Part 5 (1/2)
”Which?”
”The girl with the bun, by the potted palm.”
”Oh,” said the stranger, ”that is Lady Mary Aiden Hibbert; she is of a rather buoyant disposition.”
”Not to say _Tom_ buoyant,” said Gobion, punning lazily; ”she seems of an amiable complexion.”
”My dear sir, complexion of both kinds is influenced by cosmetics, not by character.”
”I perceive you are a cynic.”
”Possibly,” said the other in a meditative tone; ”yet not so much of a cynic as a man in quest of sensations.”
”A society journalist?”
”No, merely a man who has become tired of the higher immorality, and wants something else to do.”
Gobion laughed and got up. ”I'm going to the Palace for an hour or two.”
”May I come?” said the stranger; ”my name is Jones.”
”Please do. I am called Yardly Gobion. I shouldn't like to be called Jones, it's not a pretty name.”
The other smiled, he was not vexed; Gobion knew his man. They drove swiftly to the Palace through the lighted streets, talking a little on the way. When they went into the stalls the hysterio-comic of the hour was leaping round the stage in frenzied pirouettes between the verses of her song.
The suggestive music of the dance pulsed through the audience, and when the time sank into the rhythm of the verse, they sat back in their seats with expectant eyes, and a little sigh of delight and antic.i.p.ation.
Miss Mace, in her song ”It's a Family Characteristic,” was the talk of London. The _risque_ nature of the words, her wonderful art in singing them, her naughty eyes, the twitching of her somewhat large mouth--all the lewd papers of the baser sort yelled over her in ecstasy every Wednesday morning.
”I wonder what they pay her a week,” said Mr. Jones.
Gobion hadn't an idea, but he said ”sixty pounds” confidently.
”Really! She certainly is very clever.”
”The best thing I find about her is that she is in wonderful sympathy with her audience, especially too when she is drunk--much funnier then.”
”Imagine how often the average faddist would invoke the Deity during her turn,” said the stranger something sententiously.
”His deity, you mean,” answered Gobion. ”The average man of the _Echo_-reading type thinks G.o.d is a policeman in the service of the Purity party.”
”You coruscate; let us go to the American bar.”
”That's a good idea; the presiding gentleman who makes the drinks is an artist. The mingled science and art with which he compounds whimsical beverages is wonderful. Half of him seems impulse and nervous force as he rattles the pounded ice and flourishes the gla.s.ses, while the other half looks in and puts the finis.h.i.+ng touches.”
”You talk nonsense very pleasantly,” said Mr. Jones. ”What will you have?”
”Oh! a sherry cobbler, please, _with_ straws.”
”Are you a connoisseur in drinks?”