“Think so?”
“Sure; and now I’m off to golf. Ta, ta; see you at dinner!” and he walked away. Blagdon remained; he selected and lit another cigar, and settled himself to meditate. Roland was a good judge; he had knocked about a bit. But the girl as he had last seen her!
“That,” argued common sense, “was merely the shabby dress and shoes that had choked him off. Yes, and her cold red hands. All her aunt’s fault—stingy old devil! At the ball, she was well turned out—and what a difference! And, by George! he could afford to dress his wife properly. A beauty that would be famous, Mrs. Hugo Blagdon—!”
Once more his thoughts were concentrated on Thornby—thoughts which subsequently simmered in his brain for days. Little did Mrs. Corbett suspect them. Her extravagance was increasing, she was a true daughter of the horse leech, and her ceaseless cry was “Give, give!” Every morning before they went into the Rooms, she would take a little turn with Blagdon, conduct him to the shops, and gaze pathetically into a milliner’s, go into raptures over a fifty-pound cloak or gown, then pilot her companion to the Galerie Charles III, and a certain jeweller’s, where she gloated over one particular necklace. She would gaze at this, and then at her escort, and sigh, and sigh; but in spite of these seductive arts, for once in his life Blagdon proved invulnerable. Little did his companion guess, when he strolled about looking into windows, and criticising their contents, that all the time he was thinking how well such an ornament, or hat or frock, would become someone else!—a little girl in a remote old village, in far-away England. If Letty Glyn had frocks and jewels, she would cut them all out. He had given tons of pretty things to the greedy woman beside him, and paid tribute in not a few staggering dressmaker’s bills. Yes, he was aware that Lola was dying for the emerald necklace—but he was not to be drawn!
CHAPTER XI
SAUNTERING along the Casino terrace enjoying a morning cigar, attended by the Baron and Mrs. Corbett, Blagdon was unaffectedly disgusted when a gigantic and majestic Grand Duke accosted the latter, and after a brief parley annexed the lady, to accompany and amuse him—leaving the great man, deserted and despoiled. At déjeuner Lola reappeared in radiant spirits, cajoling, irresistible, and full of stories about the Duke. She had met him in Paris, Vienna, and Marienbad, they were old old friends. The Duke was so enormously interested in Hugo and anxious to make his acquaintance, had heard of his lovely place, his splendid hunters, his first-rate shooting. She was dining with the Duke that night, and would bring off the introduction later; Hugo was both mollified and flattered. He considered himself the equal of any potentate, but by all accounts this particular Russian Prince, with versts of shooting and millions of roubles, might prove a satisfactory acquaintance. After déjeuner he went into the Rooms, and was so successful at the tables, and so pleased with himself and the world in general, that he subsequently strolled over to the galerie, and purchased the coveted necklace on which Mrs. Corbett had long set envious eyes. Well, after all, it cost him nothing—it came out of the pockets of the Administration and really was a remarkably neat thing—a diamond collar, with large drops of cabochon emeralds.
In the evening, the Rooms were crowded. Blagdon played again, but was out of luck, and also a little out of humour. He had seen the Countess of Boncaster stare fixedly at his sister, and cut her dead. Connie had too much rouge on; she looked dishevelled and excited, and was gambling recklessly—yet it was only the other day that he had squared up her betting book, and she had sworn to economise and reform.
Wandering through the rooms, in a doorway he suddenly encountered Mrs. Corbett and the gigantic Grand Duke; he was about to halt, but amazing to relate, the lady glanced over his head with cold, unseeing eyes, and so passed on. He paused transfixed, and stared after the pair. Lola was chattering French, and gazing up at the great hulking Tartar, with her most alluring expression. How well he knew it! He watched them as they circled a table, and melted away into the crowd. The burly Russian, and his graceful companion, who was actually wearing diamonds that he, Blagdon, had paid for—yes, and the very gown on her back! As he stood motionless and bewildered, for once experiencing the sting of smarting vanity, and dwelling on the late decisive incident, the Baron accosted him, with a scared white face.
“I have been looking for you all over the shop,” he began. “I say, old chap, I’m cleared out. Can you let me have a couple of mille notes, just to go on with? I’ll pay you back of course.”