On his way to keep his appointment with Miss Allen, Fayre called at Kean’s house in Westminster, where he was assured by the butler that Lady Kean’s improvement “was maintained.” That solemn functionary had recovered his professional manner and looked a different person from the harassed and very human individual who had mistaken Fayre for a Harley Street specialist on the night of his mistress’s illness. Fayre, observing his native pomposity for the first time, realized how complete his collapse had been and liked him the better for it.
Before going on to Miss Allen’s hotel he dropped into a florist’s and ordered a great sheaf of flowers to be sent to Lady Kean. Remembering their old days together in the country he chose simple, country flowers rather than the heavy-smelling hot-house blooms that were pressed on him by the saleswoman. He had an idea that they would please her and he knew that she would understand and appreciate the spirit that had caused him to select them. He enclosed a short note bearing his good wishes for her speedy recovery and then, on a sudden impulse, he bought another, smaller bunch and carried it away with him.
He produced his offering a little shyly on his arrival at Miss Allen’s. It was a long time, he realized, since he had done this sort of thing and the very act seemed, somehow, to emphasize the fact that neither he nor the recipient were in their first youth. Miss Allen, however, was troubled with no such misgivings and was frankly delighted with the gift. Ringing for vases she set herself to arrange the flowers with the appreciative care of one who really loves them. Fayre sat watching her as she moved about the ugly hotel sitting-room and decided that Greycross must be a pleasant house to stay in and its owner a delightful hostess.
She was putting the finishing touches to her last vase when tea was brought in.
“Pour it out, will you, Mr. Fayre,” she said in her decisive way, “while I clear up this mess. Lots of milk and no sugar for me, please.”
She disappeared into the next room, her hands full of paper and wet foliage, and came back carrying a good-sized dispatch-box.
“We’ll have a go at this after tea,” she said as she sat down and observed the results of her handiwork. “Mercy, how different the room looks! Those flowers are a breath of the real country. You’ve chased London out of the window, Mr. Fayre!”
“London isn’t so easily chased out as that, I’m afraid. It makes me ache to get away from it. It’s all very well for the young, but for people like myself it’s grown a little overwhelming. So many of the old landmarks are gone and life seems to have grown amazingly hectic in such a short time. I dare say it’s partly a question of contrast. The East’s noisy, but it’s a place of leisure. I’ve lost the habit of moving quickly.”
She nodded appreciatively.
“I know what you mean. It takes me the same way. I spend my life among plants and animals and I’m beginning to realize how slowly and surely nature progresses. Everything else, nowadays, seems anything but slow and appallingly insecure. At least, that’s my feeling, but then I’ve crossed Piccadilly at least half a dozen times to-day and I’m wondering why I’m still alive. The moment my business here is finished I shall make for home again. What are your plans, now that you are back in England for good?”