“I say, look here, Martin, I suppose you have your carriage, and you may as well take my niece home; you are going in her direction.”
“My dear uncle, why should you victimise Mr. Kesters?” she protested; “I shall return as I came, in a hansom.”
But Mr. Kesters intervened with unexpected gallantry, and declared that to escort Miss Wynyard was an honour that he could not forgo. Subsequently he conducted her down to a shabby, “one-horse” brougham—the coachman’s legs were wrapped in a specially odoriferous stable rug—and conveyed her to Eaton Terrace. As he took leave of her at the hall door, he ventured to put a timid question.
He was such a near neighbour—might he come and call?
“Yes, of course,” assented the lady; “Aunt Eliza will be delighted to see you—we are always at home on Sundays, four to six.”
Subsequently Mr. Kesters became a regular visitor, and met with Aunt Eliza’s approval; and, before many Sundays had elapsed, a paragraph concerning the names of Wynyard and Kesters appeared in the Morning Post.
And so poor Leila became rich Leila! and, from being an insignificant relation, a person of considerable social importance. Until her marriage few had discovered Mrs. Kesters’ beauty—her cleverness had never been disputed. Now, as the result of a visit to Paris, armed with a cheque-book, she glorified her appearance, wore charming frocks and exquisite jewels, and, with her fine air and admirable figure, it was impossible “to pass her unnoticed in a crowd.”
Mrs. Kesters organised changes other than personal: the gloomy abode in Eaton Square was sold, its contents dispatched to an auction room—including two old stuffed parrots, and the mangy remains of her predecessor’s King Charles; another house was taken and furnished regardless of expense, a motor purchased, and a staff of experienced servants engaged. In a surprisingly short time Mrs. Martin Kesters of 202 Mount Street, Grosvenor Square, had become a popular member of society. Her little dinners and luncheons were famous, not alone for the quality of the menu, but also of the guests. Martin, too, had been transformed as by a wand! His whiskers disappeared, he was persuaded to change his tailor, and given a good conceit of himself. He felt ten years younger, brisk, energetic, prepared to enjoy his money and the Indian summer of his life. Instead of being taciturn, he talked; instead of going to sleep after dinner, he patronised the theatre; he learnt to play bridge and golf. In the society of ladies his manners had become assured, and he no longer was at a helpless loss to know what to say, or stumbled clumsily over their trains. For all these new accomplishments he had to thank Leila; and he was devoted to his brilliant and charming wife. She was more or less in touch with political people, and clever men, and women that mattered. The fascinating Mrs. Kesters was successful in drawing-room diplomacy and the delicate art of pulling strings; and, to her husband’s astonishment, he had found himself a K.C.B., and elected to an exclusive club—sitting on important committees, dining in stately houses, and entertaining notable guests.
Lady Kesters’ connections held up their hands, cast up their eyes, and declared that “Leila was too wonderful!” She had changed a dull, plodding, City man into a well-turned-out, agreeable, bland individual—who was her abject slave—and she had become a leader in her own particular set. Her relatives repeated, “Who would have thought Leila had it in her?” But Leila had, so to speak, always “had it in her.” “It” represented brains, tact, a passion for affairs and managing, a hidden and ambitious spirit, and an active and impatient longing to taste responsibility and power.