“He speaks with a foreign accent—lovely accent, I call it—that musical. And he’s got a way about him which makes you think, for all his being such a great big giant of a man, that if he was to take you in his arms he would be tender.”
“Jane! You shouldn’t say such things!”
“Well, miss, I am but human, as the saying is; and if I was going into the drawing-room to see a man like him, rather than look a fright I’d put something on my face, or do something to myself somehow, for look different to what you’re looking now that I would—no matter how I done it.”
With those last words of cheering advice Jane passed up the stairs, presumably to pursue her professional avocations. She would never have dared to say such a thing to one of the girls, but to me it always seems that everyone says just anything. That splendid person, with the moustaches turned up at the ends like ramrods, and the eyes, and the foreign accent—could he be that imposing dignitary of the Imperial Hotel? Had he had the audacity to trace me to my own home—and call on me? A waiter! What a cosmopolitan assembly appeared to be gathered together in the drawing-room.
The voices within seemed raised. Walter Hammond’s and Basil Carter’s voices were very audible. I fancied I heard also the “lovely” accent of which Jane had spoken. Mamma was unmistakable. It appeared that an argument was taking place inside, which was growing warmer by rapid degrees, with the promise of becoming, at an early moment, absolutely hot. Just as I reached the door, and was about to turn the handle, it was opened from within, with something of a flourish. I chose to take it as having been opened for me, and walked straight in.
My appearance created a sensation, that I needed no one to tell me. Still less did I need to be told that it was a sensation of a curious kind. An argument had been taking place which bore a tolerable imitation to something else. That was plain. It seemed probable that pressure had been brought to bear upon the dignitary of the Imperial Hotel to induce him to take himself away, and that that pressure had been applied in vain. Basil Carter had his hand upon the door-knob, his air suggesting something more than command, while there was something in Walter Hammond’s attitude which hinted at measures of a distinctly vigorous kind. Had I not arrived just then, I am inclined to think that steps would very shortly have been taken to bring that dignitary of the Imperial Hotel to a proper sense of his position. Considering his physique, it is tolerably certain that those who undertook the task of persuasion might have found that there were difficulties in the way. So far as I could judge—and I had pretty good opportunities—he was not the least collected person present. When I entered, he stood about the centre of the room, his hat and stick in one hand, a bunch of flowers in the other. Even in height he towered above Walter Hammond, who was no dwarf, while, so far as girth went, he would easily have made two of any of the others. He was smiling on his company, and I am afraid even on mamma, in a manner which was hardly deferential; but when he saw me he commenced to salute me with a bow of the deepest deference.
I say commenced, because he actually got no farther than what I should call the impulse. He began, but in the very act of beginning, as it were, stopped short, as if something which he saw in me had stricken him with temporary paralysis—paralysis which was decidedly not the result of a flattering cause. He was, possibly by profession—for a waiter must know how to control his countenance—a master of the art of keeping his feelings out of his face. That he was surprised, I was uncomfortably convinced—surprised almost to the verge of being dumfounded. Yet he managed to prevent that fact being betrayed by his features. His expression, so to speak, was held in suspense. But presently it became eloquent enough.
I have heard something about the insolence of foreigners. I know a girl who has lived most of her life abroad, and I have heard her say that while foreigners are the politest creatures on earth, they are the most insolent too. I had an example of it then. That sublimated person of the waiter class had evidently expected to see one kind of a girl, and actually saw another. For a moment or two he was still, looking me, all the while, full in the face. Then he smiled, not only at me, but also at the others, and he said, his slightly foreign accent emphasising his sneering intention:
“What a difference between the night and the morning!”
Swinging the flowers which he held in his hand, which had certainly been intended for me, he marched past me, straight out of the room, without another word, still smiling. As he opened the hall-door to let himself out, he laughed—such a laugh!