by Sax Rohmer
“No, I get on much better with men. There are some fearful rotters, of course, but most men are honest enough if you are honest with them.”
“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” murmured Don, slowly recovering from his fit of laughter.
“Ipsissima verba,” said Flamby.
Don, who was drying his eyes, turned slowly and regarded her. Flamby blushed rosily.
“What did you say?” asked Don.
“Nothing. I was thinking out loud.”
“Do you habitually think in Latin?”
“No. It was just a trick of dad’s. I wish you could have heard him swear in Latin.”
Don’s eyes began to sparkle again. “No doubt I should have found the experience of great educational value,” he said; “but did he often swear in Latin?”
“Not often; only when he was very drunk.”
“What was his favourite tongue when he was merely moderately so?”
Flamby’s expression underwent a faint change, and looking down she bit her under-lip. Instantly Don saw that he had wounded her, and he cursed the clumsiness, of which Paul could never have been guilty, that had led him to touch this girl’s acute sensibilities. She was bewildering, of course, and he realised that he must step warily in future. He reached across and grasped her other hand hard. “Please forgive me,” he said. “No man had better reason for loving your father than I.”
Flamby looked up at him doubtfully, read sincerity in the grey eyes, and smiled again at once. “He wouldn’t have minded a bit,” she explained, “but I’m only a woman after all, and women are daft.”
“I cannot allow you to be a woman yet, Flamby. You are only a girl, and I want you to think of me — —”
Flamby’s pretty lips assumed a mischievous curve and a tiny dimple appeared in her cheek. “Don’t say as a big brother,” she cried, “or you will make me feel like a penny novelette!”
“I cannot believe that you ever read a penny novelette.”
“No; I didn’t. But mother read them, and dad used to tear pages out to light his pipe before mother had finished. Then she would explain the plot to me up to the torn pages, and we would try to work out what had happened to the girl in the missing parts.”
“A delightful literary exercise. And was the principal character always a girl?”
“Always a girl — yes; a poor girl cast upon the world; very often a poor governess.”
“And she had two suitors.”
“Yes. Sometimes three. She seemed inclined to marry the wrong one, but mother always read the end first to make sure it came out all right. I never knew one that didn’t.”
“No; it would have been too daring for publication. So your mother read these stories? Romance is indeed a hardy shrub.”
The cab drew up before the door of The Hostel, a low, half-timbered building upon Jacobean lines which closely resembled an old coaching inn. The windows looking out upon the flower-bordered lawn had leaded panes, the gabled roof was red-tiled, and over the arched entrance admitting one to the rectangular courtyard around which The Hostel was constructed hung a wrought-iron lamp of delightfully mediaeval appearance.
Don opened the gate and walked beside Flamby under the arch and into the courtyard. Here the resemblance to an inn grew even more marked. A gallery surrounded the courtyard and upon it opened the doors of numerous suites situated upon the upper floor. There was a tiny rock garden, too, and altogether the place had a charming old-world atmosphere that was attractive and homely. The brasswork of the many doors was brightly polished and all the visible appointments of the miniature suites spoke of refined good taste.
“It’s very quiet,” said Flamby.
“Yes. You see most of the people who live here are out during the day.”
“Please where do I live?”
“This way,” cried Don cheerily, conducting her up the tiled steps to the gallery. “Number twenty-three.”
His good cheer was infectious, and Flamby found herself to be succumbing to a sort of pleasant excitement as she passed along by the rows of well-groomed doors, each of which bore a number and a neat name-plate. Some of the quaint leaded lattices were open, revealing vases of flowers upon the ledges within, and the tiny casement curtains afforded an index to the characters of the various occupants, which made quite fascinating study. There was Mrs. Lawrence Pooney whose curtains were wedgwood blue with a cream border; Miss Hook, whose curtains were plain dark green; Miss Aldrington Beech, whose curtains were lemon coloured with a Chinese pattern; and Mrs. Marion de Lisle, whose curtains were of the hue of the passion flower.
