it never loses its charm or--its danger. . . .” He gave a short laugh. ”My first card is your tea. Toast, Mrs. Green, covered with b.u.t.ter supplied by your sister in Devons.h.i.+re. Hot toast in your priceless m.u.f.fin dish--running over with b.u.t.ter: and wortleberry jam. . . . Can you do this great thing for me?”

Mrs. Green nodded her head. ”The b.u.t.ter only came this morning, Mr.

Vane, sir. And I've got three pounds of wortleberry jam left. . . .”

”Three pounds should be enough,” said Vane after due deliberation.

”And then I've got a saffron cake,” went on the worthy woman. ”Fresh made before it was sent on by my sister. . . .”

”Say no more, Mrs. Green. We win--hands down--all along the line. Do you realise that fair women and brave men who venture out to tea in London to-day have to pay half a crown for a small dog biscuit?” Vane rubbed his hands together. ”After your tea, and possibly during it--I shall play my second card--Binks. Now I appeal to you--Could any girl with a particle of natural feeling consent to go on living away from Binks?”

The Accursed Thing emitted a mournful hoot, as Binks, hearing his name spoken, raised his head and looked up at his master. His tail thumped the floor feverishly, and his great brown eyes glowed with a mute inquiry. ”To walk, or not to walk”--that was the question. The answer was apparently in the negative, for the moment at any rate, and he again returned to the attack.

”You see my guile, Mrs. Green,” said Vane. ”Softened by toast, floating in Devons.h.i.+re b.u.t.ter and covered with wortleberry jam; mellowed by saffron cake--Binks will complete the conquest. Then will come the crucial moment. No one, not even she, can part me from my dog. To have Binks--she must have me. . . . What do you think of it--as a game only, you know?”