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“I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning.”
Chapter X
THE TRAGEDY OF AN APPETITE
Anna, notwithstanding her quiet clothes, a figure marvellously out of accord with her surroundings, sat before a small marble-topped table at a crowded A.B.C., and munched a roll and butter with hearty appetite.
“If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. “I wonder why I am always hungry nowadays. It is so ridiculous.”
She lingered over her tea, and glancing around, a sudden reflection on the change in her surroundings from the scene of her last night’s supper brought a faint, humorous smile to her lips.
“In two days,” she reflected, “Mrs. White will present her bill. I have one shilling and sevenpence halfpenny left. I have two days in which to earn nearly thirty shillings – that is with no dinners, and get a situation. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism.”
“So far,” she continued, eyeing hungrily the last morsel of roll which lay upon her plate, “my only chance of occupation has lain with a photographer who engaged me on the spot and insulted me in half an hour. What beasts men are! I cannot typewrite, my three stories are still wandering round, two milliners have refused me as a lay figure because business was so bad. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand. After all, I fancy that I shall have to apply for a situation as a nursery governess who understands French. Faugh!”
She took up the last morsel of roll, and held it delicately between her long slim fingers. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone. She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards.
She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. One she entered and met with a sharp rebuff, which she appeared to receive unmoved. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher. It was just then that she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.
He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. Directly he saw Anna he accosted her. His manner was deferential, even eager. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it.
“How fortunate I am, Miss Pellissier! All day I have been hoping that I might run across you. You got my note?”
“I certainly received a note,” Anna admitted.
“You were going to answer it?”
“Certainly not!” she said deliberately.
He looked at her with an expression of comical despair.
“What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then – without a word to any one you disappeared. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. You seem altogether altered, too. Upon my word – you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am,” she admitted.
He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way.
“Of course!” he said. “You have changed somehow – and you certainly are less friendly.”
She laughed. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly.
“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. It depresses one, you know.”
He nodded.
“You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. “But, forgive me, you are tired. Won’t you come and have some tea with me? There is a new place in Bond Street,” he hastened to say, “where everything is very well done, and they give us music, if that is any attraction to you.”
She hesitated and looked for a moment straight into his eyes. He certainly bore inspection. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good.
“I will come – with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance – not to refer to – Paris – at all.”
“I promise,” he answered heartily. “Allow me.”
He took his place by her side, and they talked lightly of London, the shops and people. They found a cosy little table in the tea-rooms, and everything was delicious. Anna, with her marvellous capacity for enjoyment, ate cakes and laughed, and forgot that she had had tea an hour or so ago at an A.B.C., or that she had a care in the world.
“By-the-bye,” he said, presently, “your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t she? I saw the notice in the papers.”
Anna never flinched. But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. After all, it was what she had been praying for – and Annabel could not have known her address.
“My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me.”
Ennison shrugged his shoulders.
“Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. I thought perhaps you were staying with them, as you did not seem particularly anxious to recognize your old friends.”
Anna shook her head.
“No, I am alone,” she answered.
“Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me? – and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?”
Anna shook her head.
“Thank you,” she said coolly. “Those things are not for me just at present.”
He was obviously puzzled. Anna sighed as she reflected that her sister had simply revelled in her indiscretions.
“Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. There must be something we can do. What do you say to Brighton – ”
Anna looked at him quietly – and he never finished his sentence.
“May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. “Perhaps your engagements are made for you.”
“I am staying,” she answered coolly, “at a small boarding-house near Russell Square.”
He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter.
“At a boarding-house?” he gasped.
She nodded.
“Yes. I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. You don’t happen to know of any one, I suppose, who wants a nursery governess, or a clerk – without shorthand – or a tryer-on, or a copyist, or – ”
“For Heaven’s sake stop, Miss Pellissier,” he interrupted. “What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don’t you accept an engagement here?”
“An engagement?” she queried.
“On the stage? Yes. You would not have the slightest difficulty.”
She laughed softly to herself.
“Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?”
He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest.
“I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. You do not need me to remind you of your success at Paris. The papers are continually wondering what has become of ‘Alcide.’ Your name alone would fill any music hall in London.”
Again that curious smile which puzzled him so much parted her lips for a moment.
“Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. I can’t imagine Londoners – particularly interested in me.”
He shrugged his shoulders. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. There were so many things about her which he could not understand. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully.
“I am very much obliged for the tea,” she said. “This is a charming place, and I have enjoyed the rest.”
“It was a delightful piece of good fortune that I should have met you,” he answered. “I hope that whatever your plans may be, you will give me the opportunity of seeing something of you now and then.”