The door of Number 23 proved to be open, and Flamby, passing in, stood looking around her and trying to realise that this was the stage upon which the next act of her life story should be played. She found herself in a rather small rectangular room, lighted by one large casement window and a smaller latticed one, both of them overlooking the courtyard. The woodwork was oaken and the walls were distempered a discreet and restful shade of blue. There were a central electric fitting and another for a reading-lamp, a fireplace of the latest slow-combustion pattern and a door communicating with an inner chamber.
“Oh!” cried Flamby. “What a dear little place!”
Don, who had been watching her anxiously, saw that she was really delighted and he entered into the spirit of the thing immediately. “I think it is simply terrific,” he said. “I have often envied the Aunt her abode and wished I were an eligible spinster or widow. You have not seen the inner sanctuary yet; it is delightfully like a state-room.”
Flamby passed through the doorway into the bedroom, which indeed was not much larger than a steamer cabin and was fitted with all those space-saving devices which one finds at sea; a bureau that was really a wash-basin, and a hidden wardrobe.
“There is a communal kitchen,” explained Don, “with up-to-date appointments, also a general laundry, and there are bathrooms on both floors. I don’t mean perpendicular bathrooms, so I should perhaps have said on either floor. In that cunning little alcove in the sitting-room is a small gas-stove, so that you will have no occasion to visit the kitchen unless you are preparing a banquet. You enjoy the use of the telephone, which is in the reading-room over the main entrance — and what more could one desire?”
“It’s just great,” declared Flamby, “and I can never hope to thank you for being so good to me. But I am wondering how I am going to afford it.”
“My dear Flamby, the rent of this retreat is astoundingly modest. You will use very little coal, electric and gas meters are of the penny-in-the-slot variety immortalised in song and story by Little Tich, and there you are.”
“I was thinking about the furniture,” said Flamby.
“Eh!” cried Don— “furniture? Yes, of course; upon more mature consideration I perceive distinctly that some few items of that kind will be indispensable. Furniture. Quite so.”
“You hadn’t thought of that?”
“No — I admit it had slipped my memory. The question of furniture does not bulk largely in the mind of one used to billeting troops, but of course it must be attended to. Now, how about the furniture of What’s-the-name Cottage?”
Flamby shook her head. “We had hardly any. Dad used to make things out of orange boxes; he was very clever at it. He didn’t like real furniture. As fast as poor mother saved up and bought some he broke it, so after a while she stopped. I’ve brought the clock.”
“Ah!” cried Don gaily— “the clock. Good. That’s a start. You will at least know at what time to rise in the morning.”
“I shall,” agreed Flamby— “from the floor!”
The fascinating dimple reappeared in her cheek and she burst into peals of most musical laughter. Don laughed, too; so that presently they became quite breathless but perfectly happy.
III
“I vote,” said Don, “that we consult the Aunt. She resides at Number Nineteen on this floor, and her guidance in such a matter as furnishing would be experienced and reliabl
e.”
“Right-oh,” replied Flamby buoyantly. “I have a little money saved up.”
“Don’t worry about money. The pension has been finally settled between Mr. Nevin and the Government people, and it dates from the time — —”
“Of dad’s death? But mother used to draw that.”
“I am speaking of the special pension,” explained Don hurriedly, as they walked along the gallery, “which Mr. Nevin has been trying to arrange. This ante-dates, and the first sum will be quite a substantial one; ample for the purpose of furnishing. Here is the Aunt’s.”
Pausing before a door numbered 19, and bearing a brass plate inscribed “Mrs. Chumley,” Don pressed the bell. Whilst they waited, Flamby studied the Aunt’s curtains (which were snowy white) with critical eyes and tried to make up her mind whether she liked or disliked the sound of “Mrs. Chumley.”
“The Aunt is apparently not at home,” said Don, as no one responded to the ringing. “Let us return to Number 23 and summon Reuben, who will possibly know where she has gone.”
Accordingly they returned to the empty suite and rang a bell which summoned the janitor. Following a brief interval came a sound resembling that of a drinking horse and there entered a red-whiskered old man with a neatly pimpled nose, introducing an odour of rum. He was a small man, but he wore a large green apron, and he touched the brim of his bowler hat very respectfully.
