Now, upon his return, our solemn young vagabond had no thought but to resume this motley habit of existence. New alleys of interest he would explore, adapting his moral eyesight to a focus that late experience had taught him the value of; feeding his philosophy and humanity with a single spoon.
He disappeared and, remote in his retreats, was little tempted to emerge therefrom by the reports that were occasionally wafted to him of his uncle’s scandalous liaison with a beautiful Belgian girl, who had come to rule the viscounty.
Then—when he had been for some six weeks serving the interests of his own education in the character of a sort of spiritual commercial traveller—one day he happened upon Théroigne herself.
On this occasion chance had taken him westward, and he was walking meditatively under the trees bordering the Piccadilly side of the Green Park, when a voice, the low sound of which gave him an irresistible thrill, hailed him in French from a carriage that drew up at the moment in the road hard by. This carriage was a yellow “tilbury,” glossy with new paint and varnish, with the Murk arms on the panels and a foaming bright chestnut to draw it; and a very self-conscious “tiger” held the chestnut in while a lady jumped to the pavement.
“I congratulate you,” said Ned, doffing his hat in the calmest astonishment; “you have made a slave of opportunity.”
Indeed she had the right selective faculty. Her schooling might have extended through a couple of months, and here she was a queen of inimitable charms. She had suffered no illusions of caste; but recognising herself as to the purple of beauty born, she had simply allowed her instincts for style to develop themselves in a congenial atmosphere. And thereto a present air of pride and defiance lent its grace. She made no secret to herself of what she was, and yet that was merely the glorified accent to what she had been. The brilliant dyes of the tiger-moth are only the hues of the caterpillar intensified. This—the brilliancy, the bright loveliness, and the soft consciousness of it all—had been embryo in her from the first. She took Ned’s hands into hers in a wooing manner. A scent of heliotrope, like an unsaintly aureola, sweetened her very neighbourhood.
“Where have you been?” she said; “and why hast thou never come near me?”
“Why should you want me to?” he answered in genuine amazement. “You have made your bed, Mademoiselle Lambertine.”
“I have not made it; no, it is not true.”
She looked about her hurriedly.