“Tell me all about yourself,” urged Myddleton West. “My wife will be anxious to hear. My wife,” West seemed proud to repeat these two words, “was always interested in you.”
Robert felt distinctly better when he had come out into Fleet Street and had said a respectful good-bye to Myddleton West; this partly because of the excellent meal and partly because of the friendly chat. The shower had finished and he walked East. Not until he had nearly reached Fenchurch Street, with only five minutes to wait for his train, did he remember that he had a high important grievance which careful attention would, as he knew, nurture into lasting remorse. He went slowly up the stairs of the station, and thinking with a desolate sigh of women in general and of Miss Beatrice Bell in particular. At the top of the staircase he caught sight (his look being downcast) of Miss Threepenny.
“Well, you’re a nice young gentleman,” said the little woman, satirically, “I don’t think. Fancy coming to London and not waiting to see me. This,” added the mite, with a twinkle in her bright bead-like eyes, “is what you call constancy, I s’pose.”
“There’s no such thing as constancy,” growled Robert. “Not in this world, at any rate.”
“Shows what you know about it,” declared the little woman. “Come over ’ere; I’ve a friend I want to interduce you to.”
“I’ve only got five minutes before my train goes.”
“Five minutes is ample. Come along.”
To the side of the bookstall Miss Threepenny convoyed Robert; once in harbour there bade him on no account to stir, and puffing off like a busy little tug to the waiting-room, returned immediately with that trim yacht Trixie Bell in tow, whom she also brought to anchor at the side of the bookstall.
“I’ll go and see what platform your train starts from,” then cried the little tug.
“Bobbie,” said the well-appointed yacht, penitently, to the man-of-war, “I’m—I’m so sorry if I went and made myself look like a stupid this afternoon.”