The Man with the Double Heart Part 27

"Thanks--no. Not just now." McTaggart's face was eloquent.

"All right," said Roddy with happy unconcern. "You just tell me when you feel like it."

The car trundled out between the narrow posts, and, avoiding the crowd, turned to the right; then, as the road, devoid of life, stretched straight ahead, took on speed.

The noisy music faded away into darkness and silence and the rustling breeze. McTaggart drowsily closed his eyes, as the stars began to peer out of the heavens. His head sank lower, his thoughts became involved ... Then with a flash he came back to life. Awoke to find the lamps glowing about him, the hum of the traffic, the busy London streets, and, against the light, Bethune's broad back and the girl's clear profile like a silhouette.

Jill was chattering, plainly absorbed.

Every now and then, her companion would lean to catch a sentence broken by the wind, and a laugh would float back with the hearty ring that seemed a part of the man's honest nature.

McTaggart watched them in a moody silence, still slightly piqued by Jill's desertion.

Roddy, surfeited, with a nearly empty bag, was rolled up in the corner like a happy dormouse.

They turned more slowly into dimly lighted roads, and the trees of Regent's Park came into sight.

Jill was giving directions now to Bethune. "It's the turning before Primrose Hill," McTaggart heard her say.

Then the car slackened, mounted the slight hill and they were in front of the terrace of gloomy little houses.

Stiff and pleasantly tired, they stepped down on the pavement, Bethune's strong arm for a moment supporting Jill.

Hurried adieux and thanks and the pair were off again, McTaggart now in the corner, still warm, where the girl had sat beside the driver on the long ride home.

A sudden silence had fallen between them, each engrossed in his own train of thought.

Bethune broke it first.

"Shall I drop you at the Club? I've got to take the car home--it's on our way."

"Thanks." McTaggart roused himself. "Can't you come back and dine with me?--or we'll have a grill somewhere--if you prefer it?"

"Sorry--I can't. I've promised to meet a man--it's a business matter.

Otherwise I would."

"Well--some other night." He felt a shade relieved. "It's very good of you to have given us this run. Those kids will talk of it till Kingdom Come--it's a great treat for them."

Bethune grunted.

"Oh--as to that--I enjoyed it myself. That's a nice boy..." there came a little pause--"and Miss Uniacke's ... perfectly ripping!--pretty too." He nodded his head.

"Think so?" McTaggart's voice was coolly indifferent.

"Of course," he added, "she's only a child."

CHAPTER XIII

It was the night of Cydonia's dance.

Although the band had been playing since the stroke of ten, guests were still arriving at the Cadells' door; in parties "personally conducted"

by the hostess with whom they had dined, their cards already filled and flirtations well started, wearing an air of frozen indifference toward the rest of the gay crowd; in knots of twos and threes hastening from the play; and in stray units, chiefly men, cheered by the thought of approaching supper.

The morning room had been arranged to hold the coats and hats, and for the moment the hall was free from guests. A young man with straight, red hair brushed back from his forehead, and a discontented expression about his tired eyes, emerged from the cloak-room b.u.t.toning his gloves and, with a faint start of pleased surprise, nodded to a friend who stood above him on the stairs.

"Hullo, Merivale!--fancy meeting you!"

"Thesiger--by all that's strange!--Thought you barred dances?"

"So I do--loathe 'em. But Susan dragged me here. Wait a second, will you?--This confounded glove..."

His friend nodded, leaning against the banisters: a short dark youth with a tiny moustache, that hovered like a b.u.t.terfly about to take wing under his finely cut aquiline nose.

"What's the name of the people here? I've clean forgotten."

"Cadell," answered Merivale as Thesiger joined him.

"D'you know the hostess by sight?--I promised to meet Susan, but cut it rather fine. Point her out, will you? or give me a description."

"Tall bony woman--face like the Sphinx--and big black pearls, suggesting the prize product of a poultry farm."

"Sounds opulent. What time's supper? I say--there's Kilmarny! Now, who could have brought him?"

"So it is." Merivale waved his hand. "Pity he's getting fat. I suppose Letty Urquhart. Have you heard of that smash?"

"Yes." Thesiger nodded. "Bound to come to it--the pace he was goin'.

Good old Urquhart! But I'm sorry for her--a nice little woman. What's she doing here, 'dans cette galere'?"

"Well, I _think_..." he lowered his voice, "she's going to present the Cadell girl next season. Lady Leason's fixed it up--she's trying to help Letty. There's precious little left, you know, for her and the kids."

"I don't blame her. Look at Kilmarny trying to dance the Tango! Let's stand here and watch. Oh--by the way, I heard rather a funny yarn about one of these new steps--'Bunny Hug' or something. Man was watching a girl in a sort of knot with her partner, and some one else objected on the score of Mother Grundy. 'Oh,' said the man--'I'm sorry for the girl. More danced against than dancing'--eh?--what!'"

Merivale laughed, as they stood on the landing outside the ballroom watching the scene within.

"Miss Cadell," said he, "is by way of being a beauty. Rather statuesque, with pale gold hair. Jinks knows her--you remember Jinks of Trinity--calls her 'The Heavy Angel!'--Rather a good name."

He leaned a little forward.

"There she goes, _now_ ... dancing with McTaggart--and not for the first time! He's in the running to-night. Pots of money, you know.

Poppa was in biscuits--or beer--no! Cheese..."

He broke off suddenly as a short red-faced man turned the corner abruptly and cannoned into them.

He seemed all shirt front, a starched battering-ram, painfully hot and labouring for breath.

"Sorry, sorry!" He stopped to apologize, puffing out the words with a forced cordiality.