“Excuse me breathin’ ‘eavy, sir,” he said, “but it’s the hahsma. The place is hall ready for the young madam, sir, to move ‘er furniture in, and Mrs. Chumley she’s in the readin’-room.”
“Ah, very good, Reuben,” replied Don. “Will you get the trunk and basket in from the taxi, and you might pay the man. The fare was four and something-or-other. Here are two half-crowns and sixpence.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Reuben; “and what time am I to expect the other things?”
“Miss Duveen is not quite sure, Reuben, when they will arrive. As a matter of fact, she has several purchases to make. But probably the bulk of it will arrive to-morrow afternoon.”
“Yes, sir,” said Reuben, and departed respiring noisily. As he made his exit Flamby carefully closed the door, and— “Oh,” she cried, “what a funny old man! Whatever did he mean by hahsma?”
“I have been struggling with the same problem,” declared Don, “and I have come to the conclusion that he referred to asthma.”
“Oh,” said Flamby breathlessly. “I hope he won’t mind me laughing at him.”
“I am sure he won’t. He is a genial soul and generally liked in spite of his spirituous aroma. Now for the Aunt.”
They walked around two angles of the gallery and entered a large room the windows of which overlooked the front lawn. It was furnished cosily as a library, and a cheerful fire burned in the big open grate. From the centre window an excellent view might be obtained of Reuben struggling with the cabin-trunk, which the placid taxi-driver had unstrapped and lowered on to the janitor’s shoulders without vacating his seat.
“I hope he won’t break the clock,” said Flamby, sotto voce. She turned as Don went up to a little table at which a round old lady, the only occupant of the room, was seated writing. This old lady had a very round red face and very round wide-open surprised blue eyes. Her figure was round, too; she was quite remarkably circular.
“Ha, the Aunt!” cried Don, placing his hands affectionately upon her plump shoulders. “Here is our country squirrel come to town.”
Mrs. Chumley laid down her pen and turned the surprised eyes upon Don. Being met with a smile, she smiled in response — and her smile was oddly like that of her nephew. Flamby knew in a moment that Mrs. Chumley was a sweet old lady, and that hers was one of those rare natures whose possessors see ill in no one, but good in all.
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Chumley, in a surprised silvery voice, a voice peculiarly restful and soothing, “it is Don.” She stood up. “Yes, it is Don, and this is Flamby. Come here, dear, and let me look at you.”
Flamby advanced swiftly, holding out her hand, which Mrs. Chumley took, and the other as well, drawing her close and kissing her on the cheek in the simple, natural manner of a mother. Then Mrs. Chumley held her at arms’ length, surveying her, and began to muse aloud.
“She is very pretty, Don,” she said. “You told me she was pretty, I remember. She is a sweet little girl, but I don’t think black suits her. Do you think black suits her?”
“Any old thing suits her,” replied Don, “but she looks a picture in white.”
“Quite agree, Don, she would. Couldn’t you dress in white, dear?”
“If nobody thought it too awful I would. Dad never believed in mourning.”
“Quite agree. Most peculiar that I should agree with him, but I do. Don does not believe in mourning, either. I should be most annoyed if he wore mourning. Was your mother pretty? Don’t tell me if it makes you cry. What beautiful hair you have. Hasn’t she beautiful hair, Don? May I take your hat off, dear?”
“Of course,” said Flamby, taking off her hat immediately, whereupon the mop of unruly hair all coppery waves and gold-flecked foam came tumbling about her face.
“Dear me,” continued Mrs. Chumley, whilst Don stood behind her watching the scene amusedly, “it is remarkable hair.” Indeed the sight of Flamby’s hair seemed almost to have stupefied her. “She is really very pretty. I like you awfully, dear. I am glad you are going to live near me. What did you call her, Don?”
“What did I call her, Aunt?”
“When you first came in. Oh, yes — a squirrel.” She placed her arm around Flamby and gave her a little hug. “Quite agree; she is a squirrel. You are a country squirrel, dear. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” said Flamby, laughing. “You couldn’t pay me a nicer compliment.”