“I am afraid,” she said, preceding him down the narrow stairs, “that I am going to be too busy to have much time for gadding about. However, I daresay that we shall come across one another before long.”
“That is provokingly indefinite,” he answered, a little ruefully. “Won’t you give me your address?”
She shook her head.
“It is such a very respectable boarding-house,” she said. “I feel quite sure that Mrs. White would not approve of callers.”
“I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. “I must try the Directory.”
“I wish you good luck,” she answered. “There are a good many Whites in London.”
“May I put you in a hansom?” he asked, lifting his stick.
“For Heaven’s sake, no,” she answered quickly. “Do you want to ruin me? I shall walk back.”
“I may come a little way, then?” he begged.
“If you think it worth while,” she answered doubtfully.
Apparently he thought it very much worth while. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short.
“Heavens!” she exclaimed. “I have brought you very nearly to my door. Go back at once, please.”
He held out his hand obediently.
“I’ll go,” he said, “but I warn you that I shall find you out.”
For a moment she was grave.
“Well,” she said. “I may be leaving where I am in a few days, so very likely you will be no better off.”
He looked at her intently.
“Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I don’t understand this change in you. Every word you utter puzzles me. I have an idea that you are in some sort of trouble. Won’t you let me – can’t I be of any assistance?”
He was obviously in earnest. His tone was kind and sympathetic.
“You are very good,” she said. “Indeed I shall not forget your offer. But just now there is nothing which you or anybody can do. Good-bye.”
He was dismissed, and he understood it. Anna crossed the street, and letting herself in at No. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. She was in excellent spirits, and it was not until she had taken off her hat, and was considering the question of dinner or no dinner, that she remembered that another day had passed, and she was not a whit nearer being able to pay her to-morrow’s bill.
Chapter XI
THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON
Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. Besides, she had admitted her identity. And yet – he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered love-making! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. He went over her features one by one in his mind. They were the same. He could not doubt it. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. He found himself thinking up all the psychology which he had ever read. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier – the soul of a very different order of being.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side.
“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us.”
“Of course,” his friend answered. “La belle ‘Alcide,’ wasn’t it? Annabel Pellissier was her real name. Jolly nice girl, too.”
Ennison nodded.
“I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said. “Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?”
“Very likely indeed,” Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. “I heard that she had chucked her show at the French places and gone in for a reform all round. Sister’s got married to that bounder Ferringhall.”
Ennison took an easy chair.
“What a little brick!” he murmured. “She must have character. It’s no half reform either. What do you know about her, Fred? I am interested.”
Meddoes turned round from the table on which he was practising shots and shrugged his shoulders.
“Not much,” he answered, “and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. There were two sisters, you know. Old Jersey and Hampshire family, the Pellissiers, and a capital stock, too, I believe.”
“Any one could see that the girls were ladies,” Ennison murmured.
“No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued. “The father was in the army, and got a half-pay job at St. Heliers. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago – the Lord help her. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it.”
Ennison looked steadily at the cigarette which he was tapping on his forefinger.
“So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked.
“No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly. “He ran some Austrian fellow off. She was quite the rage, in a small way, you know. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. Care for a hundred up?”
Ennison shook his head.
“Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. “See you to-night, I suppose?”
He sauntered off.
“I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely.
But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague.
The same night he met Meddoes and Drummond together, the latter over from Paris on a week’s leave from the Embassy.
“Odd thing,” Meddoes remarked, “we were just talking about the Pellissier girl. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club.”
“Sounds interesting,” Ennison remarked. “May I hear?”
“It really isn’t much to tell,” Drummond answered. “You know what a fearful old prig Ferringhall is, always goes about as though the whole world were watching him? We tried to show him around Paris, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin. Well one night, some of us saw him, or thought we saw him, at a café dining with ‘Alcide,’ – as a matter of fact, it seems that it was her sister. He came into the club next day, and of course we went for him thick. Jove, he didn’t take to it kindly, I can tell you. Stood on his dignity and shut us up in great style. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. The joke of it is that he’s married to her now, and cuts me dead.”
“I suppose,” Ennison said, “the likeness between the sisters must be rather exceptional?”
“I never saw the goody-goody one close to, so I can’t say,” Drummond answered. “Certainly I was a little way off at the café, and she had a hat and veil on, but I could have sworn that it was ‘Alcide.’”
“Is ‘Alcide’ still in Paris?” Ennison asked.
“Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. Anyhow, she’s disappeared for some reason or other. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. He’s the sort of johnny who wouldn’t care about having a sister-in-law on the loose.”
