A Bid for Fortune Guy Boothby (animal farm read .txt) 📖

I’ll do my best to talk him round. Ever since my mother died I have been as his right hand, and it will be strange if he does not listen to me and see reason in the end.”

Seeing who it was that would plead with him I did not doubt it.

By this time we had wandered through many rooms, and now found ourselves in the Egyptian Department, surrounded by embalmed dead folk and queer objects of all sorts and descriptions. There was something almost startling about our lovemaking in such a place, among these men and women, whose wooings had been conducted in a country so widely different to ours, and in an age that was dead and gone over two thousand years ere we were born. I spoke of this to Phyllis. She laughed and gave a little shiver.

“I wonder,” she said, looking down on the swathed-up figure of a princess of the royal house of Egypt, lying stretched out in the case beside which we sat, “if this great lady, who lies so still and silent now, had any trouble with her love affair?”

“Perhaps she had more than one beau to her string, and not being allowed to have one took the other,” I answered; “though from what we can see of her now she doesn’t look as if she were ever capable of exercising much fascination, does she?”

As I spoke I looked from the case to the girl and compared the swaddled-up figure with the healthy, living, lovely creature by my side. But I hadn’t much time for comparison. My sweetheart had taken her watch from her pocket and was glancing at the dial.

“A quarter to twelve!” she cried in alarm. “Oh, Dick, I must be going. I promised to meet papa at twelve, and whatever happens I must not keep him waiting.”

She rose and was about to pull on her gloves. But before she had time to do so I had taken a little case from my pocket and opened it. When she saw what it contained she could not help a little womanly cry of delight.

“Oh, Dick! you naughty, extravagant boy!”

“Why, dearest? Why naughty or extravagant to give the woman I love a little token of my affection?” As I spoke I slipped the ring over her pretty finger and raised the hand to my lips.

“Will you try,” I said, “whenever you look at that ring, to remember that the man who gave it to you loves you with his whole heart and soul, and will count no trouble too great, or no exertion too hard, to make you happy?”

“I will remember,” she said solemnly, and when I looked I saw that tears stood in her eyes. She brushed them hastily away, and after an interlude which it hardly becomes me to mention here, we went down the stairs again and out into the street, almost in silence.

Having called a cab, I placed her in it and nervously asked the question that had been sometime upon my mind:⁠—

“When shall I see you again?”

“I cannot tell,” she answered. “Perhaps next week. But I’ll let you know. In the meantime don’t despair; all will come right yet! Goodbye.”

“Goodbye and God bless you!”

I lifted my hat, she waved her hand, and next moment the hansom had disappeared round the corner.

Having seen the last of her I wandered slowly down the pavement towards Oxford Street, then turning to my left hand, made my way citywards. My mind was full of my interview with the sweet girl who had just left me, and I wandered on and on, wrapped in my own thoughts, until I found myself in a quarter of London into which I had never hitherto penetrated. The streets were narrow, and, as if to be in keeping with the general air of gloom, the shops were small and their wares of a peculiarly sordid nature; handcarts, barrows, and stalls lined the grimy pavements, and the noise was deafening.

A church clock somewhere in the neighbourhood struck “One,” and as I was beginning to feel hungry, and knew myself to be a long way from my hotel, I cast about me for a lunching-place. But it was some time before I encountered the class of restaurant I wanted. When I did it was situated at the corner of two streets, carried a foreign name over the door, and, though considerably the worse for wear, presented a cleaner appearance than any other I had as yet experienced.

Pushing the door open I entered. An unmistakable Frenchman, whose appearance, however, betokened long residence in England, stood behind a narrow counter polishing an absinthe glass. He bowed politely and asked my business.

“Can I have lunch?” I asked.

“Oui, monsieur! Cer-tain-lee. If monsieur will walk upstairs I will take his order.”

Waving his hand in the direction of a staircase in the corner of the shop he again bowed elaborately, while I, following the direction he indicated, proceeded to the room above. It was long and lofty, commanded an excellent view of both thoroughfares, and was furnished with a few inferior pictures, a much worn oilcloth, half a dozen small marble-top tables, and four times as many chairs.

When I entered three men were in occupation. Two were playing chess at a side table, while the third, who had evidently no connection with them, was watching the game from a distance, at the same time pretending to be absorbed in his paper. Seating myself at a table near the door, I examined the bill of fare, selected my lunch, and in order to amuse myself while it was preparing, fell to scrutinizing my companions.

Of the chess-players, one was a big, burly fellow, with enormous arms, protruding rheumy eyes, a florid complexion, and a voluminous red beard. His opponent was of a much smaller build, with pale features, a tiny moustache, and watery blue eyes. He wore a pince-nez, and from the length of his hair and a dab of crimson lake upon his shirt cuff, I argued