The Gambler Part 32

His companion turned to him with a thin laugh that belied his carefully preserved appearance.

"Attractive--eh?" he said.

The other replaced his cigarette in his mouth.

"What nationality is she?" he asked after a moment's pause. "I'd feel inclined to say Italian myself, but the old father's so uncompromisingly Saxon."

Again the older man laughed--a laugh that expressed unfathomable worldly wisdom.

"Father!" he said satirically. "Fathers don't shuffle round their womenfolk like that. They are husband and wife."

"Husband and wife!" The other smiled. But the older man pursed up his lips.

"You'll find I'm right," he said. "She walked three steps ahead of him, to avoid seeing him--and she did it unconsciously. Proof conclusive!"

The young man laughed.

"Doesn't carry conviction, uncle!" he said. "I'll bet you a fiver you're wrong. Will you take me on?"

His companion smiled languidly.

"As you like," he responded.

The young man nodded; then he looked down lazily at his flannel suit.

"I suppose it's time to change," he said reluctantly. "Awful bore being conventional abroad."

With another careless nod, he lounged off in the direction of the hall.

Exactly a quarter of an hour later, Clodagh emerged from her bedroom, looking fresh and cool in a dress of rose-coloured gauze that, cut high in the neck and possessing sleeves that reached the wrist, was yet light and diaphanous in effect. She opened her door and, mindful of the lateness of the hour, moved quickly out into the corridor. But scarcely had she taken a step in the direction of the stairs, than a door exactly opposite to her own was opened with equal haste; and the young Englishman of the terrace appeared before her. Seeing her, he halted involuntarily, and for a second their eyes met.

The glance was momentary; there was not a word spoken; but irresistibly the colour rushed into Clodagh's face. It took her but an instant to regain her composure, and to pa.s.s down the empty corridor with a touch of hauteur; but long after she had gained the stairs, her heart was beating with a new excitement. The glance that the stranger had given her had been almost ill-bred in its absolute directness; but ill or well bred, there had been no mistaking the unqualified admiration it conveyed. The personality of the man had escaped her attention; the fact that his hair was dark, his face attractive, and his figure tall, slight, and graceful had made no impression upon her. All she was conscious of--all that set her pulses throbbing, was the suddenly awakened knowledge that, within herself, she possessed some subtle, and previously unrealised power that could compel a man's regard.

She descended the stairs with a new sensation of elasticity and elation; and at its foot found Milbanke awaiting her in conversation with a suave, elderly man.

As she came within speaking distance, the two turned towards her.

"My dear!" Milbanke said quickly, "allow me to introduce Mr. David Barnard! David, this is my--my wife!"

Clodagh looked up curiously, and met the florid face, bland smile, and observant eyes of Barnard--a man who for nearly a quarter of a century had managed to prosper in his profession, and at the same time to retain a prominent place in fashionable society. As their glances met, she held out her hand.

"How d'you do!" she said. "I believe I've been wanting to know you ever since I heard you laugh one day two years ago."

She spoke warmly--impulsively--almost as Denis a.s.shlin might have spoken. Involuntarily Milbanke glanced at her with a species of surprise. In that moment she was neither the frank, fearless child he had first known, nor the self-contained, unfathomable girl who had since become his daily companion. In the crowded, cosmopolitan atmosphere of the hotel, she seemed suddenly to display a new individuality.

Barnard took her outstretched hand, and bowed over it impressively.

"It is very charming of you to say that, Mrs. Milbanke," he murmured.

"But I'm afraid James has told me that you come from Ireland!"

Clodagh laughed.

"He'll also tell you that I lived quite forty miles from the Blarney stone!"

She looked up, her face br.i.m.m.i.n.g with animation. Then suddenly and involuntarily she coloured. The young Englishman of the terrace was coming slowly down the stairs.

He descended nonchalantly, and as he reached the hall, he deliberately paused in front of the little group.

"Hallo, Barney!" he said easily. "Been playing much bridge this afternoon?"

Barnard looked round with his tactfully affable smile.

"Haven't had one rubber," he said.

"No?"

"No."

There was a pause--a seemingly unnecessary and pointless pause--in which Barnard looked suavely at the newcomer; the newcomer looked at Clodagh; and Clodagh looked fixedly out across the hall. Then at last the older man seemed to realise that something was expected of him.

With a gay gesture, he metaphorically swept the silence aside.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said affably, "will you permit me to present my friend Mr. Valentine Serracauld?"

CHAPTER III

Clodagh looked up, colouring afresh; and the young man bowed quickly and eagerly. He belonged to a type new to her, but familiar to every social Londoner: the type of young Englishman who, gifted with unusual height and fine possibilities of muscular development, saunters through life--physically and morally--exerting his energy and his strength in one direction only--the eternal, aimless, enervating search after personal pleasure.

To be explicit, the Honourable Valentine Serracauld was suffering from that most modern of complaints--the lack of surmountable obstacles. The nephew of one of the richest peers in England, he had started life heavily handicapped. A sufficiency of money had rendered work unnecessary; good looks and a naturally ingratiating manner had precluded the need for mental equipment; while his social position had unfairly protected him from any share in the rough and tumble existence that moulds and hardens a man's character. At fifteen, he had been an average healthy public schoolboy; at five-and-twenty, he was a fashionable young aristocrat, whose only business in life was the aiding and abetting of his uncle in the absorbing pursuit of killing time.

He bowed now to Clodagh with the extreme impressiveness that men of his type bestow upon a new and promising introduction.

"Charmed to meet you, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "Are you a resident here--or a bird of pa.s.sage like ourselves?" He indicated Barnard.

Clodagh met his intent gaze with a renewed thrill of speculative pleasure.

"My husband and I live at Florence," she explained. "We are only here on business--which sounds a desecration."

Serracauld continued to watch her.

"Not if you have any share in it," he said in a low voice.

She laughed and blushed.

"I'm afraid you speak from inexperience," she said. "To the people who know me, I am a very prosaic person."