He nodded. “A long time ago.”
“Who caused such a scandal with the Marquis of —————?” She whispered behind her hand. “And was the mistress of——————?” Again she whispered.
“That’s who she is,” he acknowledged. “But don’t you see that all that helps? It’s an advertisement. She’s the best preserved woman of seventy in London.”
“She’s a notorious character,” Mrs. Sheerug said firmly. “Alonzo, you’ll have nothing to do with her.”
His arm slipped from her shoulder. She stood up and reentered the window. Before she vanished, she came back and patted him kindly. “You won’t, Alonzo. You know you won’t.”
The mill-wheel of London droned on, turning and always turning. The sparrows grew silent in the ivy; shadows stole out Soon a light sprang up in the spare-room. They could hear the harp fingered gently; it brought memories of the ghost-bird of romance, beating its wings against the panes, struggling vainly to get out.
“Too righteous,” Mr. Sheerug muttered. “Not a business woman.” And then, as though stoking up his courage, “Won’t I? I shall.”
He heaved him up from the steps and wandered off in the direction of the shrubbery to find comfort with his pigeons.
It was Duke Nineveh, with his knowledge of human vanity, who won Mrs. Sheerug. He spoke to her as an artist to an artist, and asked permission to see her tapestries. He spent an entire afternoon, peering at them through his monocle. Next day he returned.
“Colossal! A shame the world shouldn’t know about them! It’s genius—a lost art recovered. Now, when we’ve built our Beauty Palace, if we could give an exhibition——”