“I apologise, Captain O’Hagan!” he said. “I was mad! Officer—a sovereign for you!”
* * * * *
“May I present my friend, Mr. Lawrence Raymond?” said O’Hagan. “This is Miss Pamela Crichton, the clever composer I spoke about! Isn’t she a picture?”
She was. But she blushed furiously. O’Hagan handed her a bundle of agreements. As she looked through them, her flushed cheeks grew quite pale. When a cheque for ninety guineas was placed in her hands, frankly, I thought she would have swooned.
Old Crichton, hovering about in the dingy background, showed as a man who is dazed beyond comprehension.
“Oh, Captain O’Hagan,” began Pamela, and her pretty eyes were troubled, “how can I thank you! Why have you done this—for me?”
“Because you are you, Pamela!” said O’Hagan. “Because you are so very charming, and because one day you will be so very famous!”
Pamela met his eyes frankly—and was content.
Throughout our brief stay, O’Hagan’s treatment of the girl was worthy of the days of chivalry. Never, for a moment, did he presume upon that superiority of blood which is so real in his eyes, nor upon the service he had done this newsagent’s daughter. When we took our leave he kissed her hand in his astonishing, cavalierly way, tactfully ignoring her sweet confusion, clapped her father patronisingly upon the back—and swung out of the shop, a gentleman full three hundred years behind his time—the only living being who has recovered the Grand Manner.
You would like to meet my friend O’Hagan.