Part 19 (2/2)
CHAPTER XVIII.
ATTRACTIONS.
There are various phases of hospitality on which people depend for increase of social reputation and entertainment of their friends. One lady sets great store by her dinners, the excellence of her cook, the lighting and decorations of her table, the tact with which she selects her guests. Another believes it impossible to equal her ”breakfasts,”
why so called, I am at a loss to explain, since they take place after luncheon. A third thinks this last-named meal forms the perfection of friendly intercourse, while a fourth stands or falls by the agreeable circle she gathers round her at afternoon tea. Mrs. Battersea affected none of these. She piqued herself exclusively on her suppers; and to sup with Mrs. Battersea after the Opera was to form one of a circle more remarkable for gaiety, good-humour, and general recklessness, than for wisdom, propriety of demeanour, or reputed respectability.
They were very pleasant, nevertheless, these little gatherings. She understood so thoroughly how they should be const.i.tuted, the quant.i.ty of guests, the quality of wines drank, and the dishes set on the table. You had some difficulty in finding her house, no doubt, even if you went in a hack-cab, for it lurked in those remoter regions of London which are to Belgravia what Belgravia must once have been to Grosvenor Square.
She was a ”settler,” she said, and liked the wild, free life of the borders. When the real respectables, dowager peeresses and those sort of people, moved down to her, she would ”up stick” and clear out farther west! Meantime the little house looked very charming, even at half-past twelve p.m. The delicate foliage of an acacia quivered in the light at its door; your foot trod the street pavement indeed, but your nostrils breathed the fragrance of hawthorn and hay-fields, not so very far off.
A flagged pa.s.sage through ten feet of garden led you into a beautiful little hall with tesselated pavement, globe lamps, statuettes, flower-boxes, a fountain, and a c.o.c.katoo. On your senses stole the heavy, subtle odour of incense, the soft strains of a self-playing pianoforte, far off in some room up-stairs. You were sure to be expected; no pompous auxiliary from Gunter's extorted your name, but the smoothest and lightest-footed of butlers received your overcoat and motioned you in silence towards a room, from the open door of which floods of light streamed across the carpeted pa.s.sage, whence you heard the popping of corks, the _cliquetis d'a.s.siettes_, the pleasant voices of women, the soft ripple of talk and laughter within.
You had time for scarcely a glance at that group after Watteau, that Leda in alabaster, the ormolu on velvet, the porcelain under gla.s.s, for, brus.h.i.+ng the deep, soft carpet, with step noiseless as your conductor's, you entered an octagon room, brilliantly lighted, containing a round table, on which flowers and fruit were grouped in tasteful profusion, the whole set off by a circular lamp dependent from the ceiling, and so shaded as to throw its glare on grapes, geraniums, roses, gla.s.s and gold, table ornaments and china, glittering plate, and bubbling wine.
At this table were already seated some half-dozen noisy, pleasant individuals, when Sir Henry arrived. His entrance was the signal for a fresh burst of laughter, and a triumphant clapping of hands.
”You've won on both events, Kate,” exclaimed Mrs. Battersea, making room for the belated guest by her side. ”It was even betting you wouldn't come, Sir Henry. Kate shot us all round, and laid three to two you would be here before the soup was cold!”
”They thought you had been made safe, Sir Henry,” said the last-named lady, whose specialty it was to speak very demurely and very distinctly.
”But I knew better. Now, don't talk till you've had something to eat.”
He took her advice and glanced round the table while he sipped a clear soup--brown, strong, and restorative as sherry.
There were only two people he didn't know, a man and a woman: the former, stout, florid, bearded, deep-voiced, with the unmistakable artist type, being indeed a sculptor of no mean celebrity; the latter, wrinkled, faded, a snuff-taker, with false teeth and hair. She seemed witty and agreeable, however, fruitful in anecdote, deadly in repartee, with something of foreign buoyancy in manner.
She filled her gla.s.s, and emptied it too, pretty often. Sir Henry set her down for an Englishwoman naturalised in Paris.
The rest consisted of Picard, to whom he had lately been introduced, young Kilgarron, Frank Vanguard, and Mrs. Battersea's sister, the enterprising Kate Cremorne.
What the former had been fifteen years ago, the latter lady was now: hazel eyes, high colour, dazzling teeth, auburn hair, bright in manner, dress, and appearance. The elder sister exhausted all appliances of the toilet, to put the clock back those fifteen years and look like the younger, but in vain; nevertheless, such was the difference of their ages, that she regarded Kate less with a sister's jealousy than a mother's indulgent affection.
”So you backed me in, Miss Kate?” said the baronet, touching her gla.s.s lightly with his own, ere he drank a mouthful of champagne. ”Knew I was to be depended on, didn't you? Just like a great stupid c.o.c.kchafer blundering to the light. You're the light, you know, and I'm the c.o.c.kchafer.”
”You must be pretty well singed by this time!” answered Kate, laughing.
”No; the others thought you wouldn't be allowed to get away; but I was sure you would come directly if anybody told you _not_!”
Mrs. Battersea attacked him on the other side.
”Confess, Sir Henry, you haven't heard the last of this from a certain lady whose name begins with an L. You _know_ you won't dare call at No.
40 for a week!”
”Why?” he asked simply, and emptied his gla.s.s.
”Why, indeed!” answered the other. ”She looked as black as thunder, and absolutely scowled at _me_. You _should_ have put her in the carriage, I must say.”
”He couldn't!” interrupted Picard; ”because I did; and two people can't perform that office unless they make a queen's cus.h.i.+on.”
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