He smiled as he recollected what he had so often suffered from the “tuppenny smokes” of his constituents.
“The restaurant dinner of Aristocrats and Anonymas is a terrible feast,” he said. “I suppose the new fashion of entertaining was started by the nouveaux riches because after the public feast there appeared in what are called the fashionable columns of the papers paragraphs, supplied by the restaurants, informing London’s millions that Mrs So-and-So had been entertaining a big party, among the guests at which were Lady Nobody, who was exquisitely dressed in black velvet and old lace, and Lord Somebody, who was looking younger than ever. You know the style.”
She laughed outright at his candid criticism, which was so thoroughly well deserved. Half the dinners, she declared, were given by adventurers from the City to needy men with titles, which were wanted to lend lustre to prospectuses. And the whole affair had been so cleverly engineered by the manager of the restaurants, who nightly gave paragraphs to the journalists, thus glorifying the givers of feasts and flattering the guests, that a mode had actually been created, and even the most exclusive set had been compelled to follow it, royalty itself being often among the diners.
At his request she re-seated herself at the piano, and to disperse the melancholy that had settled upon him she sang with infinite zest the latest song of the Paris café-concerts which had been made famous by the popular chanteur, Paulus, at the Ambassadeurs’. The chorus ran as follows:
“Ah! Monsieur Chamberlain, ça n’etait pas malin,
Les femmes de l’Angleterre ell’s manqu’nt de militaires
D’leur absenc’ tout l’mond’ se plaint.
Car ils sont rigolos, avec leurs p’tits polos.
A London je le confess’ on admir’ leur gentiless
Quand ils march’nt entortillant, en entortillant leur... yes.”
The grave-faced Jackson entered and with pompous ceremony served him with a whiskey and soda, as was usual; then, after she had sung to him another chanson, he rose to go. As it was already late, and as he was obliged to return to the House, he was compelled to take leave of her.
“You really love me, Dudley?” she asked in a low, intense voice, as they stood locked in each other’s arms just before he left. “Tell me that you do. Somehow I am so apprehensive, foolishly so, perhaps; but your words always reassure me. I feel happier and a better woman after hearing them.”
“Love you, Claudia?” he cried, his hand stroking her beautiful hair; “how can you ever doubt me? I swear by all I hold most sacred that no tender thought of any woman save yourself ever enters my heart. I am wholly and entirely yours.” And he kissed her with all the fervent passion of an ardent lover.
“And you will never desert me—never? Promise!” she said, in tones breathing anxiety and earnestness.
“I promise,” he answered. His voice had lost a little of its resonance, but she did not notice the slight change. He made a promise which he himself knew to be incapable of fulfilment. Hers no longer, he was now helpless in the inexorable toils of that mysterious woman who alone held his secret.