Читать книгу The Inevitable Millionaires - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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The brothers arrived at the 'Milan' punctually, left their coats and hats with the vestiaire, and, entering the restaurant, took their places at the table which had been reserved for them. Monsieur Louis himself hurried forward to greet them. His bow was magnificent. He laid before them a bill of fare which comprised most of the known edibles of the world. They gazed at it in some perplexity. George Henry was fascinated by the picture on the cover, which represented two very décolletée ladies being entertained by a male being who seemed to be a sort of Bacchanalian tailor's dummy.

"You will leave the dinner in my hands, perhaps?" Louis suggested.

"We will do so with pleasure," they both assented, with a joint air of relief.

"Have you any suggestions to make, gentlemen?"

"None whatever," Stephen answered firmly. "We leave the matter entirely in your hands. We are accustomed to plain food and we appreciate good cooking. My brother has a weakness for a sweet dish."

"And to drink?" the immutable Louis inquired, making rapid notes with his pencil.

George Henry took the bit between his teeth.

"A pint bottle of champagne," he suggested boldly.

"A very good choice," Stephen acquiesced. "We will leave the brand to Monsieur Louis."

The head waiter bowed and retreated. The brothers exchanged congratulatory glances. They felt that they had made a good start, and they began an interested study of their surroundings.

"It appears to me, Stephen," George Henry remarked, in a somewhat disquieted tone, "that the fashions in evening dress have changed during the last ten years. Most of the men seem to be wearing short coats and black ties."

"Our own attire," Stephen pronounced, with bland confidence, "is perfectly in order. Nevertheless, if you would feel more comfortable—as this sort of thing is likely to be an everyday affair with us—we will call at Mr. Hogge's to-morrow and discuss the matter with him."

George Henry stroked his moustache a little nervously.

"I am wondering," he confessed, "whether these City tailors are quite the people."

"We have dealt with Hogge for twenty-five years," Stephen reminded him.

"An excellent man, no doubt," was the hasty admission, "but perhaps not quite used to clients who visit these fashionable places."

"You are doubtless right," Stephen decided, after a moment's reflection. "We must consult one of our friends with reference to a West End tailor. Perhaps Harold might be able to advise us."

At that precise moment Harold and Miss Whitney made their appearance. They had, as a matter of fact, been having a cocktail in the lounge outside, until they were quite sure that their prospective victims had arrived. Harold was wearing one of the short coats to which his uncle had alluded, and a black bow, tied in the orthodox manner. He paused before his uncles' table. His companion paused too.

"What ho!" he exclaimed cheerfully, having completely forgotten the little speech which he had rehearsed outside. "Here again, eh? Seeing life some, what?"

Stephen, whose manners were of the old school, rose to his feet, displaying an unexpected length of tail coat. George Henry followed his example.

"The dears!" Miss Whitney, who was standing modestly in the background, murmured under her breath. "Harold, won't you introduce me to your uncles?" she asked, taking a tentative step forward and laying her hand upon his arm.

The introduction was duly performed. Miss Whitney smiled very sweetly and was almost shy. She was wearing a black gown, and the absence of any colour upon her cheeks—a source of much comment amongst her acquaintances—accentuated the somewhat pathetic expression which was part of her pose.

"Kind of trouble here to-night," Harold declared jerkily, remembering, at last, his cue. "Louis has forgotten to keep my table. Never knew him make such a bloomer before."

"We've been waiting outside quite a quarter of an hour," Miss Whitney sighed, "and I am so hungry. How clever of you to get the best table in the room, without any trouble!"

"Perhaps," Stephen suggested, after barely a moment's hesitation, "you would care to join us?"

"Are you sure we shouldn't be disturbing you?" Miss Whitney asked, with a bewildering smile. "It would be simply sweet. I am dying to sit down. Every one has been so trying this afternoon."

Miss Whitney was, apparently, dying for other things, which Louis, who had been watching the little pantomime with immovable face, immediately on its termination promptly produced. Very soon the brothers were drinking their first cocktail, and Stephen's whispered admonition to his nephew to order anything the young lady would like resulted in the appearance of a gold-foiled bottle of superior size to their own, which was now reposing in an ice-pail. Miss Whitney took the conversation into her own hands. There was no doubt that she was a young lady of remarkable tact.

"It's so dear of you," she declared, "both of you," she added, with a wonderful glance at Stephen—"to leave that grubby old City and come up here to see life. And so sensible, too. There are other things in the world, aren't there, Mr. Underwood, besides making money?"

"I suppose there are," Stephen admitted doubtfully, "but I am bound to confess that, so far as my brother and I are concerned, we have somewhat neglected them. The conduct of a large business is very engrossing."

"You should take an interest in the theatre," she suggested.

"Neither my brother nor I," he replied, "have witnessed a theatrical performance since Sir Henry Irving last played in 'The Bells.'"

"You don't object to the stage?" she asked anxiously.

"Not in the least," Stephen assured her.

"Nor to any one connected with it," George Henry echoed, with a little bow.

"You dear!" Miss Whitney exclaimed, patting his hand.

George Henry glanced at the table on his right, which was, unfortunately, this evening occupied only by a prosperous-looking American and his wife. To be patted on the hand by a very attractive young lady was a new and extraordinarily pleasant situation. Somehow or other, though, he could not help thinking how much more thrilling it would have been if the donor of the caress had been the young lady with the wonderful smile, who had occupied that particular table at luncheon time.

"My brother and I," he announced boldly, "think of paying a visit to the theatre very shortly. Are you acting in anything at present, Miss Whitney?"

She sighed. The pathos now was unmistakable. She shook her head very sadly.

"I have had terribly bad luck, Mr. Underwood," she confided. "I have a wonderful musical comedy, with a delightful part for myself, and the man who was going to produce it for me—died, only a few weeks ago."

