“So they say, yes! Teheran to Timbuctoo. But what does he say himself about his wanderings beyond the tram-lines? Shuffles mostly, doesn’t he? And who’s met him anywhere? Not a soul will come forward to speak. I tell you, Amy, there’s something uncanny about this Patrick Onslow. He turns up here periodically in London after some vague exploring trip to a place that isn’t mapped, and you can never pin him to tell exactly where he’s been. He comes with money, spends it en prince, and then goes off again, nominally perhaps to the Gobi Desert, and returns with another cargo.”
“How romantic!” said Miss Rivers.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said her fiancé drily. “If he’d lived a century earlier, one would have said he’d got a sound business connection as a pirate somewhere West Indies way. As this year is eighteen ninety-three, and that explanation’s barred, one simply has to accept him as an uncomfortable mystery.”
“Hamilton, how absurd you are! Wherever did all this rigmarole come from?”
“From the club, and London gossiping places generally. I suppose we ought to be indebted to Onslow for providing us with something to talk about.”
“But tell me; if his antecedents are so queer, how is it he goes about so much here? He’s apparently asked everywhere—at least, so Mrs. Shelf says—and he knows everybody who’s worth knowing.”
Fairfax laughed. “Why does London society take up with an ex-bushranger from Australia, or a glorified advertising cowboy from the wild, wild West? Simply because London society is extremely parochial, and gets desperately bored with its own little self undiluted. Now, Onslow has undoubtedly wandered about outside the parish; and occasionally he lets drop hints which make one think he’s seen some queerish ups and downs in places where polite society doesn’t go; and, in fact, he preserves a good-humored reticence about most of his doings. This makes people thoughtful and speculative. If a Chinese extradition warrant was to turn up to-morrow to arrest him for sticking up a three-button mandarin beyond the Great Wall, nobody would be a bit surprised; or if he were to tell the City this afternoon that he’d a concession for a silver mine in an unexplored part of Venezuela which he wished to dispose of at reasonable rates, we’d take it with pleased equanimity. Now, you know, Amy, there’s a fearful joy in entertaining a man of that stamp.”
“Especially when he’s as fascinating as Mr. Onslow can be when he chooses. And such a waltzer! But you speak as if he was a savage from some back settlement, come into decent society for the first time. He isn’t that in the least. He’s a gentleman distinctly.”
“My dear Amy, I never meant to suggest that he was not. There’s no particular secret about his life. He comes of a good west-county family; was a Harrow boy, and played in their eleven; went through Cambridge; and afterwards found a berth in the Diplomatic Service. Then, by way of variety, he got engaged to be married to a girl who jilted him; on the strength of which he began to run wild. He started on six months’ leave for a trip into Tibet, but he stayed beyond the limits of the postal system for two years and a half, and when he got back to England the Diplomatic Corps found that they could get on very well without him. So he continued his rambles. He doesn’t seem able to settle down.”