it.
“Mr. Vining!” Georgette repeated.
“I am here, Miss Libbard,” said a man standing in the aisle in front of her.
“My name is Mrs. Damon. Call me that.”
“As you please, Mrs. Damon. But you might have—”
“Might have entered by the stage-door?” Georgette inquired sweetly. “Oh, no! No, Mr. Vining. Not ever again.”
“Well, well! That also is as you please.”
“I have brought the clothes,” said Georgette. Brown paper crackled on the large parcel. “And I hold you to your promise.”
“Where did you find these clothes?”
“Where I knew I should find them. Hidden among a certain young woman’s belongings in her bedroom at High Chimneys.”
Clive, about to move forward and speak, checked himself beside the red-plush rail of a box. The prison-scene was grey and brown and black. Mr. Vining made a short gesture of disquiet or even anger.
“Mrs. Damon, I know little of your affairs in these later days. What do you want me to do?”
“Why, keep your promise, to be sure! You can’t deny you made it. Hide these things; or, rather, give them to the wardrobe mistress. They will go all unnoticed in a theatre until … well! If I have need of them to denounce someone.”
“You should have hidden these clothes yourself.”
“And have my maid find a man’s clothes among my possessions? Don’t be ridiculous!”
“The answer to that is simple. Tell your husband.”
“I can’t! I won’t!” Georgette’s voice had grown breathless. “You see that treadmill on the stage?”
“I see it,” answered the other, though he was not looking at it.
“I can’t conceal from you, ” said Georgette, “that I know a vast deal of prisons from my own two parents’ experience. There is somebody who deserves the treadmill, and the irons, and the whip lashing and lashing; yes! And will get it, too, if things go on as they go now. But my husband has been kind to me, in his own way. I can’t hurt him. He must cherish at least one illusion.”
“Including the illusion,” Mr. Vining asked dryly, “that his wife is Caesar’s wife?”
“Oh, don’t be so virtuous! What I do harms no one except myself. All this fuss and botheration about accepting some cast-off clothes?”
“Mrs. Damon, will you swear to me there is nothing that might embroil me with the law?”
“There is nothing yet. I swear to it.”
“Very well. For the sake of old times, then, give me the parcel. I still say, though, that you would hurt your husband far less by telling him whatever is the truth.”
“You may be right.”
“Trust me, Mrs. Damon: I know I am right.”
Against the gas-glimmer across the stage, a red-haired silhouette, Georgette raised both arms in a tragic gesture which might or might not have been sincere. Clive could not see her face; he could not be certain of anything.
“I am going to Laurier’s now,” she said, “for an appointment that may be fateful in the future. Not my future, I thank you, though I have risked much in coming to London. But it may be fateful to the wretch who has been abusing our confidence at High Chimneys. I will think of what you suggest, Mr. Vining. Good day.”
Gracefully Georgette inclined her head and turned round.
Laurier’s, eh?
As soon as Clive heard that name, he was on his way out of the theatre with as much anxiety to walk without noise as he had been careless of it when he entered. At least, he did not think Georgette had seen or heard him. Victor, waiting outside and smoking a cigar, he hauled to one side towards a shop-window.
“Well, old boy,” Victor asked with somewhat sardonic inflection, “did you see the play?”
“A kind of one. I saw your stepmother.—Keep your head turned away from the theatre, and don’t look in the direction of St. Giles’s.”
“Well, carry me out!” said Victor. “You saw Georgette? In daylight? What was she doing there?”
“Meeting an old friend. What else she was doing remains to be seen. She’s going to
“Mr. Vining!” Georgette repeated.
“I am here, Miss Libbard,” said a man standing in the aisle in front of her.
“My name is Mrs. Damon. Call me that.”
“As you please, Mrs. Damon. But you might have—”
“Might have entered by the stage-door?” Georgette inquired sweetly. “Oh, no! No, Mr. Vining. Not ever again.”
“Well, well! That also is as you please.”
“I have brought the clothes,” said Georgette. Brown paper crackled on the large parcel. “And I hold you to your promise.”
“Where did you find these clothes?”
“Where I knew I should find them. Hidden among a certain young woman’s belongings in her bedroom at High Chimneys.”
Clive, about to move forward and speak, checked himself beside the red-plush rail of a box. The prison-scene was grey and brown and black. Mr. Vining made a short gesture of disquiet or even anger.
“Mrs. Damon, I know little of your affairs in these later days. What do you want me to do?”
“Why, keep your promise, to be sure! You can’t deny you made it. Hide these things; or, rather, give them to the wardrobe mistress. They will go all unnoticed in a theatre until … well! If I have need of them to denounce someone.”
“You should have hidden these clothes yourself.”
“And have my maid find a man’s clothes among my possessions? Don’t be ridiculous!”
“The answer to that is simple. Tell your husband.”
“I can’t! I won’t!” Georgette’s voice had grown breathless. “You see that treadmill on the stage?”
“I see it,” answered the other, though he was not looking at it.
“I can’t conceal from you, ” said Georgette, “that I know a vast deal of prisons from my own two parents’ experience. There is somebody who deserves the treadmill, and the irons, and the whip lashing and lashing; yes! And will get it, too, if things go on as they go now. But my husband has been kind to me, in his own way. I can’t hurt him. He must cherish at least one illusion.”
“Including the illusion,” Mr. Vining asked dryly, “that his wife is Caesar’s wife?”
“Oh, don’t be so virtuous! What I do harms no one except myself. All this fuss and botheration about accepting some cast-off clothes?”
“Mrs. Damon, will you swear to me there is nothing that might embroil me with the law?”
“There is nothing yet. I swear to it.”
“Very well. For the sake of old times, then, give me the parcel. I still say, though, that you would hurt your husband far less by telling him whatever is the truth.”
“You may be right.”
“Trust me, Mrs. Damon: I know I am right.”
Against the gas-glimmer across the stage, a red-haired silhouette, Georgette raised both arms in a tragic gesture which might or might not have been sincere. Clive could not see her face; he could not be certain of anything.
“I am going to Laurier’s now,” she said, “for an appointment that may be fateful in the future. Not my future, I thank you, though I have risked much in coming to London. But it may be fateful to the wretch who has been abusing our confidence at High Chimneys. I will think of what you suggest, Mr. Vining. Good day.”
Gracefully Georgette inclined her head and turned round.
Laurier’s, eh?
As soon as Clive heard that name, he was on his way out of the theatre with as much anxiety to walk without noise as he had been careless of it when he entered. At least, he did not think Georgette had seen or heard him. Victor, waiting outside and smoking a cigar, he hauled to one side towards a shop-window.
“Well, old boy,” Victor asked with somewhat sardonic inflection, “did you see the play?”
“A kind of one. I saw your stepmother.—Keep your head turned away from the theatre, and don’t look in the direction of St. Giles’s.”
“Well, carry me out!” said Victor. “You saw Georgette? In daylight? What was she doing there?”
“Meeting an old friend. What else she was doing remains to be seen. She’s going to
Similar Books
