It is quite surprising the number of interesting young persons of the emotional and impressionable kind who have acquired a sincere, romantic, but quite Platonic, regard for Mr. Flodden. Happy chance has in the majority of instances procured the introduction; and, as a rule, the male relatives of the ladies are quite unaware of the discreet intimacy existing between Flodden and their women-folk. Indeed, these male relatives are all mere brutes, and it is part of Flodden’s edifying mission to sympathise with these dear creatures, to express distress that their sweetness should be wasted on such clods of earth, and generally to insinuate comparisons between himself and the lawful husband, which are infinitely detrimental to the latter.
This hoary-headed squire of dames has the pleasantest possible little five o’clock teas at his chambers in the Albany, and sometimes as many as eight, or even nine, of his young friends will join him at that simple repast. Lord Roach (“Cock” Roach he used to be called in his regiment), who lives in the next set, seeing the ladies file out at half-past six or so, has put it about that Flodden keeps a dancing academy. But, though there is occasionally a little piano playing, there has never been a dance; indeed, the entertainment is chiefly conversational. Mr. Flodden never used a rude or an improper expression. He has, however, a wonderful knack of leading the conversation into doubtful topics. The chaste annals of the Divorce Court afforded him much agreeable food for comment. He would argue with some of his impressionable admirers as to the possibility of a purely Platonic affection, and at times he would scribble off an epigram in choice French on some living beauty, notorious for the number of her amours. These trifles, written in a formal but trembling hand, have found themselves in the private albums of many an honest house in the suburbs. The ladies who were the objects of his disinterested regard invariably alluded to him as “a dear, kind creature,” the “most gentlemanly person,” “so sympathetic,” and the rest. The more gushing, recklessly declared him to be a “duck.” Dean Swift, remembering his own definition of the phrase, would have called him “a nice man.”
One hot afternoon in the July of last year, Mr. Flodden sat in his luxurious chambers surrounded by half-a-dozen of his female admirers, descanting on the superiority of French art as illustrated by the examples which adorned his walls. Having exhausted this topic, he proceeded to one more calculated to stimulate the curiosity of his guests.
“I have got a little surprise for you, my dear ladies: a fresh addition to our charmed, and may I say charming, circle.”
Six fragile cups descended from twelve ruby lips, and twelve eyes opened wide with curiosity.
“Such a charming creature—so young, so beautiful, so romantic, and so unfortunate.” Six long-drawn sighs.
“Husband a cruel brute; absolutely beats her.”
Twelve eyes cast in mute appeal to the heaven that exists above Albany ceilings. Then the still, small voice of a sympathetic inquirer—
“And where did you meet this—this—paragon?”
“A secret, my dear madam, an absolute and positive secret. She was on her way to give lessons—she sings divinely—in order to maintain her keeper in tobacco and beer. Faugh!”