attendant that the lady’s name was Lottie de
Vaux. Then, still hatless, as the night was warm and fine, he left the theatre.
The Strand was a blaze of light, and although it was just on nine o’clock most
of the shops were still open. A little way along it he found a florist, where,
for a sovereign, he bought a double armful of tall pink roses. On a card he
gave the position of his stall, and asked the honour of Miss de Vaux’s company
at supper. The florist’s boy gladly accepted a shilling to convey the bouquet
to its destination without delay, and the Duke returned to the theatre.
In the interval
an attendant brought him a message that Miss de Vaux would be delighted to sup
with him, and would he please meet her at the stage door after the show. In
consequence, when the time came, he secured a hansom, and sat in it until he
saw the members of the company begin to emerge from the side entrance of the
theatre; then he alighted and joined the group of top-hatted young amorists who
had assembled there with a similar object to himself.
When Miss de
Vaux appeared, her mass of fluffed-out golden hair now half-hidden under a
coquettishly-draped lace scarf, he at once bowed over the plump little hand she
gave him, and kissed it.
“Oh, my!” she
exclaimed, with a giggle, and added as they walked towards the waiting cab: “Of
course, I knew from your card you were a foreigner, but I wasn’t expecting
anything quite so dashing. Acting like that with all those people looking on
was enough to make any girl blush. Though it’s a pretty custom all the same,
and I’m not saying I didn’t like it.”
“It was no more
than a proper tribute to your beauty;” the Duke smiled, “and from your name I
thought you might quite possibly be French yourself.”
“Me! Oh yes, but
only on my mother’s side,” declared Miss de Vaux hastily, illogically, and
untruthfully. Her real name was Emily Stiggins, and her family had originally
come from Yorkshire.
With her foot on
the step of the hansom she paused, the foreignness of her new acquaintance
occurring to her again, and asked a trifle suspiciously, “Where are you taking
me?”
“To Romanos,” replied
the Duke. “Unless there is anywhere else that you prefer.”
“Oh fine! I love
it there.” She flashed him a bright smile as she stepped in, her momentary
qualms now at rest. She had feared that, being a foreign nobleman, he might
have intended to take her to Claridges or the Ritz, and Emily Stiggins knew her
station. Such haunts of the aristocracy were not for chorus girls, until and
unless they had the luck to marry into it. On the other hand, it had been
equally possible that he had planned to give her supper in a private room at
Kettners. The self-styled Miss Lottie de Vaux was no prude and had more than
once risked her reputation to retain a wealthy admirer, but experience had soon
taught her that it never paid for a girl like herself to let a man suppose her
easy game to begin with.
As she settled
herself in the cab, she wondered whether the Duke was as rich as he looked, and
how long she would be able to keep him dangling before she had to let him take
her somewhere less public than Romanos. She decided that he looked the sort who
would soon come out with a straight offer, and give her little chance to
shilly-shally. She had had plenty of practice in handling men, but she already doubted
her ability to make this one dance to her usual tune.
It was now just
on midnight, but the pavements of the Strand were still crowded. The pubs were
closing, and from them issued small knots of people, quite a number of whom
were a little tipsy. Whisky was only three shillings a bottle, gin half a
crown, and beer a penny a pint. Here and there groups of three and four, walking
arm-in-arm. were singing lustily the catch tunes of the day, as they set off on
their way home after a jolly evening of talk and laughter. From Benoists?, Gows
and Gattis, other more subdued groups
Vaux. Then, still hatless, as the night was warm and fine, he left the theatre.
The Strand was a blaze of light, and although it was just on nine o’clock most
of the shops were still open. A little way along it he found a florist, where,
for a sovereign, he bought a double armful of tall pink roses. On a card he
gave the position of his stall, and asked the honour of Miss de Vaux’s company
at supper. The florist’s boy gladly accepted a shilling to convey the bouquet
to its destination without delay, and the Duke returned to the theatre.
In the interval
an attendant brought him a message that Miss de Vaux would be delighted to sup
with him, and would he please meet her at the stage door after the show. In
consequence, when the time came, he secured a hansom, and sat in it until he
saw the members of the company begin to emerge from the side entrance of the
theatre; then he alighted and joined the group of top-hatted young amorists who
had assembled there with a similar object to himself.
When Miss de
Vaux appeared, her mass of fluffed-out golden hair now half-hidden under a
coquettishly-draped lace scarf, he at once bowed over the plump little hand she
gave him, and kissed it.
“Oh, my!” she
exclaimed, with a giggle, and added as they walked towards the waiting cab: “Of
course, I knew from your card you were a foreigner, but I wasn’t expecting
anything quite so dashing. Acting like that with all those people looking on
was enough to make any girl blush. Though it’s a pretty custom all the same,
and I’m not saying I didn’t like it.”
“It was no more
than a proper tribute to your beauty;” the Duke smiled, “and from your name I
thought you might quite possibly be French yourself.”
“Me! Oh yes, but
only on my mother’s side,” declared Miss de Vaux hastily, illogically, and
untruthfully. Her real name was Emily Stiggins, and her family had originally
come from Yorkshire.
With her foot on
the step of the hansom she paused, the foreignness of her new acquaintance
occurring to her again, and asked a trifle suspiciously, “Where are you taking
me?”
“To Romanos,” replied
the Duke. “Unless there is anywhere else that you prefer.”
“Oh fine! I love
it there.” She flashed him a bright smile as she stepped in, her momentary
qualms now at rest. She had feared that, being a foreign nobleman, he might
have intended to take her to Claridges or the Ritz, and Emily Stiggins knew her
station. Such haunts of the aristocracy were not for chorus girls, until and
unless they had the luck to marry into it. On the other hand, it had been
equally possible that he had planned to give her supper in a private room at
Kettners. The self-styled Miss Lottie de Vaux was no prude and had more than
once risked her reputation to retain a wealthy admirer, but experience had soon
taught her that it never paid for a girl like herself to let a man suppose her
easy game to begin with.
As she settled
herself in the cab, she wondered whether the Duke was as rich as he looked, and
how long she would be able to keep him dangling before she had to let him take
her somewhere less public than Romanos. She decided that he looked the sort who
would soon come out with a straight offer, and give her little chance to
shilly-shally. She had had plenty of practice in handling men, but she already doubted
her ability to make this one dance to her usual tune.
It was now just
on midnight, but the pavements of the Strand were still crowded. The pubs were
closing, and from them issued small knots of people, quite a number of whom
were a little tipsy. Whisky was only three shillings a bottle, gin half a
crown, and beer a penny a pint. Here and there groups of three and four, walking
arm-in-arm. were singing lustily the catch tunes of the day, as they set off on
their way home after a jolly evening of talk and laughter. From Benoists?, Gows
and Gattis, other more subdued groups
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