"It sounds to me as if something was wrong," commented Mrs. Dobson to Maud, who replied--
"Sh! mamma, they"re not supposed to have any tune."
Lady Whigham in the front seat was applauding vigorously, so every one else, especially Mrs. Dobson, did the same, with the result that the accomplished vocalist sang them all over again, making exactly the same faces.
After that an old lady in a yellow wig livened things up with a rendering of Tosti"s "Good-bye" in a cracked contralto. While the audience was applauding, Joan noticed that Jack Leclerc got up. He was making his way gently to the door, evidently anxious to escape observation. Her heart was in her mouth, but she sat on stonily, determined that he should not know she had seen him.
At the door he encountered Mrs. Dobson.
"So sorry, I must run, Mrs. Dobson," he said, holding out his hand.
"Oh, I am sorry, Mr.--er--Captain Leclerc. Can"t you wait till the end?
Joan will be so disappointed not to see you."
"Oh, thank you. The fact is--" Leclerc stopped, looking a little embarra.s.sed. But Mrs. Dobson did not notice this and ran on--
"And what did you think of the concert, Mr.--er--Captain Leclerc?"
The musician"s professional conscience forbade a complimentary reply.
"It was very bad," he said, "except the old Frenchman. That woman had no business to sing in public, and as for those youths who call themselves artists--why aren"t they in the trenches?" And hastily touching Mrs.
Dobson"s hand, he slipped away: the expression in her rubicund face was pained as she gazed after him.
After the concert had come to an end and the guests had gradually dispersed, Lady Whigham and Mrs. Dobson counted up the money and discussed how much each performer should receive. This _tete-a-tete_ with Lady Whigham was what Mrs. Dobson most enjoyed the whole afternoon.
Meanwhile Clara drew Joan aside.
"Congratulate me, dearest," she whispered. "I"m going to marry Captain Leclerc."
IV. BUSINESS IS BUSINESS
Stephen Ringsmith in his way is a public man, and such he likes to consider himself.
He is an art dealer in a very big way, and he is also a pillar of one of the political parties. He could have a baronetcy for the asking, but he has no children and he prefers to be a power behind the throne rather than a lackey in front of it.
Ringsmith is what is called a strong man. He knows the value of money, but he enjoys spending it. He lives in princely style, but he is not exactly a sn.o.b and he prides himself on his independence. His hobby is what he calls "picking winners"--men, not horses. He likes to "spot" some young fellow who he thinks has it in him to get on, then he backs him. He believes that nothing succeeds like success, having tested the truth of the saying himself. When something disagreeable has to be done, he does it and d.a.m.ns the consequences but he does not shrink from them.
One afternoon old Peter Knott went to see the famous art dealer. The latter was sitting in a deep leather chair with his feet near the fender, a silver tea-service resplendent under a high silver lamp beside him. To Peter Knott, as he entered, the impression was that of a comfort both solid and luxurious.
Ringsmith"s strong-willed face lit up. He had much regard for Peter, in spite of the latter"s being almost the only man who did not hesitate to say what he thought to him, whether palatable or not.
"Ha, old bird! I know what you"ve come for."
Ringsmith has a large mouth, and although he is getting towards sixty his teeth are strong and sound. His voice is loud and its tone bullying, as of one accustomed to ordering people about and to having his way. Somehow this doesn"t offend, perhaps because you expect it of a man with his red, mottled skin, bushy eyebrows, and heavy jaw.
Old Peter finished his bit of b.u.t.tered toast and quietly sipped his tea.
"Yes?" he said.
"What is it this time, Peter, a box for the Red Cross Matinee or a subscription to the new fund? Come on, out with it."
Peter screwed his single gla.s.s into one of his shrewd grey eyes, and examining the m.u.f.fin dish, carefully selected another piece of toast.
"Try again," he remarked.
"It"s worse than I thought." The big man looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye as he put a cigar in his mouth and lighted a match. The other finished his tea and lay back in his chair.
"Not at all, not at all, Stephen. A friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell, wants to sell her pictures."
Peter Knott has a soft, gentle voice, and he spoke slowly, looking into the fire.
"She is an old friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell. I was best man to Tom when he married her. Lord! What a long time ago!"
Ringsmith glanced towards Peter; he said nothing, and there was a moment"s silence before the latter continued--
"Tom didn"t leave anything except the property, which goes to the boy; he"s at the Front. There are the two girls to provide for. I advised her to sell the pictures long ago, but she couldn"t bear to part with them.
Now, with new taxation and so on, she feels she must. It"s a bad time for selling, isn"t it, Stephen?"
"The worst."
"What do you advise?"
"I never advise; people must make up their minds for themselves." Then, as though it were an after-thought: "What sort of pictures are they?"
"There are a Corot, a Mauve, and a Daubigny, I believe. The Corot is said to be a particularly good one."
"Um--what does she want for them?"
"I don"t think poor Mary has any idea about the price; she asked me, but there"s one thing I won"t do, and that"s to be mixed up in an art deal--"
Ringsmith"s eyes flashed; he flicked the ash off his cigar angrily.
"Mixed up--art deal! Then why the devil do you come to me?"
Peter Knott smiled at him benignly.
"Oh! Because you and I are old friends, Stephen. I"m sure you"ll treat her better than any one else."
Ringsmith moved uneasily.
"Why don"t you tell her to go to some one else first? I like people to fix their price before they come to me, then I can take it or leave it.
They"ve got such fantastic ideas about the value of things."
"Oh, very well, if you prefer. I thought you"d be pleased I came to you, but of course--"