It is not quite clear whether she ought openly to have expressed her approval. It was very necessary, all the same, to rouse the unhappy Jim from the lethargy that was making his life unbearable. At all events, he seemed to derive a certain inward power from the mere resolution.
The next morning Jim made his way to Hyde Park. It was now June and it was looking its best, with the trees, the rhododendrons, and the ladies in full bloom. For some time he stood by the railings with a kind of indefinite hope that he would be rewarded for his pilgrimage. Then he began to walk slowly in the direction of Knightsbridge; and confronted by so much fine plumage, he began to wish ruefully that his blue suit was not so shabby and that his straw hat was not in its second season.
He was still hopeful, however. He took a careful survey of the riders. Somewhat oddly, his attention was attracted to a heavy, red-faced, rather stupid-looking man who was pounding along on a gray horse. His appearance was perfectly familiar to Jim Lascelles, yet for the moment he could not remember where and when he had seen him.
It was with an odd mingling of satisfaction and disgust that he was able to recall the heavy red-faced man’s identity. He stopped and turned his eyes to follow him in his progress. Yes, it was he undoubtedly. And there at the corner by Apsley House was a chestnut horse, tall, upstanding, proudly magnificent, surmounted by a royal creature crowned with the light of the morning. At the respectful distance of thirty paces was Mr. Bryant, seated as upright as his own cockade upon a more modest charger. Even he, a man of austere taste and exclusive instinct, did not attempt to conceal an air of legitimate pride in his company. Mr. Bryant had seen nothing that morning, nor many mornings previously, that could in anywise compare with the wonderful Miss Perry.
Doubtless it is hardly right to say that Jim Lascelles’ eyes were envious when they followed the man with the red face, and marked his paternal greeting of the Goose Girl. It is hardly fair, for envy is a vulgar passion, and Jim was too good a fellow ever to be really vulgar in anything. All the same, it must be confessed that he swore to himself softly. He then behaved in a very practical and mundane manner. He took out his watch, one of those admirable American five-shilling watches which are guaranteed to keep correct time for a very long period.
“Three minutes past eleven,” said he. “Oho, my merry man!”
Precisely what Jim Lascelles meant by that mystic exclamation it is difficult to know, but anyhow it seemed to please him. He then observed that the little cavalcade had wheeled round the corner, and had started to come down slowly by the railings upon the left.
Jim stood to await it with a beating heart. It was a most injudicious thing to do, but he was in a desperate and defiant humor.
“Five to one she cuts you,” Jim muttered. “Two to one she cuts you dead. They are all alike when they mount the high horse.”
As Jim Lascelles stood to await the approach of the cavalcade, he no longer thought ruefully of his cheap straw hat and his shabby blue suit. They had become dear to him as the badge of his impending martyrdom.