At the gymnasium on Thursday, Pix walked up and down between trapezes, with a little woman whose short steps—from under a remarkable plaid silk gown—doubled on themselves valiantly to keep pace.
“And indeed, Mister Pix,” she said plaintively—to all his philanthropées Pix was just Pix—“indeed, I don’t know what I’m to do if Theophilus don’t stop being so active. Forty-six he is, forty-seven come July, and no holdin’ him; off again all last Sunday with the Sons of Adam—gettin’ himself put in as chancellor ’f the order—and I made up my mind then, I was goin’ to do somethin’ desprit. But what t’ do”—she flung out ten cotton-gloved fingers, in an abandon of despondency.
“Perhaps this lady can tell you,” Pix said in a low voice, nodding toward some one slim and swift, who was coming up the stairs opposite, into the great hall. “I have an idea she can, for—she’s a very clever lady indeed. You put the case to her frankly, tell her the whole trouble, and see if she doesn’t suggest something. Ah, Mrs. Chalmers! this is most awfully good of you”—he met the slim lady in black half way across the gymnasium. “The er—exhibition’s over, but—Kent isn’t with you?” he broke off.
“No. Kent’s coming later. That is, he said he’d meet me here at five. I was early, because—Mr. Pix, I want to talk to you——”
“Yes, yes—excuse me just a moment—I see Budd beckoning me with a dumb-bell. You won’t mind waiting just a second while I see just what he wants? Er—Mrs. Chalmers, Mrs. Budd—you’ll find that vaulting-horse very comfortable, Mrs. Chalmers—ah, back in just one minute, you know!” And Pix hurried away.
The little woman in the plaid dress and tan cotton gloves regarded the slender woman in black cloth and a Virot turban. “Shan’t we sit down?” she suggested. “Myself, I don’t think much o’ that vaultin’ horse, but this movin’ swing’s right cosy.”
So Mrs. Kent Chalmers and Mrs. Theophilus Budd sat down together in the moving swing.
“Your husband’s the Mister Chalmers who was at one of them foreign courts, isn’t he?” Mrs. Budd began, a little curiously. “My friend, Mrs. Silas Holt—we belong to the same Browning Society in Alexandria—she’s read me pieces out o’ the paper about him. And once there was his picture—he is the handsome figger of a man now! What’s his job now—he’s left that foreign place, hasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Farleigh could not be annoyed with the little person—she was too simple, somehow—but she kept watching the stairs where Pix had disappeared. Why didn’t he come back? Surely he didn’t imagine she had taken him seriously about untangling this funny little Mrs. Budd’s affairs—“yes, he left Budapest a year ago,” telling it even to funny little Mrs. Budd made Farleigh’s red lips come close together, “he—he has no place now. He’s just a clubman.”
“Just a clubman?” almost shrieked Mrs. Budd. “Oh, my dear, how I feel for you! I do indeed—oh. Mr. Pix was right when he said we might help each other. Ain’t he the knowin’ one, Mr. Pix? And to think, your husband belongs to Clubs, too! Oh, isn’t it awful?”