Part 12 (1/2)

”Can't,” said Gobion, ”I keep my brilliancy for the comparative stranger.”

”----and the positive _Pilgrim_, I suppose.”

”Exactly. Hallo! there's someone at the door.” He shouted, ”Yes!” it was one of his little mannerisms never to say, ”Come in.” The door opened and a girl came round the corner of the screen. It was Blanche Huntley, Wild's mistress, dressed in a long macintosh dripping with rain.

Both men jumped up surprised, Gobion helping her to take off her ulster, while Sturtevant put her umbrella in the stand.

She came to the fireside, a girl not unlike a dainty ill.u.s.tration in a magazine, very neatly got up with a white froth of lace round her neck, and a _chic_ black rosette at her waist. Certainly a pretty girl, with a sweet rather tired mouth, well-marked eyebrows, and dark eyes somewhat full, the lids stained with bistre. Gobion knew her, having met her at Wild's, and rather liked her. She was a girl with ideas, and might have made something of her life if she had not been mixed up in the famous Wrampling Divorce Case, and been forced to leave her type-writing office in the City.

When ruin comes a man begs, a woman sells.

She sat down, Gobion introducing her to Sturtevant, who looked with some interest. ”Fas.h.i.+on-plate in distress,” was his mental comment. Gobion thought, ”Her youth is the golden background which shows up the sadness of her lot; lucky man Wild though,” a very fair index to the individuality of the two men as far as such things go.

”I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you, old man, and it's partly my fault,” she said.

”What is it, Blanche?”

”Well, we were sitting at lunch to-day--Tom wasn't going to the office--when that old pig, Mr. Heath, came rus.h.i.+ng in, half mad, waving a paper in his hand, cursing and swearing till I thought they would hear him in the street. He threw it on the table, and I noticed a column in leaded type marked with blue pencil. 'There,' he said to Tom, 'there's a nice thing to see about one's self! Some d.a.m.n dirty skunk's been writing this about me and _The Pilgrim_.' It was so funny to see him, I never saw anybody in such a bate before; I looked over Tom's shoulder, and, without thinking, said, 'Why, I typed that for Mr. Yardly Gobion.'

'What!' they both yelled. 'Well--I'm--d.a.m.ned! Curse the cad!' Excuse me telling you all this. Well, he went on storming and raving, and said he was going to sack you, and write you a letter you'd remember, and what was more, crab you in every paper in London. I'm horribly sorry, it was all through me.”

Sturtevant gave a long whistle.

”Never mind, dear,” said Gobion, ”it doesn't matter, I don't care; what a rag it must have been!”

”I haven't seen the thing in print yet,” said Sturtevant, ”I'll go out and get a copy.”

When he had gone, Blanche came closer to Gobion. ”Poor boy,” she said, ”I'm afraid you'll find things rather difficult now.”

”Never mind, dear, it doesn't matter, I've got past caring for most things. Does Wild know you're here?”

”Tom? oh no, he'd half kill me if he did. He never liked you much, you know, he said you put on such a lot of Oxford side.”

”Isn't he kind to you, then?”

”Oh, Lord, no, not now. He was at first, but he's getting tired.”

”I should cut the brute.”

”What would I do?” she said sadly, ”what would I do? I've no character or money or anything. I'd have to go to the Empire promenade, I expect.”

She stretched out her hands to the blaze wearily.

”Poor little girl,” he said, taking one of her hands in his, ”poor little girl, it's a nasty, miserable world.”

She said nothing for half a minute, and then she burst into an agony of tears, dropping her head on his shoulder.

”Oh, don't, dear, don't!” said Gobion, half crying too; ”try to bear up.”

”You don't know what it means. You're not an outcast.”