"Pegged out without a moment's warning," Harold put in. "Filthy luck for Miss Whitney. She'd been counting on his putting up the stuff."

The brothers were puzzled but interested.

"It isn't an expensive production," Miss Whitney continued, feeling her way cautiously, "and the very theatre for it is in the market at the present moment."

"It's a corking good piece of work," Harold remarked. "A fortune in it, with Miss Whitney in the title rôle. The man who puts up the dibs is on a winner every time."

The faces of Stephen and his brother suddenly cleared. They exchanged surreptitious glances. What had before been mysterious to them was now becoming clear. There was a business side, of course, to all theatrical ventures.

"Pardon me," Stephen inquired, "but the person who advances the money to secure the production of such a piece as you were speaking of, is usually, I believe, a loser?"

"Not in a case like this," Miss Whitney assured him eagerly.

"Miss Whitney never loses any money for her backers," Harold declared. "They touch the oof every time."

The brothers seemed unaccountably depressed, and Miss Whitney was content to let the subject drop for a time. Meanwhile, the service of dinner progressed. It was a queer partie carrée, the conversation, clumsily stage-managed by Harold, chiefly consisting of references to benevolent strangers who had befriended some undiscovered genius, assisted them towards a stage career and reaped princely rewards. For some reason, however, the morale of the story generally fell flat. Towards the end of dinner, George Henry, who was half-way through his second glass of champagne, snatched at an opportunity when his brother and nephew were engaged in conversation, to ask a question of Miss Whitney.

"Did you happen to notice," he inquired, "a very attractive young lady—there were two of them, in fact—seated at this table on the right at luncheon time?"

Miss Whitney reflected.

"Why, of course!" she exclaimed. "That was Peggy Robinson and little Julia Winch."

"Are they on the stage?" he asked timidly.

"When they get a chance," Miss Whitney replied. "They were in the chorus at Daly's until a month ago. Peggy isn't bad-looking. Better let me introduce you."

George Henry coloured up to the roots of his hair.

"I wasn't thinking of anything of that sort," he stammered. "I am too—too——"

"Too what?" she laughed.

"I shouldn't know what to say to young ladies who are on the stage."

Miss Whitney laughed again.

"Oh, Peggy would find plenty to talk about," she observed, a little dryly. "You might find her conversation a little monotonous, but you could have all of it you wanted, Mr. Underwood!"

George Henry leaned a little across the table, a proceeding which her gesture invited.

"Do you think there would be any chance of interesting your brother, or both of you, in a theatrical speculation?"

George Henry coughed. It was really very foolish of him, but his old habits of caution, engendered by a quarter of a century of commercial life, were too strong.

"I really could not say, Miss Whitney. We have neither of us been used to speculations of any sort."

The young lady sighed, and the conversation became general again. Miss Whitney had lost heart.

"Hopeless old dears!" she whispered to her escort.

"Sit tight," he replied, under his breath. "They're biting all right."

Stephen, in fact, presently reopened the subject himself.

"If it is not an impertinent question, Miss Whitney," he asked, "what amount would be necessary to ensure the production of your musical comedy?"

Miss Whitney was not one of those young ladies, flitting through Bohemia, to whom money counts as nothing. She came, on the contrary, from an exceedingly hard-headed stock of successful tradespeople, and she had learnt the art of caution. She leaned across towards Stephen, her eyes bright with interest, and a rather becoming little frown upon her forehead.

"It all depends, Mr. Underwood," she replied. "The thing could be done, no doubt, including a short lease of the theatre, for a matter of five thousand pounds. On the other hand," she went on, "there are extras—and perhaps super-extras—which might make the amount up to seven or eight thousand. The person, or syndicate, who found the money would be entitled to five per cent. interest and half the profits, after paying author's fees."

"That seems to me a perfectly reasonable arrangement," Stephen murmured, glancing tentatively at his brother.

"Quite so," George Henry echoed.

Blanche Whitney's spirits revived. She talked gaily until the end of the meal, a little surprised to find that her glowing account of the fortunes realized by various theatrical syndicates aroused so little enthusiasm in her listeners. At a quarter to ten Stephen took out his watch.

"It is our custom," he said, "my brother's custom and mine, to retire at half-past ten. We have just time to reach home pleasantly and read the papers for a few minutes."

"You are not going already?" she exclaimed.

"With your permission, Miss Whitney."

"My brother and I," George Henry intervened, "are most punctual in our habits."

The little party broke up. Blanche attached herself to Stephen and, with a pretty little gesture, detained him after the others had passed out.

"Mr. Underwood," she begged, "do tell me. Do you think this idea appeals to you at all? I can't tell you how happy it would make me," she went on, "to feel that I was going to owe this success—and I am going to have a big success—to you."

"If I were to entertain the suggestion, it would be upon one condition," Stephen said slowly.

"Please tell it me?" she insisted.

"My nephew Harold is very young and his mother is anxious about him. He is only just of age, and he has yet his way to make in the world. I hope you will not misunderstand——"

"I understand exactly," Blanche Whitney interrupted. "Harold is only one of a crowd of nice boys I go about with sometimes. My friendship with him amounts to nothing. You believe that, don't you?"

"I believe anything that you choose to tell me," he assured her courteously.

"Do this for me, Mr. Underwood," she whispered, "and I will see just as much or as little of Harold as you tell me. You shall decide all those things. One only makes use of children like that. I have always much preferred older men."

Stephen, for a moment, felt vaguely uncomfortable. He glanced towards the door, and was exceedingly relieved to see that George Henry was approaching.

"My brother and I will think over this matter of business," he told her.

"To-morrow I shall come and see you in the City," she announced firmly.