DISTURNAL came and went with an air of genial mystery. The cab that carried him from Lady Wyse’s to Prince Dwala’s carried the fate of the nation on its two wheels. He came to assure Dwala of the support of the powerful Catholic Anglican party, of which he was business manager.
‘Of course, I’m only a layman,’ he said, with his broad muscular clean-shaven smile; ‘but you may take it the thing is done. The Bishop of Windsor will have to come and see you, just as a matter of form. He’s our President. He’s a dear old thing; you’ll like him. You’ll only have to give him some lunch, and pat him on the back and send him home again. I’ve settled it all with Lady Wyse.’
The Bishop came to lunch—really a ‘dear old thing’; a crumpled and furrowed saint, with the wise brow of a Scotch terrier, fitted for better things than to be managed by a scheming Jesuit like Disturnal. Dwala respected him as a man; Huxtable as a Bishop; Hartopp as neither. The mere title of Bishop was enough to provoke the fury of that pewed ox. The old Fence broke in on the respectable conversation of the lunch-table with ribald questions and sly allusions to Lady Wyse, and parsons, and hopes of the Archbishopric—all of which amused him very much, and only bewildered the good prelate, who had no notion what he was driving at. Hartopp soon pushed his plate away, and sat with his chin resting on the table and his pale blind eye-balls turned on the Bishop, chuckling to himself, like the head of some decapitated sorcerer in the ‘Arabian Nights’ making fun of a wicked Caliph.
His conversational successes pleased him so much that he grew gay and gallant when Dwala brought up Lady Wyse herself an hour later to his rooms to introduce her.
That crafty lady had prepared the way for friendship three weeks before by sending him ‘The Doings of Thomasina,’ over which the world was laughing—written by a lady of fashion, and absolutely true to life, so Huxtable assured him. It had been the delight of many evenings when Huxtable read it aloud to him and Dwala.
‘If people went on like that in Seven Dials,’ he said, ‘there’d be black eyes all round, and a lickin’ for the girl at the end of every page.’
But he chuckled hugely, relishing it as a light upon the manners and customs of the nobs.
He had the first floor to himself now, eight rooms in a suite. He was very strict in his sense of property, rushing out like an angry spider from his lair if he heard sounds of intrusion. But this afternoon he needed company as an outlet for the pride of his conversational performance, and he hobbled forth on the landing with a grin when he heard voices on the stairs.
‘Ah, Lady Wyse, is it? We had some talk about you at lunch to-day, my lady. “Lady Wyse is an old friend of mine,” says the Bishop. “Ha, ha,” says I; “she’s a fine woman by all accounts.” And then I laughed, and Huxtable up and asked the Bishop about the state of the Parsons’ Relief Fund. “Parsons,” says I; “why I read the Bible right through once when I was a boy, for a bet, and the word parson isn’t mentioned once in the whole of the book. I suppose you hope to be Archbishop some day?” says I. He pretended not to hear; but I wasn’t going to let him off. “Didn’t Lady Wyse say anything about you bein’ made Archbishop?” I says. “Not a word,” says he. “Didn’t she wink?” says I. “One doesn’t wink at Bishops,” says Huxtable. “Ah,” says I; “you don’t know Lady Wyse”; and I and the Bishop roared with laughter. The old man knows a thing or two.’
Lady Wyse listened patiently, and charmed the Fence outright, without exertion, by sitting down at the piano—his piano, which nobody might touch without his leave—and playing him ‘Simple Aveu’ and ‘The Song which Reached my Heart.’ The proletariat, who abhor sentimentality in real life, like nothing else in art. The sound of the music drew Joey, a sad little creature now that she saw the possible limitations of the pleasure of wearing new hats and steaming slowly in a motor-car round the Park. Hearing her footstep four rooms off, while he was leaning, full of noble emotion, over the plaintive piano, Hartopp rushed thumping away, knocking over little tables as he went, and cursing to himself.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s only me, Toppin.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I come to hear the music.’
‘What do you mean by comin’ in without askin’? Have you cleaned yourself up?’
‘Not partic’lar.’
‘Then clear out! I’ve got visitors. Wait till you’re sent for.’