The couch was low, it did not reach above Ivor’s knees; and it was very wide, but the old man was not lost in it, for even in death he could bewilder size and confuse proportion. Patriarchal he looked, that old man, where he lay with fine head and beard uncovered by the sheet—for what shame to cover the head, no matter how inert, of Aram Melekian! Of whom it had been said that he was the only proud gesture that wretched race has ever made since Jesus died to save the souls of men and to make a hecatomb of Hayastan, which is Armenia’s true name. A wise old man, Sir Aram Melekian, but bitter: the friend of man he had surely proved himself by many charities and endowments, but as surely he despised mankind; he lent money to it. It was said that he had financed several little wars, and it was known that, with the great Greek millionaire, he had helped the Allies considerably in the last war—his idea being, some people said, that since England and France had befriended Armenia almost out of existence he was only too pleased to do what he could for them: which does not show him in a very pleasant light, but is almost certainly a malicious fabrication of envy, for Sir Aram Melekian had always let it be known that he yielded to no one in his admiration for the recent civilisations of the West, saying: “The West is much more cunning than the East, which is why the East is called cunning, I suppose.” It was to such fresh and boyish remarks, no doubt, that the old multi-millionaire owed his amazing popularity among the societies of Paris, New York and London. Mr. Belloc and Mr. Chesterton, however, were understood not to like him very much, and the Morning Post had made several disapproving references to him in connection with Mr. Lloyd George’s Near Eastern policy—but all this was no doubt due to a pardonable misunderstanding about Sir Aram Melekian’s nose, which was what’s called a decidedly Jewish-looking affair; whereas, though Armenians have frequently been described as very Jewish-looking, the truth of the matter is that Jews are very Armenian-looking, for the Armenians are the senior race and have, therefore, a prior right to that nose which the Jews, perhaps rather indiscreetly, have always claimed as their own. Sir Aram Melekian, like the late Viscount Northcliffe, had read the history of Napoleon; but, unlike the late Viscount Northcliffe, he had forgotten it....
But the death of the great Armenian, on the 1st of May, 1921, is too recent to deserve particular comment; and, indeed, little could be added to the biographical details, appreciations and tittle-tattle which filled the newspapers of the day; for editors, whose hands are nowhere if not on the pulse of the public, know that, though a multi-millionaire is but a fable while he is alive, the great heart of the public is at once touched by his death and deeply interested in the disposition of his fabulous monies; though in this case that disposition was found to be of less than usual interest, for the number of words in Sir Aram Melekian’s will did not exceed the rumoured number of his millions.
Ivor did not need to be told who the old man was. The curiosity about the “Portrait of Pamela Star” in 1916 had, anyway, ascertained one certain fact about Pamela Star, that she was in some way connected with Sir Aram Melekian; and though the old millionaire gained a little glamour from that connection, whether of love or guardianship no one knew, it was thought a little “peculiar” of him to keep her, “that lovely, tall creature,” so severely to himself; for there had been no chance of meeting her, even those brilliant and energetic hostesses who were intimate acquaintances of Aram Melekian’s were by him refused the slightest introduction to Pamela Star. “Later,” he would say; and always “Later.” They would be seen, however, now and then, side by side in the tonneau of a car; now and then riding in the Row, a fine pair for all his age, which must have been well over sixty: “the lovely, tall creature” and the iron-gray old man with the Assyrian beard and the deep eyes that only smiled at disconcerting moments: a suspicious man. And so Pamela Star remained unknown, a legend created by Augustus John and enjoyed only by an eccentric old man....
It was as Ivor at last raised his eyes from the old man’s face, to see if Pamela Star really existed, that she spoke. She said, in a very low voice:—
“He died this evening—at about seven o’clock. Gently—just as he looks. He expected to die, his heart was like that. And I expected it, too....”
“Dear, dear Aram!” her voice came so softly, so tenderly. “He was so strong—and so contemptuous—about everything but me!”
Ivor looked down again at the noble head on which age had left a mane of gray hair, and at the face, which was as though bleached white and taut with many years, many tempers.
“He looks,” Ivor said thoughtfully, “as I thought no man in the world could look, the richest man in the world.”
“And I?” Her sharp question startled him; he stared across the couch, into the gray irises into which the candlelight had dropped spots of gold. “And I? Do I look like the richest woman in the world?”
He stared; it was somehow appalling, the matter and manner of that swift question, so brittle and infinitely wretched! And he suddenly felt as though all his life had been leading to this particular and amazing point, that he had lived thirty-two years for nothing more—and nothing less!—than to be asked, across the body of an old man, this magnificently absurd question. And he tried to be silent, but he said something, he never knew what....