if browne had ever looked forward to anything in his life, he did to the dinner-party he had arranged for the evening following his visit to the studio in the german park road. on more than one occasion he had entertained royalty at his house in park lane, and at various times he had invited london society to functions which, for magnificence and completeness, had scarcely ever been equalled and never excelled. upon none of these affairs, however, had he bestowed half so much care and attention as he did upon the dinner which it is now my duty to describe. having written the formal invitation, he posted it himself; after which he drove to the restaurant which was to be honoured with katherine petrovitch’s presence, and interviewed the proprietor in his own sanctum.
“remember, alphonse,” he said to that delightful little man, “good as the others have been, this must be the very best dinner you have ever arranged for me. it must not be long, nor must it be in the least degree heavy. you know my taste in wine, and i give you carte blanche to ransack london for what you consider necessary in the way of rarities. reserve ‘no. 6’ for me, if it is not already engaged; and make it look as nice as you possibly can. i will send the flowers from my house, and my own man shall arrange them.”
alphonse chuckled and rubbed his hands. this was just the sort of order he delighted to receive.
“ver’ good; it shall be done, m’sieu browne,” he said, bowing and spreading his hands apart in his customary fashion when pleased. “i have made you many, many dinners before, but i give you the word of alphonse that this shall be the best of all. ma foi! but i will give you a dinner zat for its betterment you cannot get in england. ze cost i will ——”
“never mind the cost,” answered the reckless young man; “remember, it must be the best in every way. nothing short of that will do.”
“i will satisfy you, m’sieu; never fear that. it is my honour. perhaps it is royalty zat you have to come to my house?”
“it is nothing of the sort,” browne replied scornfully. “i am asking two ladies and one gentleman.”
alphonse’s face expressed his surprise. it looked as if his beautiful dinner was likely to be wasted.
having arranged the hour and certain other minor details, browne returned to his cab once more, and drove off in search of jimmy foote. it was some time before he found him, and, when he did, a considerable period elapsed before he could obtain speech with him. jimmy was at the welter club, playing black pool with two or three youths of his own type. from the manner in which their silver was changing hands, it certainly looked as if that accomplished young gentleman was finding his time very fully taken up, picking half-crowns off the rim of the table, placing them in his pocket, and paying them out again.
“hullo, browne!” said bellingham of the blues, after the black ball had disappeared into the top pocket and while the marker was spotting it again. “are you coming in?”
“not if i know it,” said browne, shaking his head. “judging from the anxious expression upon jimmy’s face, things are getting a little too hot with you all.”
at the end of the next round, the latter retired from the game, and, putting his arm through that of his friend, led him to the smoking-room on the other side of the hall.
“i hope you have calmed down, old fellow,” said jimmy as they seated themselves near the fire. “to what do i owe the honour of seeing you here to-night?”
“i want you to do me a favour,” browne returned, a little nervously, for he was afraid of what jimmy would say when he knew everything.
“anything you like in the world, old man,” said the latter. “you have only to ask. there is nothing wrong, i hope?”
“nothing at all,” replied browne. “rather the other way round, i fancy. the fact of the matter is, i have asked two ladies to dine with me tomorrow evening at lallemand’s, and to go to the opera afterwards. i want you to make one of the party.”
“the young lady is the painter of that charming norwegian picture,” said jimmy, with imperturbable gravity, “and the other is her chaperon.”
“how on earth did you know it?” asked browne, blushing like a schoolboy, for the simple reason that he thought his secret was discovered.
“it’s very plain that you never knew i was a wizard,” returned his companion, with a laugh. “you old duffer; put two and two together for yourself — that is to say, if you have any brains left to do it with. in the first place, did you not yesterday afternoon invite me to accompany you on a delightful yachting trip to the mediterranean? you were tired of england, you said, and i gathered from your remarks that you were counting the hours until you could say ‘good-bye’ to her. we went for a walk, and as we passed up waterloo place i happened to show you a picture. you turned as white as a sheet at once, and immediately dived into the shop, bidding me wait outside. when you reappeared you acted the part of an amiable lunatic; talked a lot of bosh about preferring fogs to sunshine; and when i informed you that you were on the high-road to an asylum, said it was better than that — you were going to the german park road. our yachting cruise has been thrown to the winds; and now, to make up for it, you have the impudence to ask me to play gooseberry for you, and try to propitiate me with one of lallemand’s dinners, which invariably upset me for a week, and a dose of wagner which will drive me crazy for a month.”
“how do you know i want you to play gooseberry?” asked browne savagely. “it’s like your impudence to say such a thing.”
“how do i know anything?” said jimmy, with delightful calmness. “why, by the exercise of my own common-sense, of course — a commodity you will never possess if you go on like this. you are spoons on this girl, i suppose, and since there’s another coming with her, it’s pretty plain to me somebody must be there to keep that other out of the way.”
“you grow very coarse,” retorted browne, now thoroughly on his dignity.
