CHAPTER XVII.
THE BROWN MAN
I was enjoying myself pretty fairly, taking it altogether. I wished I was better dressed. It made me wild to see women in such lovely things. Not that I envied them their clothes. I can safely say that about a good many of them, that was all there was to envy; and, after all, clothes are not quite everything. But it was disgusting that I should be so dowdy. And the consciousness was forcing itself on me momentarily more and more, that Jane’s shoes were tight, even for shoes. Still, there were alleviations. It was not so unpleasant as one might think, to feel that five grown men were hanging on your skirts—even if they were not in the latest fashion—as if it was painful to be more than a yard or so away from you. The ill-concealed fury with which they resented the interest which I roused in the breasts of other men was not without its amusing side.
There could be no doubt that I did arouse interest, not the very slightest. As we passed through the hall to the omnibus—that undignified vehicle!—I accidentally dropped Audrey’s fan—at least, almost accidentally. I ought not to have dropped it, because it was a lovely fan, and it was awfully good of Audrey to lend it me, and it might have been damaged by the fall. But it was not; it fell on the carpet, and was not hurt a bit. And I could not help but drop it. The men of the hall looked at me in one kind of queer way, and the women looked at me in another, so I felt bound to try an experiment; and down went the fan.
The result was most surprising. In an instant every male creature there came rushing to pick it up, guests and attendants. It was so odd; and not the least odd part of it was the faces of the women. I doubt if some of them had ever been more astonished in their lives before, or angrier. For every one of them to be deserted, without a moment’s warning, for a dowdily-dressed girl’s fan—and, oh dear! I did not need their critical glances to tell me I was dowdy—was a trifle marked. There was quite a scramble to pick up Audrey’s fan. It ran more risk of being damaged in the scrimmage than by the fall.
“I am sorry to give you all so much trouble,” I murmured.
But they did not seem to mind in the least. They appeared, if anything, to like it.
The fan was returned to me by a man who was really better-looking than that manager of the private rooms—at least, in my opinion. And he had as fine a moustache, though there was not such an ostentatious quantity of it, and it stood out straight at either end in the daintiest way. He was what I should call a brown man, with a pair of eyes which positively laughed at you. He had on a white waistcoat, which fitted him like a glove, and was both a dandy and a man.
He stood in front of me, with Audrey’s fan in his hand, and something in his eyes which sent a thrill all over. I fancy it must have been because he looked so masterful.
“It is very good of you to take so much trouble. I am very awkward.”
“I am very fortunate.”