"A great deal may happen in four years," answered Lady ——. "But how are you in these days, Mr. Dodge?"
"Oh, wretchedly ill, as usual," he replied. "The Duc de —— insisted upon it that I must come over to England and try cold water again, and the Emperor, when I left, engaged me to meet him next season at Ems on condition that I had a more respectable body for my spirit to travel about in. Here's a little souvenir he gave me at parting," showing a magnificent diamond on his finger; and I moved on and lost the gorgeous reminiscences. There was a crowd before the evening was over, and I was introduced to a score or so of notables in the unorthodox world. But I seemed destined to funny little dramatic surprises. I had drawn near the piano to listen to Miss Hedges's "Drink to Me Only," etc., and was sitting quietly when the song was ended, speaking to no one, not consciously looking at any one, when a voice near me said, "That is my wife!" and I woke up to find a roly-poly, little old fellow, all smiles, insinuation, and plausibility, with a fringe of venerable white hair around a head round as an apple, bald and shining, smooth, evidently addressing himself to me. "Yes, that is my wife," he went on, and I looked with some bewilderment at a young woman his gaze indicated—a very young woman in a brilliant pink evening dress, the young woman brilliantly colored herself in solid white and red, with black eyes, black hair in rebellious tight curls, and a face with about as much expression as a plate. "Looks rather young for me, don't she? But it's all right, for the spirits give her to me!"
"And pray, Mr. Wardle, what did the spirits do for the old wife you left in Terre Haute?" inquired Miss Hedges, wheeling about toward us. "I am Anna Hedges, and two years ago I painted a portrait of your grandchild, Benny Davis, for Mrs. Wardle in New York."
"Er—er—I was not aware—er—I remember, that is—er—I think I have seen—er, er—yes! yes! A very worthy woman, the first Mrs. Wardle—very worthy. But narrer, narrer! too undeveloped, in fact, to—er—receive the new gospel, or to—er—make any use of the freedom I gave her to find a more harmonious partner, as I have done," and the old creature having floundered into a little more self-possession, smiled amiably, and retreated in tolerable order.
"I do beg your pardon," went on Miss Hedges to me impulsively; "but that sleek old villain! I really couldn't help my outburst. His real wife is one of the nicest, gentlest of simple old women, and dying of shame, I heard the other day, for what has befallen herself and her children through the delusions and misconduct of an infatuated man who has grandchildren older than this 'harmonious partner' he introduces as his wife here abroad. The 'first Mrs. Wardle!' It made me think of one of our Jerseymen who begged that a certain hymn might be sung at his wife's funeral 'because the corpse was particular fond of that hymn!'"
When I could speak for laughter, I inquired, "But is this then a spiritualistic headquarters? Because Mrs. Malise pointed out Dodge, the medium, to me early in the evening?"
"No, not more than of all other insanities, crudities, and unconventionalities—conventionalities too; for with perhaps one exception, all the members of the household, whatever their opinions, are to the last degree rigid as to the proprieties. But at one time or another one meets here all shades of belief and non-belief—much of the orthodox and I should say all the heterodox London. Very curious I find it, and though sometimes outraged, as to-night, I'm oftener amused with my 'proper study of mankind.' But you, as an Englishwoman, would hardly conceive how droll to me was my first experience of one of these receptions. You know, of course, at once, as everybody does, that I'm a Yankee? I came in rather late one evening with an English artist friend, and found, enthroned in the other room, the centre of a throng of bowing gentlemen, a woman as black as the chimney back, her neck and arms bare, white gloves, a gilt comb and white ostrich feather in her woolly hair—a genuine darkey! and Mme. V.—the artist, Mme. V.—hurried up to me. 'Oh, do you know your accomplished countrywoman, Miss Symonds? No? Then pray let me introduce you to her, we find her so charming!' And I dare say she was charming, only it was very queer at first to encounter Chloe en reme!"
Then we had a long talk, getting speedily away from persons and things to the old familiar subject—art. How the girl is working! And how happy and absorbed in her work she is.
"Oh, Ronayne," I said, as we settled back in the carriage for our drive home, "do I smell of turpentine and paint rags? I had such a good time! Miss Hedges and I talked shop for a whole hour."
And then, and later, we compared notes. He was critical, but had been amused, and, trust me, I had the wit to hold my tongue about "the first Mrs. Wardle!"