“I do ‘ope ‘e gives you a good lunch. We was ‘avin’ gammon and peas again to-day. Ah-h, a prime bit, too. I ‘ad just put ‘em on when ‘e called.”
“Well, I hate to miss them, Mrs. Purvis,” George called back, as he struggled into his trousers. “But you go on and eat them, and don’t worry about me. I’ll get a good lunch.”
“‘E’ll take you to the Ritz, no doubt,” she called again a trifle loftily.
“Oh,” George answered easily as he pulled on his shirt, “I don’t think he likes those places. People of that sort,” he shouted with great assurance, as if he were on intimate terms with “people of that sort”—“they don’t go in for swank as a rule. He’s probably bored stiff with it, particularly after all he’s been through these past few weeks. He’d probably much rather go to some simple place.”
“Um. Shouldn’t wonder,” said Mrs. Purvis reflectively. “Meetin’ all them artists and members of the nobility. Probably fed up with it, I should think,” she said. “I know I should be,” which meant that she would have given only her right eye for the opportunity. “You might take ‘im to Simpson’s, you know,” she said in the offhand manner that usually accompanied her most important contributions.
“There’s an idea,” George cried. “Or to Stone’s Chop House in Panton Street.”
“Ah yes,” she said. “That’s just off the ‘Ay Market, isn’t it?”
“Yes, runs between the Hay Market and Leicester Square,” George said, tying his tie. “An old place, you know, two hundred years or more, not quite so fancy as Simpson’s, but he might like it better on that account. They don’t let women in,” he added with a certain air of satisfaction, as if this in itself would probably recommend the place to his distinguished host.
“Yes, and their ale, they say, is grand,” said Mrs. Purvis.
“It’s the colour of mahogany,” George said, throwing on his coat, “and it goes down like velvet. I’ve tried it, Mrs. Purvis. They bring it to you in a silver tankard. And after two of them you’d send flowers to your own mother-in-law.”
She laughed suddenly and heartily and came bustling in with the shoes, her pleasant face suffused with pink colour.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, setting the shoes down. “But you do ‘ave a way of puffin’ things. I ‘ave to larf sometimes…1 Still, in Simpson’s—you won’t go wrong in Simpson’s, you know,” said Mrs. Purvis, who had never seen any of these places in her whole life. “If ‘e likes mutton—ah-h, I tell you what,” she said with satisfaction, “you do get a prime bit of mutton there.”
He put on his shoes and noted that only ten minutes had passed since Mr. McHarg hung up. He was now dressed and ready, so he started out the door and down the stairs, flinging on lovercoat as he descended. Despite the early hour, his appetite ad been whetted by his conversation, and he felt that he would be able to do full justice to his lunch. He had reached the street and was hailing a taxi when Mrs. Purvis came running after him, waving a clean handkerchief, which she put neatly in the breast-pocket of his coat. He thanked her and signalled again to the taxi.
It was one of those old, black, hearselike contraptions with a baggage rack on top which, to an American, used to the gaudy, purring thunderbolts of the New York streets, seem like Victorian relics, and which are often, indeed, driven by elderly Jehus with walrus moustaches who were driving hansom cabs at the time of Queen Victoria’s jubilee. This ancient vehicle now rolled sedately towards him, on the wrong side of the street as usual—which is to say, on the right side for the English.
George opened the door, gave the walrus the address, and told him to make haste, that the occasion was pressing. He said: “Very good, sir,” with courteous formality, wheeled the old crate round, and rolled sedately up the street again at exactly the same pace, which was about twelve miles an hour. They passed the grounds of Buckingham Palace, wheeled into the Mall, turned up past St. James’s Palace into Pall Mall, thence into St. James’s Street, and in a moment more drew up before McHarg’s address.
It was a bachelors’ chambers, one of those quiet and sedate-looking places that one finds in England, and that are so wonderfully comfortable if one has the money. Inside, the appointments suggested a small and very exclusive club. George spoke to a man in the tiny office. He answered:
“Mr. McHarg? Of course, sir. He is expecting you…John,” to a young man in uniform and brass buttons, “take the gentleman up.”
They entered the lift. John closed the door carefully, gave a vigorous tug to the rope, and sedately they crept up, coming to a more or less accurate halt, after a few more manipulations of the rope, at one of the upper floors. John opened the door, stepped out with an “If you please, sir,” and led off down the hall to a door which stood partially open and from which there came a confused hum of voices. John rapped gently, entered in response to the summons, and said quietly: