"Poor girl!" said Lucille, and continued her progress downstairs, leaving the valet short of repartee. He flung the feather brush down in the passage, and returned disconsolately to Melville's rooms.
Melville stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, thinking hard. He had been counting out his money that morning, and the operation took a disgustingly short time in the doing; he had a balance of thirty-seven pounds in the bank, and a five-pound note, three sovereigns and some silver in his rooms: a total of something under forty-six pounds left from Mr. Tracy's little payment on account of out-of-pocket expenses on Ralph's behalf. The result of the expenditure of the other fifty-four pounds was difficult to define, but if it did not benefit Ralph it benefited Melville as little. They were gone, though whither Melville had no clear notion. Mr. Tracy might be good for another hundred later on, but certainly not at once. The evening engagement which, by arranging to dine early, Melville did not find it necessary to cancel, might result in an addition to his funds, for its primary object was cards, but, on the other hand, it might not. The barometer of his luck had fluctuated from fair to stormy of late. Where should he go for an appreciable sum—if not to Lavender? And why not to Lavender? The necessity had arisen sooner than he anticipated, but from the first he had seen her potentialities as a source of revenue for himself, and he had no squeamish reluctance in availing himself of any means of assistance which fortune dropped in his way. The opportunity of asking her was created by herself, and, in view of her departure from England, might not arise again.
He wrote an open cheque for thirty pounds and called Jervis.
"Go round to my bank and cash that cheque for me. Take it in five-pound notes; I have enough change on me."
And when Jervis presently returned, Melville put the banknotes in his writing table drawer, lighted a cigarette, and went out for his usual gentle constitutional in the streets frequented by the best sort of idle man-about-town, as calm and free from worry as the idlest of them all.
CHAPTER XXV.
MRS. SINCLAIR GOES AWAY.
The pleasant anticipation of her trip abroad, and the little mild excitement promised by her prospective dinner at a restaurant, among well-dressed people and brightened by lights and music, went far to rouse Lavender from her recent long spell of depression; there was much of the old sparkle in her eyes, much of the warm colour in her cheeks, as she finished dressing that evening and looked at her reflection in the mirrors while waiting for Lucille to bring her opera cloak.
Some caprice impelled her to desire to look her very best to-night, and she was magnificently dressed in champagne crepe-de-chine, worn over a foundation the tint of apricots. Regardless of the general superstition she had chosen opals for her jewels, and they burned in a myriad fantastic colours upon her splendid neck and bosom, and crept like a flaming serpent up one of her finely moulded arms. Few women could wear magnificent gems as easily as Lavender Sinclair, and, imperial as she looked to-night, there was no suggestion of ostentation or of bad taste in her appearance. Here was the splendour that compels homage, not the lavish display that challenges criticism.
Lucille surveyed her with proud affection ere she dropped the long opera cloak lightly over her shoulders, screening the glowing opals and covering the delicate gown. There was no need for Lavender to ask if she looked well; the least vain woman in the world, the most vain one as well, would have been satisfied by one glance at the image reflected from the depths of the full-length mirrors. Reluctantly Lucille extinguished the candles that stood in branching candelabra over the mirrors, and went downstairs to unroll the carpet from the hall door to the gate, where the hansom stood in readiness.