“A certain decline of elegance,” he murmured. “And is it my fancy or has this country become a trifle Americanised as regards the headgear of its men?”
Nigel smiled.
“I believe our thoughts are moving in the same groove,” he said. “To me there seems to be a different class of people here, as though the denizens of West Kensington, suddenly enriched, had come to spend their money in new quarters. Not only that, but there is a difference in the wares set out in the shops, an absence of taste, if you can understand what I mean, as though the shopkeepers themselves understood that they were catering for a new class of people.”
“It is the triumph of your bourgeoisie,” the Russian declared. “Your aristocrat is no longer able to survive. Noblesse oblige has no significance to the shopman. He wants the fat cheques, and he caters for the people who can write them. Let us pursue our reflections a little farther and in a different direction, my friend,” he added, glancing at his watch. “Lunch with me at the Ritz, and we will see whether the cookery, too, has been adapted to the new tastes.”
Nigel hesitated for a moment, a somewhat curious hesitation which he many times afterwards remembered.
“I am not very keen on restaurants for a week or two,” he said doubtfully. “Besides, I had half promised to be at the club.”
“Not to-day,” Karschoff insisted. “To-day let us listen to the call of the world. Woman is at her loveliest in the spring. The Ritz Restaurant will look like a bouquet of flowers. Perhaps ‘One for you and one for me.’ At any rate, one is sure of an omelette one can eat.”
The two men turned together towards Piccadilly.
CHAPTER IV
Table of Contents
Luncheon at the Ritz was an almost unexpectedly pleasant meal. The two men sat at a table near the door and exchanged greetings with many acquaintances. Karschoff, who was in an unusually loquacious frame of mind, pointed out many of the habitués of the place to his companion.
“I am become a club and restaurant lounger in my old age,” he declared, a little bitterly. “Almost a boulevardier. Still, what else is there for a man without a country to do?”
“You know everybody,” Nigel replied, without reference to his companion’s lament. “Tell me who the woman is who has just entered?”
Karschoff glanced in the direction indicated, and for a moment his somewhat saturnine expression changed. A smile played upon his lips, his eyes seemed to rest upon the figure of the girl half turned away from them with interest, almost with pleasure. She was of an unusual type, tall and dark, dressed in black with the simplicity of a nun, with only a little gleam of white at her throat. Her hair—so much of it as showed under her flower-garlanded hat—was as black as jet, and yet, where she stood in the full glare of the sunlight, the burnish of it was almost wine-coloured. Her cheeks were pale, her expression thoughtful. Her eyes, rather heavily lidded, were a deep shade of violet. Her mouth was unexpectedly soft and red.
“Ah, my friend, no wonder you ask!” Karschoff declared with enthusiasm. “That is a woman whom you must know.”
“Tell me her name,” Nigel persisted with growing impatience.
“Her name,” Karschoff replied, “is Naida Karetsky. She is the daughter of the man who will probably be the next President of the Russian Republic. You see, I can speak those words without a tremor. Her father at present represents the shipping interests of Russia and England. He is one of the authorised consuls.”
“Is he of the party?”
Karschoff scrutinised the approaching figures through his eyeglass and nodded.
“Her father is the dark, broad-shouldered man with the square beard,” he indicated. “Immelan, as you can see, is the third. They are coming this way. We will speak of them afterwards.”
Naida, with her father and Oscar Immelan, left some acquaintances with whom they had been talking and, preceded by a maître d’hôtel, moved in the direction of the two men. The girl recognised the Prince with a charming little bow and was on the point of passing on when she appeared to notice his companion. For a moment she hesitated. The Prince, anticipating her desire to speak, rose at once to his feet.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, bending over her hand, “welcome back to England! You bring with you the first sunshine we have seen for many days.”
“Are you being meteorological or complimentary?” she asked, smiling. “Will you present your companion? I have heard of Mr. Kingley.”
