Peter laughed at her and liked her, and she liked him. I don't think that I was at all taken with my first view of her. She was thin and pale, with pince-nez and a very faint moustache on her upper lip. Her best feature was her eyes, which were good, grey, steady, kindly, and even at times they twinkled. She was neatness and tidiness itself, and she sat in her chair, quite still, her hands folded on her lap, and her neat little shoes crossed obstinately in front of her.
I shall never, of course, forget the day when she first met Bomb. It was one evening in Peter's flat. A number of people sat about talking, smoking and drinking. The Galleons were there, Maradick, large and red-faced, an old friend of Peter's, Robin Trojan and his wife, and so on. Bomb was late. He burst into the room, large, untidy and, as usual, excited.
"I say," he began at once. "I've just come from Penter's. There's been a fellow there who's the most remarkable man I've ever seen. He's going round England with a circus, and three of his elephants escaped this afternoon and were found examining Cleopatra's Needle half an hour ago and being fed with buns by a lot of street boys. This chap wasn't a bit alarmed, and said they'd be sure to turn up at Howarton or somewhere where he's got his circus, if he gave them time. He says that one of the elephants is the most intelligent——"
Now this story happened, as we discovered in the morning, to be quite, or almost, true, but you can fancy how Helen Cather was struck with it.
"Elephants!" she said, turning round upon him.
"Oh, you don't know one another," said Peter, hastily. "Bomb, this is Miss Cather. Miss Cather—Captain Jones."
Bomb has since declared that he fell in love with his Helen at first sight. Why? I can't conceive. There was nothing romantic about her. She certainly looked upon him on that first occasion with eyes of extreme disapproval. Everything about him must have seemed dreadful to her. "A red-hot liar," she described him to Alice Galleon afterwards. I remember on that very evening wishing that he had stopped for a moment before he came into the room and tidied himself up a little. His hair wasn't brushed, his face was hot and perspiring, his waistcoat was minus a button, and his boots were soiled. He didn't care, of course, but sat down quite close to Miss Cather, smiled upon her, and poured into her ears all that evening a remarkable series of narratives, each one more tremendous than the last.
Peter was amused. Next day he said: "Wasn't it fun seeing Helen Cather and Bomb together? Fire and water. She thought he'd drunk too much, I presume. She can look chilly when she likes, too."