“it’s a coarse age, they say,” foote replied. “don’t i know by experience exactly what that second party will be like!”
“if you do you are very clever,” said browne.
“one has to be clever to keep pace with the times,” jimmy replied. “but, seriously, old man, if you want me, i shall be only too glad to come to your dinner; but, mind, i take no responsibility for what happens. i am not going to be called to account by every london mother who possesses a marriageable daughter.”
“you needn’t be afraid,” said browne. “i will absolve you from all responsibility. at any rate you assure me that i can depend upon you?”
“of course you can, and anything else you like besides,” foote replied. then, laying his hand upon browne’s shoulder, he added: “my dear old jack, in spite of our long acquaintance, i don’t think you quite know me yet. i talk a lot of nonsense, i’m afraid; but as far as you are concerned you may depend the heart’s in the right place. now i come to think of it, i am not quite certain it would not be better for you to be decently married and out of harm’s way. of course, one doesn’t like to see one’s pals hurried off like that; but in your case it’s different.”
“my dear fellow,” said browne, “as you said just now, you certainly do talk a lot of nonsense. whoever said anything about marriage? of course i’m not going to be married. i have never contemplated such a thing. it’s always the way; directly a man shows a little extra courtesy to a woman, talks to her five minutes longer than he is accustomed to do, perhaps, or dances with her twice running, you immediately get the idea that everything is settled between them, and that all you have to do is to wonder what sort of wedding present you ought to give them.”
“when a man gives himself away as completely as you have done in this particular instance, it is not to be wondered that his friends think there is something in the air,” said jimmy. “however, you know your own business best. what time is the dinner?”
“seven o’clock sharp,” said browne. “you had better meet me there a few minutes before. don’t forget we go to the opera afterwards.”
“i am not likely to forget it,” said jimmy, with a doleful face.
“very well, good-bye until tomorrow evening.”
there was a little pause, and then browne held out his hand.
“thank you, jimmy,” he said with a sincerity that was quite inconsistent with the apparent importance of the subject. “i felt sure i could rely upon you.”
“rely upon me always,” jimmy replied. “i don’t think you’ll find me wanting.”
with that browne bade him good-bye, and went out into the street. he hailed a cab, and bade the man drive him to park lane.
once it had started, he laid himself back on the cushions and gave free rein to his thoughts. though he had to all intents and purposes denied it a few minutes before, there could be no doubt that he was in love — head over ears in love. he had had many passing fancies before, it is true, but never had he experienced such a strong attack of the fever as at present. as the cab passed along the crowded street he seemed to see that sweet face, with its dark eyes and hair; that slender figure, and those beautiful white hands, with their long tapering fingers; and to hear again the soft tones of katherine’s voice as she had spoken to him in the studio that afternoon. she was a queen among women, he told himself, and was worthy to be loved as such. but if she were so beautiful and so desirable, could she be induced to have anything to do with himself? could she ever be brought to love him? it was consistent with the man’s character to be so humble, and yet it was strange that he should have been so. ever since he had been eligible for matrimony he had been the especial prey of mothers with marriageable daughters. they had fawned upon him, had petted him, and in every way had endeavoured to effect his capture. whether or not katherine petrovitch knew of his wealth it was impossible for him to say. he hoped she did not. it was his ambition in life to be loved, and be loved for himself alone. if she would trust him, he would devote his whole life to making her happy, and to proving how well founded was the faith she had reposed in him. vitally important as the question was, i believe he had never for one moment doubted her. his nature was too open for that, while she herself, like c?sar’s wife, was of course above suspicion. the fact that she had confessed to him that her family was prohibited in russia only served to intensify his admiration for her truthful qualities. though he knew nothing of her history or antecedents, it never for one moment caused him any uneasiness. he loved her for herself, not for her family. when he went to bed that night he dreamt of her, and when he rose in the morning he was, if possible, more in love than before. fully occupied as his day usually was, on this occasion he found it more than difficult to pass the time. he counted the hours — nay, almost the minutes — until it should be possible for him to set off to the restaurant. by the midday post a charming little note arrived, signed katherine petrovitch. browne was in his study when it was brought to him, and it was with the greatest difficulty he could contain his impatience until the butler had left the room. the instant he had done so, however, he tore open the envelope and drew out the contents. the writing was quaint and quite unenglish, but its peculiarities only served to make it the more charming. it would give madame bernstein and the writer, it said, much pleasure to dine with him that evening. he read and reread it, finding a fresh pleasure in it on each occasion. it carried with it a faint scent which was as intoxicating as the perfume of the lotus blossom.
had the beautiful miss verney, who, it must be confessed, had more than once written him letters of the most confidential description, guessed for a single moment that he preferred the tiny sheet he carried in his coat-pocket to her own epistles, it is certain her feelings would have been painful in the extreme. the fact remains, however, that browne preserved the letter, and, if i know anything of human nature, he has it still.
