“I beg your pardon?” queried the martial gentleman, in a rich, port-winey, cigary voice.
Mrs. Viveash looked at him with such wide-eyed astonishment that the old gentleman was quite taken aback. “A thousand apologies, dear lady. Thought you were addressing ... H’m, ah’m.” He replaced his hat, squared his shoulders and went off smartly, left, right, bearing preciously before him his pigeon-breast. Poor thing, he thought, poor young thing. Talking to herself. Must be cracked, must be off her head. Or perhaps she took drugs. That was more likely: that was much more likely. Most of them did nowadays. Vicious young women. Lesbians, drug-fiends, nymphomaniacs, dipsos—thoroughly vicious, nowadays, thoroughly vicious. He arrived at his club in an excellent temper.
Never again, never, never again. Mrs. Viveash would have liked to be able to cry.
St. James’s Square opened before her. Romantically under its trees the statue pranced. The trees gave her an idea: she might go down into the country for the afternoon, take a cab and drive out, out, goodness only knew where! To the top of a hill somewhere. Box Hill, Leith Hill, Holmbury Hill, Ivinghoe Beacon—any hill where one could sit and look out over plains. One might do worse than that with one’s liberty.
But not much worse, she reflected.
Mrs. Viveash had turned up towards the northern side of the square and was almost at its north-western corner when, with a thrill of genuine delight, with a sense of the most profound relief she saw a familiar figure, running down the steps of the London Library.
“Theodore!” she hallooed faintly but penetratingly, from her inward death-bed. “Gumbril!” She waved her parasol.
Gumbril halted, looked round, came smiling to meet her. “How delightful,” he said, “but how unfortunate.”
“Why unfortunate?” asked Mrs. Viveash. “Am I of evil omen?”
“Unfortunate,” Gumbril explained, “because I’ve got to catch a train and can’t profit by this meeting.”