A silence, while Mr. F. traced strange hieroglyphics on the napery. After a while he tossed aside the fork with the air of one casting off unpleasant memories, and settled back in his chair.
"Tell me about yourself," he commanded. "How is the world using you? What in the name of wonder ever took you on the comic opera stage? I couldn't believe my own eyes when I spotted you to-night, and, of course, the name on the programme meant nothing to me. I shook my friends as soon as the performance was over and interviewed the back-door keeper. He told me you were Mrs. Hartley in private life.... Well, what's the answer?"
"There's nothing mysterious about my present occupation. Mr. Hartley hasn't been especially lucky this season, and when a chance to help out a bit presented itself I took it ... that's all.... I presume you know that we lost our boy...."
"Yes—yes ... I knew, of course." His tone was curt, but I understood his reluctance to dwell upon the subject. The return of the waiter ended a painful silence. After that Mr. F. kept up a running fire of gossip and questions about stage life. But beneath the surface I sensed and lent him tacit aid in his effort to steer clear of the topic I knew to be uppermost in his mind. From time to time rumours of a fresh rupture with his wife had reached me. In fact, it was Will who had acquainted me with the news of their final estrangement. He confided the details of the lady's latest excursion into the realm of the illicit, with the sententious air of, "There! Didn't I predict what would happen?" and a shrug of the shoulders. I am not sure that it was not Will's intent to sympathize with himself as a victim of circumstances over which he had no control. Indeed, the occasional bursts of confidences which he thrust upon me, and in which he discussed quite frankly the indiscretions of certain lion-hunting ladies, were made, I felt, with the hope of impressing upon me the pitfalls with which a man in his profession is surrounded. Or was it vanity, or a desire to fan the old flame of passion he once had aroused—a passion, which, if the paraphrase is pardonable, was now "tame and waited on judgment?"
In some way—I am not certain how it came about, since "made" conversation is at best disjointed and lacks in sequence—a random remark inspired a challenge from Mr. F., who offered to lay a bet that I was in the wrong. "O, no," I had replied, "I don't want you to lose; besides, you do not pay your gambling debts promptly. Do you know you never sent me that box of candy I won from you in Cincinnati? Mr. F.... you're not a good sport!" With a shock I realized I was in shallow waters.... He looked at me with his eyes narrowed to mere slits.... "Well, little woman, I can't say that of you, can I?... I can't say that you're not a good sport—after that performance in Cincinnati." ...
I flushed but made a heroic effort to control my voice. "I don't think I follow you." Mr. F. beat up the bubbles in his glass and watched them come to the surface before he answered.
"Of course you've heard about her latest affair with that Italian opera singer.... Well, I caught her with the goods this time.... For the sake of the children I'm letting her get the divorce...." He left off frowning and contemplated me with an amused smile. "Say, little woman, you did put it all over me there in Cincinnati, didn't you?... I suppose you're wondering how I got wise to it? Well, I wrung the confession out of her; I wouldn't let her get the divorce until she told me the truth, and then I checked it up through her sister, who's a pretty good sort.... All my life I've had a deep-rooted respect for a game sport.... When I look at that pretty little face of yours and think of the job you cooked up at a moment's notice—well, I take off my hat to you, that's all!... Look here, little woman: if anything ever goes wrong between you and handsome Bill—and by Gad! I thought it had when I saw you on the stage to-night—if ever you need a friend, just tap the wires. There's my club address ... and, little lady—don't be afraid that I'll ask anything in return—do you follow me? I'm not any better than the rest of my kind, but I think I know the real thing when I meet it."
While donning my wraps in the cloak-room some time later, I was surprised to see my little friend Leila enter and present her coat-check to the maid. She flushed a little in surprise as she greeted me: "Why, Mrs. Hartley! I didn't know you were here! Where were you sitting? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"I didn't know myself. I found an old acquaintance waiting, and of course he wanted to see 'where the soubrettes hang out.'"
"How funny! My coming was unexpected, too. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow." She hurried away, a little eagerly, I thought. As I passed out in response to a beckon from Mr. F. I saw Leila being helped into a handsome fur coat.