“Excuse this late call,” I said, quietly, bowing. “But I have only one night in Scarborough, Miss Montague, and I wanted to see you. I’m a friend of Mr. Holsworthy’s. I told him I’d look you up, and this is my sole opportunity.”
I felt rather than saw that Miss Montague darted a quick glance of hidden meaning at her friends the chappies; their faces, in response, ceased to snigger and grew instantly sober.
She took my card; then, in her alternative manner as the perfect lady, she presented me to her mother. “Dr. Cumberledge, mamma,” she said, in a faintly warning voice. “A friend of Mr. Holsworthy’s.”
The old lady half rose. “Let me see,” she said, staring at me. “Which is Mr. Holsworthy, Siss?—is it Cecil or Reggie?”
One of the chappies burst into a fatuous laugh once more at this remark. “Now, you’re giving away the whole show, Mrs. Montague!” he exclaimed, with a chuckle. A look from Miss Sissie immediately checked him.
I am bound to admit, however, that after these untoward incidents of the first minute, Miss Montague and her friends behaved throughout with distinguished propriety. Her manners were perfect—I may even say demure. She asked about “Cecil” with charming naivete. She was frank and girlish. Lots of innocent fun in her, no doubt—she sang us a comic song in excellent taste, which is a severe test—but not a suspicion of double-dealing. If I had not overheard those few words as I came up the stairs, I think I should have gone away believing the poor girl an injured child of nature.
As it was, I went back to London the very next day, determined to renew my slight acquaintance with Reggie Nettlecraft.
Fortunately, I had a good excuse for going to visit him. I had been asked to collect among old Carthusians for one of those endless “testimonials” which pursue one through life, and are, perhaps, the worst Nemesis which follows the crime of having wasted one’s youth at a public school: a testimonial for a retiring master, or professional cricketer, or washerwoman, or something; and in the course of my duties as collector it was quite natural that I should call upon all my fellow-victims. So I went to his rooms in Staples Inn and reintroduced myself.
Reggie Nettlecraft had grown up into an unwholesome, spotty, indeterminate young man, with a speckled necktie, and cuffs of which he was inordinately proud, and which he insisted on “flashing” every second minute. He was also evidently self-satisfied; which was odd, for I have seldom seen anyone who afforded less cause for rational satisfaction. “Hullo,” he said, when I told him my name. “So it’s you, is it, Cumberledge?” He glanced at my card. “St. Nathaniel’s Hospital! What rot! Why, blow me tight if you haven’t turned sawbones!”
“That is my profession,” I answered, unashamed. “And you?”
“Oh, I don’t have any luck, you know, old man. They turned me out of Oxford because I had too much sense of humour for the authorities there—beastly set of old fogeys! Objected to my ‘chucking’ oyster shells at the tutors’ windows—good old English custom, fast becoming obsolete. Then I crammed for the Army. But, bless your heart, a gentleman has no chance for the Army nowadays; a pack of blooming cads, with what they call ‘intellect,’ read up for the exams, and don’t give us a look-in; I call it sheer piffle. Then the Guv’nor set me on electrical engineering—electrical engineering’s played out. I put no stock in it; besides, it’s such beastly fag; and then, you get your hands dirty. So now I’m reading for the Bar; and if only my coach can put me up to tips enough to dodge the examiners, I expect to be called some time next summer.”
“And when you have failed for everything?” I inquired, just to test his sense of humour.