Mr. Marx's Secret

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

“I say, isn’t she stunning?” he whispered.

I answered in the affirmative, carefully removing myself from the range of his elbow. Then we approached her, and she closed the book of engravings with a comical air of relief and made room for us beside her.

She was even prettier than I had expected, with dark hair and eyes, dazzling complexion, a perfect figure of the petite order, and faultless teeth, which she was by no means averse from showing. She wore a black lace gown, with a good deal of scarlet about it and a deep red rose in her bosom. Altogether, I was scarcely surprised at Cecil’s captivation.

If not actually a chatterbox, she was certainly possessed of the art of talking nonsense very volubly, and making others talk it. Before dinner was announced by a dignified-looking functionary we had got through quite an amazing amount of conversation. It fell to Cecil’s lot to take in his inamorata, whilst I was far away behind with the middle-aged wife of a country clergyman. She was very pleasant, though, and I was quite content to do but little talking throughout the long banquet, for it was all new to me and interesting.

The vast dining-hall—it was really the picture-gallery—the many servants in rich liveries, the emblazoned plate, the glittering glasses, and the brilliant snatches of conversation which floated around me, all were a revelation. Very soon the effect of it passed away and I was able to choose my wines and select my dishes, and was free to take part if I chose in the talk. But for that first evening I was content to remain silent and, as far as possible, unnoticed.

Dinner, which had seemed to me to be growing interminable, came to an end at last. Lady Silchester, at the head of a long file of stately women, swept down the polished floor, and the procession departed with much rustling of robes. Some of the vacant chairs were taken possession of by men, and already delicate blue clouds of smoke were curling upwards to the vaulted ceiling. It was the short period dearer to the heart of man than any during the day. Every one stretched out his stiff limbs, filled his glass and assumed his favourite attitude. Voices were raised and a sudden change of tone crept in upon the conversation. Only Mr. Ravenor and a few of the older guests appeared to be still engrossed in the discussion of some abstruse scientific controversy then raging in the reviews. Everyone else seemed to be talking lightly of the day’s sport, the arrangements for the morrow, and his own and other men’s horses.

It was getting a little slow for me. Cecil had found some friends, and the sound of his hearty boyish laugh came to me often from the other end of the table. My immediate neighbours were a bishop, who was deep in discussion with a minor canon concerning the doings of some recent diocesan conference, at which things seemed to have been more lively than harmonious; and on my other side Lord Penraven was quarrelling with the lord lieutenant of the county about the pedigree of a racehorse. Both disputes were utterly without interest to me, and it was no small relief when, as I caught Mr. Ravenor’s eye, he beckoned me to a vacant chair by his side.

The conversation, which had been for a moment interrupted, was soon renewed. I sat silent, listening with ever-increasing admiration to the play of words, the subtle arguments, and the epigrammatic brilliancy of expression which flashed from one to another of the four disputants. Had I known anything of the social or literary life of London I might have been less astonished, for Mr. Ravenor and two of his antagonists, Mr. Justice Haselton and Professor Clumbers, were reckoned among the finest talkers of their day.

At last Mr. Ravenor, very much to my regret, brought the conversation to an abrupt close by proposing an exodus to the drawing-rooms. A few of the younger men looked eager to depart, but the majority rose and stretched themselves with the sad faces of martyrs before forming themselves into little groups and quitting the room. Mr. Ravenor remained until the last and motioned me to stay with him.

“Well, Philip,” he said, when everyone had gone, “how are you getting on at Dr. Randall’s? Do you like being there?”