"The Palestine soup, which you will presently find upon the supper menu, will, I fear, not strike you as appropriate in the changed circumstances. I regret that there has been no time to substitute for it some potage Tetuan. You will now see the Prince, the Duke and myself as we appeared when in the act of landing at Tangier."
The quacking voice hurled out these last three words with impressive emphasis. Under cover of them Mr. Rodney, who, from old experience, knew the plan of the room, glided down the two steps from the door, and crawled with infinite precaution among the invisible duchesses in search of a seat. For Mr. Pettingham's lectures were long, and his slides were often slow to appear when summoned with a duck-like "Hey, presto!" Now, as Mr. Rodney crawled, like Jean Valjean in the sewers of Paris, he heard upon every side the slow breathing of almost suffocated society. Here he recognised the familiar snort of the Lady Jane Clinch, famous for her luncheons, there the piping sigh of the old Countess of Sage, who was born on the day of the Battle of Waterloo, and talked of the Crimean War as a recent event. He heard the Baroness Clayfield-Moor shuffling her feet, according to her immemorial custom, and recognised, with a happy thrill of instant knowledge, the stifled cough of Mrs. Brainton Gumm, the Banana Queen, who had taken society by storm two seasons ago, and still kept her footing by paying it with persistent entertainments. A little further forward the familiar sneeze of the Duchess of Southborough broke upon his listening ear, and his bosom heaved with the exultant satisfaction of the hare with many friends. There was, indeed, no atmosphere in which Mr. Rodney felt more thoroughly like a fish in water than the atmosphere of Mr. Pettingham's delightful gatherings. The utter darkness in which they invariably took place lent them a peculiar charm, obliging the acute society man to rely on an unusual sense for the discovery of those known to him. The eye was rendered useless; the guns of vision were, for the moment, spiked. Success and comfort depended upon the senses of hearing and of touch. Never did Mr. Rodney feel more completely the rapture of the sleuth-hound than when he followed the trail of one attractive to him through the dense human jungle of the Unattached Club.
To-night, however, he was a little bit off-colour, owing to the agony of mind which he had been enduring for the last few days. In consequence, perhaps, of this fact, his feet forgot for an instant their ancient cunning, and when he heard the Duchess of Southborough sneeze a second time in his immediate vicinity he started, and trod heavily upon a neighbouring Marchioness. Of course he knew her. Directly she screamed he discovered an old and valued friend, and poured forth a complete apology into the blackness, an apology which was whisperingly accepted. But this painful misadventure slightly flurried him, and caused him to commit a solecism the memory of which haunted him to the last days of his life. For, after making his peace with the Marchioness, he inadvertently sat down in the Duchess of Southborough's lap, just as Mr. Ingerstall was vehemently hissing into her ears, "The only thing that makes Tangier possible is the fact that there is a French Consulate there. That cursed thing, British influence——" It was at this point that the Duchess suddenly began to struggle feebly, and to catch her breath beneath the unexpected imposition of Mr. Rodney. He got up immediately. Any gentleman would have done so, much more our friend from Mitching Dean. But the Duchess, partly from surprise, since she had not heard anyone approaching her in the darkness, partly from the physical collapse very naturally brought about in an elderly lady who is suddenly called upon to support a weight of some twelve stone or thereabouts, continued to gurgle in a very alarming manner. Mr. Pettingham, who, rod in hand, was in the very act of pointing to a small figure relieved in colours upon the sheet, and saying, "There you will perceive my excellent friend the Prince stepping into the first boat to go ashore," was brought up short in his informing discourse.
"I hope nothing is the matter? No one is taken ill?" he quacked anxiously.
The perspiration broke out in a cold cloud upon Mr. Rodney's face. He bent down to the darkness from which he had just risen, and murmured with a pungent agony, and a disregard of grammar that did him credit:
"Duchess, it's only me! I do assure you it's only me, Mr. Rodney! Pray, pray forgive me! Oh, pray do recover! Be all right! Oh, Duchess, for our old friendship's sake be all right, or they'll turn on the lights!"
This tragic appeal was not without its effect upon her Grace. She good-naturedly came to, and Mr. Rodney, fortunately discovering an unoccupied seat on her off-side, sat down and hastily went on apologising, while Mr. Pettingham proceeded with his discourse.
"I cannot—I can never tell you how grieved and shocked I am," Mr. Rodney whispered.
"What is your weight?" whispered back the Duchess.
"My—I beg your pardon!"