Jimmie, having no visiting cards, scribbled his address on the back of an envelope. He would be delighted to see Mr. Weever any time he was passing through London. Weever bowed, and turned to greet a passing acquaintance, leaving a happy artist. A miracle had happened; the star of his fortunes had arisen. A week ago it was below the horizon, shedding a faint, hopeful glimmer in the sky. Now it shone bright overhead. The days of struggle and disappointment were over. He had come into his kingdom of recognition. All had happened to-day: the princess's promise of another and more illustrious royal portrait; the sudden leap into fame; the patronage of the American financier. One has to be the poor artist, with his youth—one record of desperate endeavour—behind him, to know what these things mean. The delicate flattery of strange women, however commonplace or contemptible it may be to the successful, was a new, rare thing to Jimmie and appeased an unknown hunger. The prospect of good work done and delivered to the world, without sordid, heart-breaking bargainings, shimmered before him like a paradise. Old habit made him long for Aline. How pleased the child would be when she heard the glad news! He saw the joy on her bright face and heard her clap her hands together, and he smiled. He would return to her a conqueror, having won the prizes she had so often wept for—name and fame and fortune. The band was playing the “Wedding March” from “Lohengrin.” By chance, as he was no musician, he recognised it.
“Aline shall have a wedding dress from Paris,” he said half aloud, and he smiled again. The world had never been so beautiful.
He embraced all of it that was visible in a happy, sweeping glance. Then with the swiftness of lightning the smile on his face changed into consternation.
For a moment he stood stock still, staring at the sudden figure of a man. It was Stone, the mad orator of Hyde Park. There was no possibility of mistaking him at a distance of fifteen or twenty yards. He wore the same rusty black frock-coat and trousers, the same dirty collar and narrow black tie, the same shapeless clerical hat. His long neck above the collar looked raw and scabious like a vulture's. In his hand he carried a folded newspaper. He had suddenly emerged upon the end of the terrace from the front entrance, and was descending the steps that led down to the tennis lawn. If he walked straight on, he would come to the group surrounding the princess and the Duchess of Wiltshire. Two or three people were already eyeing him curiously.
Morland's strange dread of the man flashed upon Jimmie. He hurried forward to meet him. Of what he was about to do he had no definite idea. Perhaps he could head Stone off, take him away from the grounds on the pretext of listening to his grievances. At any rate, a scandal must be avoided. As he drew near, he observed Morland, who had been bending down in conversation with the duchess, rise and unexpectedly recognise Stone.
A manservant bearing a small tray with some teacups ran up to the extraordinary intruder, who waved him away impatiently. The servant put down his tray and caught him by the arm.
“You have no business here.”
Stone shook himself free.
“I have. Where is Mr. Rendell? Tell him I have to speak with him.”
“There is no such person here,” said the servant. “Be off!”