“What have I to do with charming American girls?” Oldmeadow inquired, turning his eyes on the blurred prospect of factory-chimneys and warehouses that the farther waterside of Chelsea affords. One had to go to the window and look out to see the grey and silver river flowing, in the placidity that revealed so little power. Oldmeadow lived in a flat on the Embankment; but he was not an admirer of Chelsea, just as he was not an admirer of Whistler nor—and Barney had always suspected it—of Burne-Jones. His flat gave him, at a reasonable cost, fresh air, boiling-hot water and a walk in Battersea Park; these, with his piano, were his fundamental needs; though he owned, for the mean little stream it was, that the Thames could look pretty enough by morning sunlight and—like any river—magical under stars. After Plato and Bach, Oldmeadow’s passions were the rivers of France.
“She’ll have something to do with you,” said Barney, and he seemed pleased with the retort. “I met her at the Lumleys. They think her the marvel of the age.”
“Well, that doesn’t endear her to me,” said Oldmeadow. “And I don’t like Americans.”
“Come, you’re not quite so hide-bound as all that,” said Barney, vexed. “What about Mrs. Aldesey? I’ve heard you say she’s the most charming woman you know.”
“Except Nancy,” Oldmeadow amended.
“No one could call Nancy a charming woman,” said Barney, looking a little more vexed. “She’s a dear, of course; but she’s a mere girl. What do you know about Americans, anyway—except Mrs. Aldesey?”
“What she tells me about them—the ones she doesn’t know,” said Oldmeadow, leaning back in his chair with a laugh. “But I own that I’m merely prejudiced. Tell me about your young lady, and why you want her to have something to do with me. Is she a reformer of some sort?”
“She’s a wonderful person, really,” said Barney, availing himself with eagerness of his opportunity. “Not a reformer. Only a sort of mixture of saint and fairy-princess. She cured Charlie Lumley of insomnia, three years ago, at Saint Moritz. Nothing psychic or theatrical, you know. Just sat by him and smiled—she’s a most extraordinary smile—and laid her hand on his head. He’d not slept for nights and went off like a lamb. Lady Lumley almost cries when she tells about it. They thought Charlie might lose his mind if he went on not sleeping.”
“My word! She’s a Christian Science lady? A medium? What?”
“Call her what you like. You’ll see. She does believe in spiritual forces. It’s not only that. She’s quite lovely. In every way. Nancy and Meg will worship her. The Lumley girls do.”