"Scalped him?" cried Lady Pollacke, poring down on me in dismay.
"Cut him out?"
"Ah, my dear young lady," said a quiet voice, "that I cannot tell you. It is the head of Hypnos, Sleep, you know, the son of Night and brother of Death. One wing, as you see, has been broken away in preparation for this more active age, and yet ... only a replica, of course"; the voice trembled into richness, "but an exceedingly pleasant example. It gives me rare pleasure, rare pleasure," he stood softly rocking, hands under coat-tails, eyes drinking me in, "to—to have your companionship."
What pleasure his words gave me, I could not—can never—express. Then and there I was his slave for ever.
"Walter," murmured Lady Pollacke, as if fondly, smiling down on the rotund old gentleman, "you are a positive peacock over your little toys; is he not, Mr Crimble? Did you ever hear of a woman wasting her affections on the inanimate? Even a doll, I am told, is an infant in disguise."
But Mr Crimble had approached us not to discuss infants or woman, but to tell Lady Pollacke that her carriage was awaiting me.
"Then pity 'tis, 'tis true," cried she, as if in Miss Bullace's words. "But please, Miss M., it must be the briefest of adieus. There are so many of my friends who would enjoy your company—and those delightful recitations. Walter, will you see that everything's quite—er—convenient?"
I am sure Lady Pollacke's was a flawless savoir faire, yet, when I held out my hand in farewell, her cheek crimsoned, it seemed, from some other cause than stooping. The crucial moment had arrived. If one private word was to be mine with Mr Crimble, it must be now or never. To my relief both gentlemen accompanied me out of the room, addressing their steps to mine. Urgency gave me initiative. I came to a standstill on the tesselated marble of the hall, and this time proffered my hand to Sir Walter. He stooped himself double over it; and I tried in vain to dismiss from remembrance a favourite reference of Pollie's to the guinea-pig held up by its tail.
I wonder now what Sir W. would have said of me in his autobiography: "And there stood a flaxen spelican in the midst of the hearthrug; blushing, poor tiny thing, over her little piece like some little bread-and-butter miss fresh from school." Something to that effect? I wonder still more who taught him so lovable a skill in handling that spelican?
"There; good-bye," said he, "and the blessing, my dear young lady, of a fellow fanatic."