“You paid that bill before. Don’t be letting them come over you with their tricks!”
It is, of course, reprehensible behaviour on the part of a maid, presumptuous, familiar, interfering; but Bridget is Bridget, and I might as soon command her not to use her tongue, as to stop taking an interest in anything that concerns “Herself”. As a matter of fact, I don’t try. Servility, and decorum, and a machine-like respect are to be hired for cash at any registry office; but Bridget’s red-hot devotion, her child-like, unshakable conviction that everything that Miss Evelyn does and says, or doesn’t say and doesn’t do, is absolutely right—ah, that is beyond price! No poor forms and ceremony shall stand between Bridget and me!
I lifted the letters, and had no difficulty in selecting the one which would “give me joy”. Strangely enough, it was written by one of the newest of my friends, one whose very existence had been unknown to me two years before.
We had met at a summer hotel where Kathie and I chanced to be staying, and never shall I forget my first sight of Charmion Fane as she trailed into the dining-room and seated herself at a small table opposite our own. She was so tall and pale and shadowy in the floating grey chiffon cloak that covered her white dress, she lay back in her chair with such languor, and drooped her heavy eyelids with an air of such superfine indifference to her fellow-men, that Kathie and I decided then and there that she was succumbing to the effects of a dangerous operation, and—with care—might be expected to last six or eight weeks.
We held fast to this conclusion till the next morning, when we met our invalid striding over the moors, clad in abbreviated tweeds, and the manniest of hard felt hats. Kathie said that she was plain. I said, “Well, not plain exactly, but queer!” At dinner the same night, we amended the verdict, and voted her “rather nice”. Twenty-four hours later she represented our ideal of female charm, and we figuratively wept and rent our garments because she exhibited no interest in our charming selves. An inspection of the visitors’ book proved that her name was “Mrs Fane,” but that was not particularly enlightening, especially as no home address was given.
But on the third day, just as we were beginning to concoct dark schemes by means of which we could force acquaintanceship, the “grey lady” entered the lounge, marched unhesitatingly across to our corner, stood staring down at us as we sat on the sofa, and said shortly:—
“This is ridiculous! We are wasting time! We three are the only really interesting people in the hotel; we are dying to know each other—and we know it! Come for a walk!” And lo! in another minute we were on the high road, Kathie on one side, I on the other, gazing at her with adoring eyes, while she said briskly:—
“My name is Charmion Fane. I am quite alone. No children. Thirty-two. I don’t live anywhere in particular. Just prowl round from one place to another. If there are any other dull, necessary details that you want to know, ask!—and get them over. Then we can talk!”
We laughed, and replied with similar biographical sketches on our own account, and then we did talk—about books, and travels, and hobbies, and mankind in general, and gradually, growing more and more intimate (or rather conscious of our intimacy, for we were friends after the first hour!) of our personal hopes, fears, difficulties, and mental outlooks.
When we came in, Kathie and I faced each other in our bedroom, almost incoherent with pleasure and excitement.