“Very good, sir.”
General Carden got in, and the car purred gently up the street.
He settled himself comfortably into a corner, and glanced at the books on the seat opposite to him. He had a subscription at Mudie’s, and kept himself thoroughly up in the present-day novel. He did not care to hear a new book mentioned and have to allow that he had not read it. Of course, the present-day literature could not compare with that of the older novelists—that was hardly to be expected. Scott, Dickens, Thackeray—he ran through them in his mind—where was the writer of the moment who could compare with them? Who could touch the romance of Scott, the humour of Dickens, the courtliness of Thackeray? Where was there a man in present fiction able to stand beside the fine old figure of General Newcome? No; romance, humour, courtliness, had vanished, and in their place were divorce accounts, ragging—an appalling [Pg 57]word,—and suffragettes. The world was not what it had been in his young days. He did not, however, express this opinion blatantly; to do so would have savoured of old-fogyism. Oh, no; he flattered himself he kept abreast of the times, and only deplored certain modern innovations, as they were deplored by all those who still held to the fragments of refinement and courtliness that remained in the world.
As the car turned into the Park, General Carden sat rather more upright. He watched the carriages and their occupants with attention, his old eyes keen to observe and note any of them he knew. And when he did, off came that glossy silk hat with a bow and a gesture worthy of a courtier. However much abreast of the times he might choose to consider himself, in his heart he knew he was of the old school, and one even older than that of his own youth. He belonged, this courtly old man, to the delightful old school where men treated women with chivalry and protection, and where women in their turn accepted these things with delicate grace and charm; where conversation had meant a pretty display of wit, a keen fencing of words, where brusquerie was a thing unknown; [Pg 58]and where a fine and subtle irony had stood in the place of a certain curt rudeness noticeable in the present day. Yet all that was of the past. It would be as out of place now as would be one of those dainty ladies of old years, in powder and brocade, among the tight-skirted women in Bond Street. But very deep down in his heart General Carden knew it was the school which he loved, and of which he allowed himself occasionally to dream. Those dreams were dreamt mainly on winter evenings in a chair before the study fire. And then, very surreptitiously, General Carden would bring a tiny gold box from his pocket—a dainty octagon box with an exquisite bit of old enamel, blue as a sapphire, let into the lid—and, opening it, he would take an infinitesimal pinch of brown powder between his first finger and thumb. He was always most extremely careful that no single grain of it should fall on his white shirt-front. Goring’s eyes were at times unaccountably sharp. He was not going to be caught snuff-taking by a man who might look upon it as a sign of old age advancing. The little gold box, when not on his own person, was kept locked in a small antique cabinet in his dressing-room.
Apparently there were many people in the Park that morning whom General Carden knew. A big car hummed past with a small woman in it, a woman who looked almost tiny in the car’s capacious depths. She had a pointed little face and masses of fair hair. Off came General Carden’s hat. This was Muriel Lancing. He had known her as Muriel Grey, when she was a small girl in short skirts. She had married a certain Tommy Lancing a refreshing young man with red hair and freckles and a comfortable private income. General Carden’s eyes smiled at the girl. In spite of a certain airy up-to-dateness, he liked her. She was so dainty, so piquante, and such an inscrutable mixture of child, woman of the world, and elfin. One never knew which of the three might not appear on the surface. Also he liked Tommy, who always contrived to put a certain air of deference into his manner towards the General, which secretly pleased that critical white-haired, old veteran immensely.
After a few moments he saw another of his friends, and again the hat came off, this time with perhaps even something more of courtliness. The woman in the victoria was very nearly a contemporary [Pg 60]his. Quite a contemporary, General Carden reflected—ignoring the fifteen years which lay between them, and which were, it must be stated, to the advantage of Mrs. Cresswell. She was a woman with white hair rolled high, somewhat after the style of a Gainsborough portrait, and a clear-cut aristocratic face. She belonged unquestionably to his school, and their conversations were an invariable delicate sword-play of words. Even if she were generally the victor—and in the art of conversation he was willing to concede her the palm—yet he flattered himself he was no mean opponent, and he had a pleasurable memory of some very pretty turns of repartee on his own part. She was a friend of long standing, and one he valued.
Next came a much younger woman in a car, with a small boy beside her. This was Millicent Sheldon; the boy was her nephew. General Carden’s blue eyes were a little hard as he observed her, and there was just a suspicion of stiffness in his arm as he raised his hat. She responded with a slightly frigid bow, her face entirely immovable. There were reasons—most excellently good reasons—why there was a certain chilliness between these [Pg 61]two. They need not, however, be recorded at the moment.
Many other carriages and cars passed whose occupants General Carden knew, also a few foot-passengers, grey-haired veterans like himself, who walked upright and rather stiff, or younger men slightly insouciant of manner.
As his car was turning out of the Park another carriage turned in. In it was a young woman and an older one—much older; in fact, rather dried up and weather-beaten. This time General Carden did not raise his hat, though he observed the two women with interest. He had frequently noticed the carriage and its occupants during his morning drives in the Park. The younger woman attracted him. It was not merely the fact that she was beautiful, but there was an air of distinction about her, a well-bred distinguished air, that appealed to this old critic of women and manners. The men on the box wore cockades in their hats and plum-coloured livery. There was also a tiny coronet on the panel of the carriage door. In spite of the fact that General Carden’s sight was not entirely what it once had been, he noticed the coronet. He noticed, too, that the woman’s hair was black with [Pg 62]blue lights in it, that her skin was a pale cream, and her mouth a delicious and quite natural scarlet; also that her small well-bred head was exquisitely set on a slender but young and rounded throat, and that it, in its turn, was set quite delightfully between her shoulders. There is no gainsaying the fact that General Carden was a very distinct connoisseur in matters feminine. He wondered who she was, and even after the carriage had passed he thought of her very finished appearance with pleasure. And it was by no means the first time that he had wondered, nor the first that he had experienced the feeling of pleasure at the sight of her.
In two or three minutes, so swift are the ways of cars, he was stopping opposite Mudie’s in Kensington High Street. A carriage with a pair of bay horses was waiting beyond the broad pavement outside the shop. General Carden recognized it as belonging to Mrs. Cresswell. Evidently she had left the Park before him.