“With the utmost pleasure,” the Prince replied. “Mr. Kingley, through the unfortunate death of a relative, is now the Earl of Dorminster—Mademoiselle Karetsky.”
Nigel, as he made his bow, was conscious of an expression of something more than ordinary curiosity in the face of the girl who had herself aroused his interest.
“You are the son, then,” she enquired, “of Lord Dorminster who died about a month ago?”
“His nephew,” Nigel explained. “My uncle was unfortunately childless.”
“I met your uncle once in Paris,” she said. “It will give me great pleasure to make your better acquaintance. Will you and my dear friend here,” she added, turning to the Prince, “take coffee with us afterwards? I shall then introduce you to my father. Oscar Immelan you both know, of course.”
They murmured their delighted assent, and she passed on. Nigel watched her until she took her place at the table.
“Surely that girl is well-born?” he observed. “I have never seen a more delightful carriage.”
“You are right,” Karschoff told him. “Karetsky is a well-to-do man of commerce, but her mother was a Baroness Kolchekoff, a distant relative of my own. The Kolchekoffs lived on their estates, and as a matter of fact we never met. Naida has gone over to the people, though, body and soul.”
“She is extraordinarily beautiful,” Nigel remarked.
His companion was swinging his eyeglass back and forth by its cord.
“Many men have thought so,” he replied. “For myself, there is antagonism in my blood against her. I wonder whether I have done well or ill in making you two acquainted.”
Nigel felt a sudden desire to break through a certain seriousness which had come over his own thoughts and which was reflected in the other’s tone. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and filled his glass with wine.
“Every man in the world is the better,” he propounded, “for adding to the circle of his acquaintances a beautiful woman.”
“Sententious and a trifle inaccurate,” the Prince objected, with a sudden flash of his white teeth. “The beauty which is not for him has been many a man’s undoing. But seriously, my quarrel with Naida is one of prejudice only. She is the confidante and the inspiration of Matinsky, and though one realises, of course, that so long as there is a Russian Republic there must be a Russian President, I suppose I should scarcely be human if I did not hate him.”
“Surely,” Nigel queried, “she must be very much his junior?”
“Matinsky is forty-four,” Karschoff said. “Naida is twenty-six or twenty-seven. The disparity of years, you see, is not so great. Matinsky, however, is married to an invalid wife, and concerning Naida I have never heard one word of scandal. But this much is certain. Matinsky has the blandest confidence in her judgment and discretion. She has already been his unofficial ambassador in several capitals of Europe. I am convinced that she is here with a purpose. But enough of my country-people. We came here to be gay. Let us drink another bottle of wine.”
The joy of living seemed for a moment to reassert itself in Karschoff’s face. His momentary fierceness, reminiscent of his Tartar ancestry, had passed, but it had left a shadow behind.
“At least one should be grateful,” he conceded a moment later, “for the distinction such a woman as Naida Karetsky brings into a room like this. Our Bond Street lament finds its proof here. Except for their clothes—so ill-worn, too, most of them—the women here remind one of Blackpool, and their men of Huddersfield. I am inclined to wish that I had taken you to Soho.”
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Nigel shook his head. His eyes had strayed to a distant corner of the room, where Naida and her two companions were seated.
“We cannot escape anywhere,” he declared, “from this overmastering wave of mediocrity. A couple of generations and a little intermarriage may put things right. A Chancellor of the Exchequer with genius, fifteen years ago, might even have prevented it.”
“You can claim, at any rate, a bloodless and unapparent revolution,” the Prince observed. “You chivied your aristocracy of birth out of existence with yellow papers, your aristocracy of mind with a devastating income tax. This is the class whom you left to gorge,—the war profiteers. I hope that whoever writes the history of these times will see that it is properly illustrated.”
In the lounge, they had barely seated themselves before Naida, with her father and Immelan, appeared. The little party at once joined up, and Naida seated herself next to Nigel. She talked very slowly, but her accent amounted to little more than a prolongation of certain syllables, which had the effect of a rather musical drawl. Her father, after the few words of introduction had been spoken, strolled away to speak to some acquaintances, and Immelan and the Prince discussed with measured politeness one of the commonplace subjects of the moment. Naida and her companion became almost isolated.
