Huckaby said little more, preferring to leave well alone. The plot, up to this point, had succeeded. Quixtus gave complete credence to the story, unsuspecting that Mrs. Fontaine was the woman selected for his heart-breaking experiment, and already considerably attracted by her personality. Diabolical possibilities could be insinuated later. In the meanwhile; Huckaby had played his part. Future success now lay in Mrs. Fontaine’s hands.
Quixtus dined that evening with one of his colleagues, and Huckaby, after a meal at a restaurant, went to the Comédie Française and sat through Phèdre from beginning to end, with great enjoyment. The re-awakening of his æsthetic sense, dulled for so many years, surprised and gratified him.
When he met his patron the next morning, he said abruptly;
“If I had a chance of getting back again, I’d take it.”
“Getting back where?” asked Quixtus. “To London?”
Huckaby explained. “I’m tired of running crooked,” he added. “If I could only get regular work to bring me in a few pounds a week, I’d run straight and sober for the rest of my life.”
“I don’t think I can help you to attain your wishes, my dear Huckaby,” replied Quixtus, reflectively. “If I did; I should be committing a good action, which, as you know, is entirely against my principles.”
“I don’t yearn so much after goodness,” said Huckaby, “as after decency and cleanliness. I’ve no ambition to die a white-haired saint.”
“All white-haired saints are whited sepulchres,” said Quixtus.
In spite of regenerative impulses, Huckaby persuaded his patron to lunch at the hotel where he knew that Mrs. Fontaine and the newly arrived Lady Louisa Mailing had planned to lunch also. The establishment of informal relations was important. They entered the table d’hôte room, and, preceded by the maître d’hôtel, marched to the table reserved for them. About six tables away sat Mrs. Fontaine and her friend. She smiled a pleasant greeting.