Up a precipitous flight of narrow stone steps we went until we reached a little door where a stout ex-sergeant of police smiled recognition upon my host, placed a book before him to sign and relieved us of our coats.
In a room above a piano was being played by someone who was evidently an artist and dancing was in progress.
The place might have been a cabaret in the Montmartre in Paris. I thought I knew London’s night clubs fairly well—the Embassy, Ciro’s, the Grafton, the Mayfair, the Royalty, the Twenty, Murray’s, Tate’s, the Trippers, the Dainty, and others—but when I entered the big whitewashed dancing room I found myself looking on a scene that was a complete novelty to me.
The room was long and narrow. The walls were painted in stripes representing oaken beams and set around them were many small tables. The floor was filled with merry dancers, among whom I recognized many people well-known in artistic and social circles. Some of the men wore dinner jackets and many of the women were in beautiful evening dress, but smart clothes evidently were regarded as a non-essential, for a large proportion of the men wore ordinary lounge suits.
As we stood watching the scene a tall, elderly man rose from a table and cried:
“Hulloa! Leila! What a stranger you are!”
My hostess smiled and waved recognition, whereupon her friend—a portrait painter whose reputation was world-wide, bowed over her hand and said:
“Well, only fancy! It is really delightful that you should return to us! We thought we’d lost you after you married!”
“My dear Charlie,” she laughed—for it was a rule in the Ham-bone that every member addressed every one else by his or her Christian name, and “Charlie” was a Royal Academician—“I am an old Hamyardian: I was one of the first lady members.”
“Of course. You’ll find Marigold here. I’ve just been chatting with her. She’s round the corner, over yonder. But she’s funny. What’s the matter with her? Do you know?” he added in a low, serious voice.