Miss Charlesworth took music-lessons from my mother in the old days when there was not much money about, and I always spoke pleasantly when I called at the dairy, answering her when she asked whether there was anything special in the evening papers; I talked to her across the milk-pans, if I could spare the time, about Gilbert and Sullivan’s new play at the “Savoy.” Her mother beamed through the glass half of the door at the back, and on one occasion asked me to step in and have a bite of supper. I declined the first invitation, and this caused Miss Charlesworth’s mother to become exceedingly anxious that I should honour them with my company.
“Fix your own evening,” urged the old lady: “we’re plain people, but we always keep a good table.”
I found that, in the interests of economy, the plan, once started, answered very well. At first, when Miss Charlesworth’s mother found that I walked into the shop-parlour nearly every night at supper-time, she exhibited signs of impatience, putting an extra plate down with a bang, and throwing a thick tumbler towards me with the word:
“Catch!”
But the attentions I paid to her plump daughter mollified her, and she always cried when I sang “The Anchor’s Weighed.” From Lily—one could but smile at the ludicrous inappropriateness of the name—I heard that my brother Edward had been foolhardy enough to start an electric light business on his own account; and, in spite of the differences that had taken place between us, I could not help feeling annoyed that he had omitted to ask my advice before taking such a step. It would be of no advantage to me for people to find the name of my brother in the list of bankruptcies.
I can never understand how it was that I allowed myself to be imposed upon by the Charlesworths. In the City at that time I had the reputation of being as keen as any one in the office, where my own interests were concerned; there were complaints that I shirked some of my duties, and that I often shifted responsibility from my own shoulders, but no one ever accused me of being a fool. These two women at the dairy-shop in King’s Road, as nearly as possible, took me in. It hurt me very much afterwards to think of the time I had wasted. If I took Lily Charlesworth to one place of interest, I took her to a dozen; the National Gallery on a free day, the Tower, the outside of the Lyceum Theatre, the South Kensington Museum—any man, young at the time, and in receipt of a stationary income can fill in the list. Now and again she wanted to talk about my brother Edward; I changed the subject adroitly, for I could not trust my temper where he was concerned. It was near the Albert Memorial one evening (she had seen it before, but, as I said, it could do her no harm to see it again) that I directed conversation to the subject of profits made on milk and cream; the discussion began at a quarter past seven, and the information I obtained was satisfactory enough to induce me, at twenty minutes to eight, to make a definitely worded offer.
“Very kind of you to ask me,” she said nervously, “but I think my answer must be ‘No.’”
“Come, come,” I said pleasantly, “there’s no occasion for all this coyness. We’re friends.”
“Yes,” she said rapidly, “friends. That’s just it. And there’s no reason why we shouldn’t go on being friends. But nothing more, please.”
“That,” I remarked, “if you will allow me to say so, Lily, verges on stupidity. I dare say you feel that you are not worthy of me.”