Six more long-drawn sighs.
“If she keep her appointment she will be here directly. She is a shy, reserved little creature, but should, I think, in such genial society thaw somewhat. Yes, she really must thaw.”
In five minutes Flodden’s man—a highly-respectable person, well versed in his master’s little ways—announced Mrs. Bird. This was the lady who had so greatly fascinated the philanthropist, thereby driving six sympathetic souls into paroxysms of jealousy.
It must be admitted that anything less reserved or shy than Mrs. Bird had never before been presented to six neglected matrons. Mrs. Bird was stylishly dressed, greatly made up, and exhibited the undefinable cachet of the professional. She called Mr. Flodden “old chappie,” shook hands, unintroduced, with the assembled tea-drinkers, hoped they were quite jolly, and then asked the master of the establishment for a brandy and soda. That worthy man of the world had turned red and white and even blue. He was completely thunder-struck. It was evident he must stop the compromising flow of her conversation. The modest woman of his rambles had suddenly become transformed into a something too terrible for contemplation. A brilliant idea. He would ask her to sing. Mrs. Bird was a woman of a most obliging disposition. She sat down at the piano and dashed off a showy prelude and commenced her song. You remember the effect of Captain Shandon’s tipsy ditty upon the good Colonel Newcome; an effect somewhat similar was now produced on the neglected wives. Mrs. Bird warbled out with unctuous accent one of the most notorious ballads of a Parisian café chantant. The matrons rose for shawls, and the songstress, apprehending their intention, jumped from the piano and burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Flodden looked humiliated beyond measure; there was not a pennyweight of philanthropy left in him.
“This is awful!” he exclaimed; “in heaven’s name who and what are you?”
“I am your daughter Gwendolyn,” she hissed.
At that moment voices were heard from without—Flodden’s man shouting, “You sha’n’t go in,” and another voice consigning Flodden’s man to Hades. Then the door was thrust open, and a cad in loud check trousers, a green-coloured Newmarket coat, a white hat and innumerable rings, stood bowing to the assembled company. He eventually fixed a somewhat bloodshot eye on the philanthropist and said,—
“Now, then, my festive fossil, when next you go a followin’ other men’s wives, you see as they ain’t your own daughters! I’m the Great O’Daniel, the star comique. Gwen’s my wife, an’ you’re my pa-in-lor. Here’s a horder; give us a turn and bring your lady friends with you. My new song, ‘The Elderly Masher,’ is no end of a go. Come along, Gwen. Good-bye, par. Ladies, bong joor!”
So saying he tucked Gwendolyn under his arm, bowed, and left the apartment. The other guests retired in solemn silence, wiser, and, let us hope better, women.
And that was Mr. Flodden’s last five o’clock tea at the Albany.