“I met your uncle once,” Naida said, “at a dinner party in Paris. I remember that he attracted me. He represented a class of Englishman of whom I had met very few, the thinking aristocrat with a sense for foreign affairs. It was some years ago, that. He remained outside politics, did he not, until his death?”
“Outside all practical politics,” Nigel assented. “He had his interests, though.”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Have you inherited them?” she asked.
He declined the challenge of her eyes. After all, she belonged to the Russia whose growing strength was the greatest menace to European peace, and whose attitude towards England was entirely uncertain.
“My uncle and I were scarcely intimate,” he said. “I was never really in his confidence.”
“Not so much so as Lady Maggie Trent? She would be your cousin?”
“It is not a relationship of blood,” Nigel replied. “Lady Maggie was the daughter of my uncle’s second wife.”
“She is very charming,” Naida murmured.
“I find her delightful,” Nigel agreed.
“She is not only charming, but she has intelligence,” Naida continued. “I think that Lord Dorminster was very fond of her, that he trusted her with many of his secrets.”
“Had he secrets?” Nigel asked.
She remained for a moment very thoughtful, smoking a thin cigarette through a long holder and watching the little rings of smoke.
“You are right,” she said at last. “I find your attitude the only correct one. Did you know that Maggie was a friend of mine, Lord Dorminster?”
“I can very well believe it,” he answered, “but I have never heard her speak of you.”
“Ah! But she has been away for some months. You have not seen much of her, perhaps, since her return?”
“Very little,” he acquiesced. “She only arrived in London just before my uncle’s death, and since then I have had to spend some time at Dorminster.”
“As a matter of curiosity,” Naida enquired, “when do you expect to see her again?”
“This afternoon, I hope,” he replied,—“directly I leave here, in fact.”
“Then you will give her a little message for me, please?”
“With great pleasure!”
“Tell her from me—mind she understands this, if you please—that she is not to leave England again until we have met.”
“Is this a warning?” he asked.
She looked at him searchingly.
“I wonder,” she reflected, “how much of you is Lord Dorminster’s nephew.”
“And I, in my turn,” he rejoined, with sudden boldness, “wonder how much of you is Matinsky’s envoy.”
She began to laugh softly.
“We shall perhaps be friends, Lord Dorminster,” she said. “I should like to see more of you.”
“You will permit me to call upon you,” he begged eagerly.
“Will you come? We are at the Milan Court for a little time. My father is trying to get a house. My sister is coming over to look after him. I am unfortunately only a bird of passage.”
“Then I shall not run the risk of missing you,” he declared. “I shall call very soon.”
Immelan intervened,—grim, suspicious, a little disturbed. For some reason or other, the meeting between these two young people seemed to have made him uneasy.
“Your father has desired me to present his excuses to Lord Dorminster,” he announced, “and to escort you back to the Milan. He has been telephoned for from the Consulate.”
Naida rose to her feet with some apparent reluctance.
“You will not delay your call too long, Lord Dorminster?” she enjoined, as she gave him her hand. “I shall expect you the first afternoon you are free.”
“I shall not delay giving myself the pleasure,” he assured her.
She nodded and made her adieux to the Prince. The two men stood together and watched her depart with her companion.
“Really, one gains much through being an onlooker,” the Prince reflected. “There go the spirit of Russia and the spirit of Germany. You dabble in these things, my friend Dorminster. Can you guess what they are met for—for whom they wait?”
“I might guess,” Nigel replied, “but I would rather be told.”
“They wait for the master spirit,” Karschoff declared, taking his arm. “They wait for the great Prince Shan.”
CHAPTER V
Table of Contents
Nigel and Maggie had tea together in the little room which the latter had used as a boudoir. They were discussing the question of her future residence there.
