Blup. Blup. Blup. There came a familiar variation to the familiar sounds of the train. Christina Alberta was running into Liverpool Street Station and her perplexities were all unsolved.
The old fantasy lost heart and faded away. What was the good of such dreams? There she was.
§ 6
Christina Alberta’s meeting next day with Wilfred Devizes turned out to be a much more exciting affair than she or he had expected it to be.
Acting on the advice of Paul Lambone, she had brought photographs and a letter or so in her Daddy’s handwriting with her, and she had thought out what she judged would be significant things to tell about him. She went in a taxi with Paul Lambone to Devizes’ house just off Cavendish Square, and they were shown up at once past a waiting-room and a consulting-room to a dignified little sitting-room with an open fire and a table with tea-things and a great array of bookcases. Devizes came in to them forthwith.
She was a little shocked to think that this lank, dark, shock-headed man could be recognizably like her. He was younger than she had expected him to be, younger she thought, than her Daddy or Mr. Lambone, and he wore a long unbuttoned morning coat. He carried the nose all right; he was indeed very good-looking.
“Hullo, Paul,” he said cheerfully. “Is this the young lady whose father’s been stolen? We’ll have some tea. It’s Miss——?”
“Miss Preemby,” said Paul Lambone, “but every one calls her Christina Alberta.”
Devizes turned an eye that was by habit and disposition a scrutinizing eye upon her. He betrayed a faint momentary surprise and came and shook hands. “Tell me all about it,” he said. “You don’t think he’s really mad, but only rather exceptional and odd. That’s it, isn’t it? Lambone tells me he is sane. It’s quite possible. I’d better go over the state of his mind first, and then we can discuss the question of the asylum afterwards. I gather you want to get him under your own care—outside. That isn’t by any means simple. We’ll have to study the obstacles. Meanwhile tea.... I’ve been disentangling the delusions of a perfectly terrible old lady, and I’m rather deflated. Just tell me all about it in your own way.”
“Tell him,” said Paul, settling his shoulders into his arm-chair, and preparing to interrupt.