The door of No. 110 opened and closed on the vision of purity. Lionel walked up Park Lane and soon reached his home; he entered the library, and once more looked up at his father’s portrait. Was it fancy? But he thought he saw the face smile superciliously, and heard these cold words fall from the thin lips: “My poor fellow, beware of sentimentality. As I told you, I preferred being killed to being bored.”
CHAPTER VIII
A few days after, Dick Danford was at his master’s house; he walked nimbly through the hall and reached the Roman bath Lionel had now constructed for his use. He had started the fashion of receiving his friends at the late hour of the afternoon, five o’clock, in what the Romans called the Frigidarium. Those who wished to bathe could do so in the marble swimming-bath cut out in the centre of the hall, others who only came to converse sat in the recess carved into the surrounding wall, or stood against the pilasters which divided the recesses. There, for an hour or two, they discussed past doings, foreshadowed events; wit was acclaimed, philosophy commended. As Dan entered he viewed a gay scene: Lionel just stepping out of the bath, meeting his valet, Temple, ready to friction his body with the strigil—a sort of flesh brush—others, like George Murray the novelist, and Ronald Sinclair the art critic, sitting in recesses; whilst many of the Upper Ten and the artistic world splashed and dived in the piscina.
“Here comes Dan!” proclaimed Lionel. “What news since I last saw you? I have missed you much these two days; but I daresay your business was pressing.”
“Hail, Danford! the surest, safest, most comforting of all guides! While we sip our tea tell us the town news.” This was Tom Hornsby, reclining in one of the recesses. The splashing ceased, they one after another grouped themselves—some in the niches, the rest lying down, whilst Danford, standing against a pilaster, surveyed with intense satisfaction this picture of recherché cleanliness, and inhaled the fragrance of exquisite perfumes.
“Plenty of news, gentlemen. First of all, the Bishop of Sunbury—”
“Oh! my old prelate of the Islington Tournament? Excuse me, Dan, for interrupting you.”
“Yes, my lord, the very same—has decided to preach a sermon at St Paul’s on the new Society he is organising.”
“What is that, Dick?”
“It is a profound secret, my lord,” answered Dick as he bowed courteously.