Marie is called, and arrives all smiles and bows. “Really, she thinks madame has gone out for a drive with her friend Lady Manderton, and to lunch with her afterwards. C’est tout.”
Mr. Trevor sighs.
“There will be no lunch wanted, James,” he observes quietly. “I shall lunch at the club.”
He wanders down the street in the direction of St. James’s. He wonders if Vivi has forgotten the promise she made him that morning to lunch at home, and go for a ride with him afterwards. He so rarely sees her now, and when he does it is seldom alone. She never seems to have any time to give to him, and yet he is not brutal to her, or neglectful, or wrapped up in some one else, as many other men are. He loves her so dearly, and would do anything to make her happy; but he can quite see how she shuns him, and how much happier she looks when in Captain Kilmarnock’s company. And then, with a shudder, he starts and stares eagerly across the street, for there she is—yes, actually there she is, in Captain Kilmarnock’s brougham, with the captain beside her, driving rapidly in the direction of Piccadilly.
Mr. Trevor has a strange lump in his throat as he ascends the steps of the Conservative and enters that roomy club.
“Waiter!” he calls out, and his voice is somewhat husky.
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring me a stiff brandy-and-soda, waiter, and mind it is stiff,” continues Mr. Trevor, as he throws himself wearily into a chair. The soda with its stiff complement of brandy arrives. It is mixed carefully by the waiter, and handed to the sad-hearted man. He drinks it eagerly. He has not a strong head, and knows that he cannot take much, but he feels that oblivion must in this instance be sought, if possible, no matter how, so long as it is attained.
The brandy, in a measure, has the desired effect. He feels it perforating through his body and mounting to his brain. Things don’t look quite so gloomy to him now, and the loneliness of his position is less acutely felt. Two men are talking to each other close by him. He knows one of them. It is Sir Ralph Vereton, and he holds in his hand a copy of the June number of the Free Review.
“It is a wonderful article for a boy to write, and an Eton boy, too,” he hears the baronet exclaiming. “Have you read it, Critchley?”