“Yes, that’s what I met with as a first disaster, Mrs. Chalmers,” he came into the soft-lit library with a gentle melancholy in his appeal; “you’ll let my—er—fellow man be the only one to call it, though, won’t you? To Chalmers and the chaps at the Club, I’m just Pix.”
“I shall be delighted, Mr.—Pix,” Farleigh gave him her hand with that smile of hers that meant—well, there were those who could have told him. “Won’t you sit down? Kent is dressing yet, I’m afraid—he came in late, an appointment, I believe, with some man.” Farleigh herself sat down with one of her quick, lithe movements—Pix remembered now, he had noticed that night at the de Tregers’. She was slim, svelte, and with slender tapering hands and feet. Her hair and eyebrows were dense black; blue black. And she wore red. Pix liked her; she reminded him of a cat. And he reflected there were excellent points about a cat; people didn’t appreciate ’em.
“I suppose of course you know the British minister?” she began, watching him out of her restless eyes, as he sat down beside her. It was spring and the open windows let in a little breeze to ruffle her dark hair. “Sir Maxon-Goring? he must be quite an intimate of yours, no?”
“No,” said Pix, watching her in return. “He goes in for politics—very bad form on the part of an ambassador. I’ve nothing to do with him.”
Farleigh laughed, and looked at Pix with more interest. “You don’t go in for politics, then? Why not?”
“I’m too rich; can’t afford ’em.” The philanthropist smiled at her—that smile of his that meant—well, no one needed to tell her. It meant that Pix was there, behind the monocle. It meant—a discouraging outlook for Farleigh. “Only poor men should risk their lives for the nation—er—their idea of the nation: rich men must be left in safety—to give away their money. I suspect that’s Kent’s idea, too?”
“Oh, Kent!” exclaimed Farleigh, and then, catching herself hastily, “Kent isn’t interested in politics, no,” she added quietly—but her long pointed fingers tapped her armchair at Pix’s side. “He says—there’s too much intrigue in them; and he hates intrigue.”
“And you don’t?” from behind the monocle, the mild eyes gazed at her yet more kindly. Yes, he remembered now what he had heard; he knew what it was, about Chalmers’ wife. And that odd note in Kent’s voice, the absent stare, the long silences in the clubman’s jolly talk—“you like politics?” he turned his question to Farleigh over, like one showing the reverse side of the same piece of goods.
“I like anything that is complex,” replied Farleigh slowly. “And I want Kent—Mr. Pix,” she leaned toward him with a feline swiftness, “will you——”
“If that is so,”—as a philanthropist, Pix had learned, he modestly confessed it, to avoid a request of something he knew he wasn’t going to do—“if you like anything that is complex, I wish to goodness you’d come down to my—hum—which is it? ah, yes! the Young Men’s gymnasium—and untangle a case I’ve got down there. Janitor’s wife, nice lazy little woman,” he watched Farleigh’s slender foot swinging impatiently while her face turned, all interest, toward him. A philanthropist, though Kent had forgotten it, necessarily sees a great deal of women—“nice lazy little woman, married to a husband who’s so keen for committees and being third vice presidents of things, he forgets to come home on Sundays. Fact. Shuts up the—what did I say? gymnasium—I always forget if it’s the gymnasium or the Babies’ Home—and goes off to lobby the boys; ’stead of taking the tram to Alexandria and his waiting wife. She belongs to a Browning Society, but it doesn’t keep her busy, because she can’t read—farther than Poor Richard’s almanac. There are no children, and she complains there’s no husband either. Now what’s to be done? She comes to me—I’m the root of all evil, gymnasium and otherwise—she upbraids me. She’s upbraided me twice this last week, once before my valet. It can’t go on. But the man, her husband, ’s a good janitor; and good janitors are scarce as honest philanthropists. I ask you what’s to be done? I must cure this maniac of his politics. But how?”