“No,” replied Mrs. Chumley, lapsing into thoughtful mood. “I suppose I couldn’t. Squirrels are very pretty. I am afraid I was never like a squirrel. How many inches are you round the waist?”
“I don’t know. About twenty,” replied Flamby, suddenly stricken with shyness; “but I’m only little.”
“Are you little, dear? I should not have called you little. You are taller than I am.”
Since Mrs. Chumley was far from tall, the criterion was peculiar, but Flamby accepted it without demur. “I’m wearing high heels,” she said. “I am no taller than you, really.”
“I should have thought you were, dear. I am glad you wear high heels. They are so smart. It’s a mistake to wear low heels. Men hate them. Don’t you think men hate them, Don?”
“The consensus of modern masculine opinion probably admits distaste for flat-heeled womanhood, in spite of classic tradition.”
“Dear me, that might be Paul Mario. Do you like Paul Mario, dear?” — turning again to Flamby and repeating the little hug.
Flamby lowered her head quickly. “Yes,” she replied.
“I thought you would. He’s so handsome. Don’t you think him handsome?”
“Yes.”
“He is astonishingly clever, too. Everybody is talking about what they call his New Gospel. Do you believe in his New Gospel, dear?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“I’m not quite sure that I do. What is his New Gospel, Don?”
“That he alone can explain, Aunt. But it is going to stir up the world. Paul is a genius — the only true genius of the age.”
“Quite agree. I don’t know that it isn’t just as well. Don’t you think it may be just as well, dear?”
“I don’t know,” said Flamby, looking up slowly.
“I’m not quite sure that I do. Has your furniture arrived, dear?”
“Not yet, Aunt,” replied Don on Flamby’s behalf. “Most of it will have to be purchased, and I thought you might give Flamby some sort of a notion what to buy. Then we could trot off up town and get things.”
“How delightful. I should have loved to join you, but I have promised to lunch with Mrs. Pooney, and I couldn�
�t disappoint her. She is downstairs now, cooking a chicken. Someone sent her a chicken. Wasn’t that nice?”
“Very decent of someone. I hope it is a tender chicken. And now, Aunt, could Flamby take a peep at your place and perhaps make a sort of list. Some of the things we could get to-day, and perhaps to-morrow you could run along with her and complete the purchases.”
“I should love it. Dear me!” Into the round blue eyes came suddenly tears of laughter, and Mrs. Chumley became convulsed with silent merriment, glancing helplessly from Don to Flamby. This merriment was contagious; so that ere long all three were behaving quite ridiculously.
“Whatever is the Aunt laughing about?” inquired Don.
“Dear me!” gasped Mrs. Chumley, struggling to regain composure— “poor child! Of course you have nowhere to sleep to-night. How ridiculous — a squirrel without a nest.” She hugged Flamby affectionately. “You will stay with me, dear, won’t you?”
“Oh, but really — may I? Have you room?”
“Certainly, dear. Friends often stay with me. I have a queer thing in my sitting-room that looks like a bookcase, but is really a bed. You can stay with me just as long as you like. There is no hurry to get your own place ready, is there? There isn’t any hurry, is there, Don?”
“No particular hurry, Aunt. But, naturally, Flamby will get things in order as soon as possible.”
“Thank you so much,” said Flamby, faint traces of mist disturbing her sight.
“Not at all, dear. I’m glad. The longer you stay the gladder I shall be. What an absurd word — gladder. There is something wrong about it, surely, Don?”
“More glad would perhaps be preferable, Aunt.”
Mrs. Chumley immediately succumbed to silent merriment for a time. “How absurd!” she said presently. “Gladder! I don’t believe there is such a word in the dictionary. Do you believe there is such a word in the dictionary, dear?”
“I don’t think there is,” replied Flamby.
“No, I expect there isn’t. I don’t know that it may not be just as well. Come along, dear. You can come, too, if you like, Don, or you might prefer to look at your own drawings in the Courier. If I drew I should love to look at my own drawings. You may smoke here, Don, of course. A number of the residents smoke. Do you smoke, Flamby?”