“Ennison here thought he saw her in London,” Meddoes remarked.
Drummond nodded.
“Very likely. The two sisters were very fond of one another, I believe. Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. Who’s for a rubber of whist?”
Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. He walked across the Park and called upon his sister.
“Is Lady Lescelles in?” he asked the butler.
“Her ladyship dined at home,” the man answered. “I have just ordered a carriage for her. I believe that her ladyship is going to Carey House, and on to the Marquis of Waterford’s ball,” he added, hastily consulting a diary on the hall table.
A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase.
“Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. “I hope you are going to Carey House.”
He shook his head, and threw open the door of a great dimly-lit apartment on the ground floor.
“Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. “I want to speak to you.”
She assented, smiling. He was her only brother, and she his favourite sister. He closed the door.
“I want to ask you a question,” he said. “A serious question.”
She stopped buttoning her glove, and looked at him.
“Well?”
“You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. Supposing I made up my mind to marry some one of good enough family, but who was in a somewhat doubtful position, concerning whose antecedents, in fact there was a certain amount of scandal. Would you stand by me – and her?”
“My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed. “Are you serious?”
“You know very well that I should never joke on such a subject. Mind, I am anticipating events. Nothing is settled upon. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. But I want to know whether in such an event you would stand by me?”
She held out her hand.
“You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. “But for you Dad would never have let me marry Lescelles. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. I am with you through thick and thin, Nigel.”
He kissed her, and handed her into the carriage. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar.
“There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. “The first is to discover what she is here for, and where she is staying. The second is to somehow meet Lady Ferringhall. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet – there’s a mystery somewhere.”
Chapter XII
THE POSTER OF “ALCIDE”
On Saturday mornings there was deposited on the plate of each guest at breakfast time, a long folded paper with Mrs. White’s compliments. Anna thrust hers into her pocket unopened, and for the first time left the house without a smile upon her face. She was practically destitute of jewellery. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. Another day of non-success would mean many disagreeable things.
And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters:
Mr. Earles,
Strictly Private
Every one stared at Anna. Anna stared back at every one with undaunted composure. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly.
“Want to see Mr. Earles?” he inquired.
“I do,” Anna answered. “Here is my card. Will you take it in to him?”
The young man smiled in a superior manner.
“Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. “There’s twenty before you, and Mr. Earles is going out at twelve sharp – important engagement. Better come another morning.”
“Thank you,” Anna answered. “I will take my chance.”
She removed some posters from a chair, and seated herself coolly. The young man looked at her.
“Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here.”
“I can spare it,” Anna answered suavely.
The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. A quarter of an hour passed. Then the inner door opened abruptly. A tall, clean-shaven man came out and walked rapidly through the room, exchanging greetings right and left, but evidently anxious to avoid being detained. Mr. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly.
“I’m next, Mr. Earles,” she exclaimed. “Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours.”
“In a minute, in a minute,” he answered, his eyes fixed upon Anna. “Reuben, come here.”
The young man obeyed the summons. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar.
“What’s that young lady’s name – girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. Earles asked sharply.
The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. Mr. Earles glanced at it, and his eyes flashed with anger.
“You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed.
Mr. Earles strode into the waiting-room. His face was wreathed in smiles, his be-ringed hand was cordially outstretched.
“My dear Miss Pellissier,” he said impressively, “this is an unexpected pleasure. Come in! Come in, do. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. If I had known that you were here you should not have been kept waiting for a second.”
It took a good deal to surprise Anna, but it was all she could do to follow Mr. Earles with composure into the inner room. There was a little murmur of consternation from the waiting crowd, and the florid young woman showed signs of temper, to which Mr. Earles was absolutely indifferent. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door.
“Come,” he said, “this is capital, capital. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. By-the-bye,” he added, in a suddenly altered tone, “I hope, I trust – that you have not entered into any arrangements with any one here?”
“I – oh no!” Anna said, a little faintly. “I have made no arrangements as yet – none at all.”
Mr. Earles recovered his spirits.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Your arrival is really most opportune. The halls are on the lookout for something new. By-the-bye, do you recognize that?”
Anna looked and gasped. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall —the poster. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. Mr. Earles regarded it approvingly.
“A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. “A most wonderful likeness, too. I hope in a few days, Miss Pellissier, that these posters will be livening up our London hoardings.”
Anna leaned back in the chair and laughed softly. Even this man had accepted her for “Alcide” without a moment’s question. Then all the embarrassments of the matter flashed in upon her. She was suddenly grave.