“I am afraid,” he declared, “that you will have to marry me.”
“It would have its advantages,” she admitted thoughtfully. “I am really so fond of you, Nigel. I should be married at St. Mary Abbot’s, Kensington, and have the Annersley children for bridesmaids. Don’t you think I should look sweet in old gold and orange blossoms?”
“Don’t tantalise me,” he begged.
“We really must decide upon something,” she insisted. “I hate giving up my rooms here, I should hate having my worthy aunt as resident duenna, and I suppose it would be gloriously improper for us two to go on living here if I didn’t. Are you quite sure that you love me, Nigel?”
“I am not quite so sure as I was this morning,” he confessed, holding out his cup for some more tea. “I met a perfectly adorable girl to-day at luncheon at the Ritz. Such eyes, Maggie, and the slimmest, most wonderful figure you ever saw!”
“Who was the cat?” Maggie enquired with asperity.
“She is Russian. Her name is Naida Karetsky. Karschoff introduced me.”
Maggie was suddenly serious. There was just a trace of the one expression he had never before seen in her face—fear—lurking in her eyes, even asserting itself in her tone.
“Naida Karetsky?” she repeated. “Tell me exactly how you met her?”
“She was lunching with her father and Oscar Immelan. She stopped to speak to Karschoff and asked him to present me. Afterwards, she invited us to take coffee in the lounge.”
“She went out of her way to make your acquaintance, then?”
“Yes, I suppose she did.”
“You know who she is?”
“The daughter of one of the Russian Consuls over here, I understood.”
“She is more than that,” Maggie declared nervously. “She is the inspiration of the President himself. She is the most vital force in Russian politics. She is the woman whom I wanted you to know, to whom I told you that I wished you to pay attentions. And now that you know her, I am afraid.”
“Where did you meet her?” he asked curiously.
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“We were at school together in Paris. She was two years older than I, but she stayed there until she was twenty. Afterwards we met in Florence.”
Nigel was greatly interested.
“Somehow or other, nothing that you can tell me about her surprises me,” he admitted. “She has the air of counting for great things in the world. She is very beautiful, too.”
“She is beautiful enough,” Maggie replied, “to have turned the head of the great Paul Matinsky himself. They say that he would give his soul to be free to marry her. As it is, she is the uncrowned Tsarina of Russia.”
Nigel frowned slightly.
“Isn’t that going rather a long way?” he objected.
“Not when one remembers what manner of a man Matinsky is,” Maggie replied. “He may have his faults, but he is an absolute idealist so far as regards his private life. There has never been a word of scandal concerning him and Naida, nor will there ever be. But in his eyes, Naida has that most wonderful gift of all,—she has vision. He once told a man with whom I spoke in Berlin that Naida was the one person in the world to whom a mistake was impossible. Nigel, did she give you any idea at all what she was over here for?”
“Not as yet,” he replied, “but she has asked me to go and see her.”
“Did she seem interested in you personally, or was it because your name is Dorminster?”
Nigel sighed.
“I hoped it was a personal interest, but I cannot tell. She asked me whether I had inherited my uncle’s hobby.”
“What did you tell her?” she asked eagerly.
“Very little. She seemed sympathetic, but after all she is in the enemy camp. She and Immelan seemed on particularly good terms.”
“Yet I don’t believe that she is committed as yet,” Maggie declared. “She always used to speak so affectionately of England. Nigel, do you think that I have vision?”
“I am sure that you have,” he answered.
“Very well, then, I will tell you what I see,” she continued. “I see Naida Karetsky for Russia, Oscar Immelan for Germany, Austria and Sweden, and Prince Shan for Asia—here—meeting in London—within the next week or ten days, to take counsel together to decide whether the things which are being plotted against us to-day shall be or shall not be. Of Immelan we have no hope. He conceals it cleverly enough, but he hates England with all the fervour of a zealot. Naida is unconvinced. She is to be won. And Prince Shan—”
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