CHAPTER III
At twelve o’clock, Jacob was in Regent Street, and at one o’clock, in a new blue serge suit, shirt, collar and tie of the latest pattern, he was dividing his time between admiring his reflection in the mirror and waiting in the entrance hall of Simpson’s. Dauncey’s coming was, in its way, pathetic. With a pessimism engendered by years of misfortune, he had found it impossible to preserve throughout the morning the exultation of those first few minutes with Jacob in the railway carriage. He entered the restaurant and came towards his friend with a feverish light in his eyes and a trembling of the lips which the latter only too well understood.
“It’s all right, old fellow,” Jacob assured him emphatically. “Throw in your hat with mine. Here’s our table—two cocktails waiting, you see, and a bottle of the best the place has—I tell you the old gentleman in Threadneedle Street parted without a murmur. I’m simply bursting with money—Steady, old chap!”
In the crowd of people waiting for their tables, they were little noticed, these two—Dauncey struggling against the faintness, the rising in his throat, the strange moisture in his eyes, Jacob talking nonsense as hard as he could and affecting to disregard these unusual conditions. Soon he had his friend safely seated opposite him, forced him to drink his cocktail, gave cheerful orders to the waiter, and produced a brand new pocketbook, which he laid upon the table.
“Richard,” he announced, “there’s a hundred pounds in that. Away with it, pocketbook and all. Now put the soles of your feet firmly on the ground and think what you’re going to say to Nora when you get home. You’ve stood up against some nasty knocks. Now just tell yourself that they’re all over. We’ll take a feast home to-night. Waiter, open the wine. By Jove, I’ve heard that pop for other fellows often enough, but not one for myself for two years and more.”
“Jacob,” Dauncey faltered, “I can’t say a word, but I’m all right. And God bless you,” he added, raising his glass and drinking. “God bless you, Jacob! You’re a pal.”
After that, the thing was accepted as part of their lives, and they talked reasonably.
“This afternoon,” Jacob confided, “I am going to be measured for half a dozen suits of clothes. I am going to prowl about Bond Street and gratify the longings of a lifetime for variegated hosiery. At five o’clock, Richard, I shall call for you at your office. By the bye, you had better ask them how soon they can let you go.”
“They won’t worry about that,” Dauncey answered, a little bitterly. “Every Saturday for months has been a nightmare to me, for fear I’d get the sack. They don’t think I’m smart enough for my job there—not smart enough even for three pounds a week!”