“I suppose, Mr. Earles,” she said, “that if I were to tell you that although that poster was designed from a rough study of me, and although my name is Pellissier, that nevertheless, I am not ‘Alcide’ would you believe me?”
“You can try it on, if you like,” Mr. Earles remarked genially. “My only answer would be to ask you to look at that mirror and then at the poster. The poster is of ‘Alcide.’ It’s a duplicate of the French one.”
Anna got up and looked at the mirror and then at the poster. The likeness was ridiculous.
“Well?” she said, sitting down again. “I want an engagement.”
“Capital!” Mr. Earles declared. “Any choice as to which of the Halls? You can pick and choose, you know. I recommend the ‘Unusual.’”
“I have no choice,” Anna declared.
“I can get you,” Mr. Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, “forty at the ‘Unusual,’ two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinées. We should not bar any engagements at private houses, but in other respects the arrangement must be exclusive.”
“Forty what?” Anna asked bewildered.
“Guineas, of course,” Mr. Earles answered, glibly. “Forty guineas a week. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad.”
Anna was speechless, but she had presence of mind enough to sit still until she had recovered herself. Mr. Earles watched her anxiously. She appeared to be considering.
“Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra.’ Very likely they would give – ”
“I should be satisfied with the sum you mention,” Anna said quietly, “but there are difficulties.”
“Don’t use such a word, my dear young lady,” Mr. Earles said persuasively. “Difficulties indeed. We’ll make short work of them.”
“I hope that you may,” Anna answered enigmatically. “In the first place, I have no objection to the posters, as they have no name on them, but I do not wish to appear at all upon the stage as ‘Alcide.’ If you engage me it must be upon my own merits. You are taking it for granted that I am ‘Alcide.’ As a matter of fact, I am not.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Earles said, “but this is rubbish.”
“Call it what you like,” Anna answered. “I can sing the songs ‘Alcide’ sang, and in the same style. But I will not be engaged as ‘Alcide’ or advertised under that name.”
Mr. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. He slapped his knee.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Of course, I remember now. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?”
Anna nodded.
“It was,” she admitted.
“You needn’t say a word more,” Mr. Earles declared. “I see the difficulty. The old fool’s been working on you through your sister to keep off the stage. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John – doesn’t know what an artist is. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. Now I’ll tell you what I propose. Let me run you for six months. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. What do you say?”
“I agree,” Anna said coldly, “if you will make it three months.”
“Better say six,” Mr. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink.
“Four,” Anna decided firmly. “I shall not agree to six.”
“It scarcely gives me a chance,” Mr. Earles said, with a resigned sigh, “but I shall rely upon you to stick to me so long as I do the right thing by you. You can’t do without an agent, and there’s no one can run you better than I can.”
“You must also put in the agreement,” Anna said, “that I do not represent myself to be ‘Alcide,’ and that I am not advertised to the public by that name.”
Mr. Earles threw down his pen with a little exclamation.
“Come this way,” he said.
He opened the door of still another room, in one corner of which was a grand piano. He seated himself before it.
“Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites.”
He struck a note, and Anna responded. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Mr. Earles closed the piano with a little bang.
“You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. You do not need my compliments. We will get on with the agreement and you shall have in it whatever rubbish you like.”
Anna laughed, and went back to her easy chair. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. Whilst she was wondering how to frame her request for an advance, Mr. Earles drew out his cheque book.
“You will not object,” he said, glancing towards her, “to accepting a deposit. It is customary even where an agreement is drawn.”
“I shall have no objection at all,” Anna assured him.
He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. Anna took up the pen, and signed, after a moment’s hesitation,
A. Pellissier
“I will send you a copy,” Mr. Earles said, rubbing his hands together, “by post. Now, will you do me the honour of lunching with me, Miss Pellissier?”
Anna hesitated.
“Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one – er – connected with the profession, under present circumstances. If so, do not hesitate to tell me. Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier. I am already too much flattered that you should have given me your confidence.”
“You are very good, Mr. Earles,” Anna said. “I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon.”
“Just as you wish,” Mr. Earles declared good-humouredly, “but I shall not let you go without drinking a glass of wine to our success.”
He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. The cork came out with a loud pop, and Anna could not help wondering how it must sound to the patient little crowd outside. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. Earles.
“You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go.
She wrote it down. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark.
“I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said. “Bring any new songs you may have.”
Anna nodded, and Mr. Earles attended her obsequiously to the door. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street – alone. It was a brief solitude, however. A young man, who had been spending the last hour walking up and down on the opposite side of the way, came quickly over to her. She looked up, and recognized Mr. Brendon.
