“Yes,” admitted Ferdy, recalling with a shudder Mr Ringwood’s appearance earlier in the day. “If you had not, Gil, dear old fellow, I couldn’t have dined with you. Couldn’t have fancied a morsel!” He regarded the Belcher handkerchief with misgiving. “And dash it, I’m not sure I shall be able to fancy anything as it is!”
However, he was presently able to do full justice to a very handsome dinner, consisting of buttered crab, a dish of mutton fry with parsnips, a pheasant pie, with several side dishes, including some potted sturgeon, and a cold boiled knuckle of veal, and pig’s face. Having washed down this repast with some excellent Chambertin, Mr Ringwood felt much restored, and was even inclined to think that if he imbibed a sufficient quantity of port during the evening, with perhaps a little brandy to top off the whole, the morrow might find him a new man. The Honourable Ferdy having no fault to find with this programme, the covers were removed, the decanters set on the table, and the two friends settled down to their game of piquet. In this they were presently interrupted by Lord Wrotham, who had looked in on Mr Ringwood to discover what, since Ferdy had so lamentably failed in this morning’s mission, was next to be done to prevent Lady Sherry’s ruining herself in the eyes of the Polite World. Mr Ringwood explained that he himself had resolved to call in Half Moon Street on the following morning; and the three gentlemen were just lamenting the absence of a fourth who could have made up a table of whist when another knock was heard on the street door. The hope that this might herald the arrival of some convivial soul in search of entertainment was shattered a minute later by the entrance into the room of Hero, a birdcage in one hand and an ormolu clock clutched under her other arm. A cloak was tied round her neck, its hood slipping from her head; she looked alarmingly pale, and there were tear-stains on her cheeks.
“Gil!” she uttered, in a breaking voice. “Help me! Oh, will you please help me?”
The three gentlemen had sprung instinctively to their feet upon her entering the room, and now stood rooted to the floor, gazing at her in the blankest amazement. Mr Ringwood, horribly conscious of his unconventional attire, showed a craven desire to shrink into the background. It was Ferdy who first recovered his manners, and stepped forward, saying earnestly: “Anything in our power, Kitten! Gil not quite himself — shocking cold in his head! took a toss into a dyke, you know. Allow me to take your cloak!”
She relinquished it and gave up the birdcage to George, saying agitatedly: “Oh, thank you, Ferdy! I did not know you were here! And George! I am so very sorry you are not well, Gil, but what am I to do if you cannot help me, for I have nowhere to go, and no one to advise me, and I am quite desperate!”
“Good God!” exclaimed George, standing with the birdcage in his hand and staring at Hero. “How can this be? What — ”
Mr Ringwood pulled himself together, assured Hero that his cold was a thing of the past, and drew her towards the fire. “Do, pray, sit down, Kitten, and be calm! Of course I will help you!”
“All help you!” Ferdy interpolated. “Greatest pleasure on earth! No need to worry — not the least in the world!”
“She is chilled to the bone!” said Mr Ringwood, holding her small hands in his. “For God’s sake, George, put down that birdcage and pour her a drop of brandy!”
Hero allowed herself to be pressed into a seat by the fire, choked over the brandy, and said: “Oh, thank you, no more, if you please! It is only my hands that are cold, and there is such a wind outside!”