§ 2
Sam, reaching Bruton Street at a quarter past seven, was informed by the butler who admitted him that his father was dressing and would be down in a few minutes. The butler, an old retainer of the Marlowe family, who, if he had not actually dandled Sam on his knees when an infant, had known him as a small boy, was delighted to see him again.
“Missed you very much, Mr. Samuel, we all have,” he said affectionately, as he preceded him to the drawing-room.
“Yes?” said Sam absently.
“Very much indeed, sir. I happened to remark only the other day that the place didn’t seem the same without your happy laugh. It’s good to see you back once more, looking so well and merry.”
Sam stalked into the drawing-room with the feeling that comes to all of us from time to time, that it is hopeless to struggle. The whole damned circle of his acquaintance seemed to have made up their minds that he had not a care in the world, so what was the use? He lowered himself into a deep arm-chair and lit a cigarette.
Presently the butler reappeared with a cocktail on a tray. Sam drained it, and scarcely had the door closed behind the old retainer when an abrupt change came over the whole outlook. It was as if he had been a pianola and somebody had inserted a new record. Looking well and happy! He blew a smoke ring. Well, if it came to that, why not? Why shouldn’t he look well and happy? What had he got to worry about? He was a young man, fit and strong, in the springtide of life, just about to plunge into an absorbing business. Why should he brood over a sentimental episode which had ended a little unfortunately? He would never see the girl again. If anything in this world was certain, that was. She would go her way, and he his. Samuel Marlowe rose from his chair a new man, to greet his father, who came in at that moment fingering a snowy white tie.
Sam started at his parent’s splendour in some consternation.
“Great Scot, father! Are you expecting a lot of people? I thought we were dining alone.”
“That’s all right, my boy. A dinner-jacket is perfectly in order. We shall be quite a small party. Six in all. You and I, a friend of mine and his daughter, a friend of my friend’s friend and my friend’s friend’s son.”
“Surely that’s more than six!”
“No.”
“It sounded more.”
“Six,” said Sir Mallaby firmly. He raised a shapely hand with the fingers outspread. “Count ’em for yourself.” He twiddled his thumb. “Number one—Bennett.”
“Who?” cried Sam.
“Bennett. Rufus Bennett. He’s an American over here for the summer. Haven’t I ever mentioned his name to you? He’s a great fellow. Always thinking he’s at death’s door, but keeps up a fine appetite. I’ve been his legal representative in London for years. Then—” Sir Mallaby twiddled his first finger—“there’s his daughter Wilhelmina, who has just arrived in England.” A look of enthusiasm came into Sir Mallaby’s face. “Sam, my boy, I don’t intend to say a word about Miss Wilhelmina Bennett, because I think there’s nothing more prejudicial than singing a person’s praises in advance. I merely remark that I fancy you will appreciate her! I’ve only met her once, and then only for a few minutes, but what I say is, if there’s a girl living who’s likely to make you forget whatever fool of a woman you may be fancying yourself in love with at the moment, that girl is Wilhelmina Bennett! The others are Bennett’s friend, Henry Mortimer, also an American—a big lawyer, I believe, on the other side—and his son Bream. I haven’t met either of them. They ought to be here any moment now.” He looked at his watch. “Ah! I think that was the front door. Yes, I can hear them on the stairs.”