Читать книгу The Inevitable Millionaires - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8
CHAPTER VI
ОглавлениеThe luncheon party at the 'Milan' had its surprises. Stephen and George Henry, with their guests, had scarcely seated themselves when the fair-haired young lady who had occupied the table on their right the day before strolled in alone and gazed around the room in a disappointed manner. Miss Whitney stretched out her hand and the two embraced affectionately. There was not the slightest suggestion of conspiracy in their greeting.
"You dear thing!" Miss Peggy gushed. "How sweet you're looking!"
"I am so happy!" her friend exclaimed, with much excitement. "Let me introduce you to the two dearest men the world. They are my new syndicate. We are really going to do 'The Singing Bird.'"
Miss Peggy was loud in her congratulations. She gave both her hands to the two men and promptly took George Henry's seat.
"We must talk about this," she declared. "I am so happy for Blanche's sake. She is such a dear."
"Your friend Miss Robinson will, perhaps, do us the honour of lunching with us?" Stephen suggested.
"I am so glad you've asked me," that vivacious young lady confessed. "It makes things more comfortable, you know, and I hadn't the least idea of going away. How are you two ever known apart?" she went on. "Because I want to talk to this Mr. Underwood"—laying her hand on George Henry's arm. "I am sure your brother and Miss Whitney have ever so much to say to each other."
A strand of golden hair brushed George Henry's cheek. A strange and wonderful confusion swept through his senses. He felt himself very hot and exceedingly nervous. He gripped the menu firmly in his hand.
"My name is George Henry, and my brother's Stephen. Supposing," he suggested, "we order luncheon."
The two young ladies took that task in hand and managed it very well. Miss Peggy, it appeared, drank milk when in public, at her mother's request, but on this special occasion of rejoicing was content to waive her usual abstinence, and cocktails, with Chablis to follow, were served for every one. She confided presently to George Henry that she was troubled so often with a cough—waiting about to get engagements was hard, and there were so many girls ready to make use of any means whatever to snap up any vacant post. Did he think there would be room for her in the chorus of "The Singing Bird?" He appealed to Miss Whitney. In a few seconds the matter was arranged. Luncheon became more and more cheery. One or two strange individuals, immaculately dressed, and all possessing a class of features well known in the City, were introduced by their Christian names at various times to the brothers Underwood—"my new syndicate"—by Miss Whitney. At the end of the meal the hosts of the little luncheon party were possessed of a very considerable theatrical acquaintance. Notwithstanding the glamour of their surroundings, however, at a quarter-past two, George Henry and Stephen exchanged a covert glance, and a moment or two later both rose to their feet.
"You will excuse us," Stephen said, after having paid the bill. "My brother and I have appointments."
The young ladies parted from them with immense regret. There was to be another meeting later in the week, and Miss Peggy whispered in George Henry's ear something about ringing him up. The girls watched their hosts depart in absolute silence.
"Can you beat them?" Miss Whitney murmured at last, turning to her friend.
"I don't believe they are real," the latter declared. "I had to pinch George Henry's arm to feel sure that he was alive. Tell me about——"
The heads of the girls drew closer together and their conversation became mysterious. Meanwhile the brothers were on their way to interview the manager. They were ushered, after a few minutes' delay, into his private office. Amenities were exchanged.
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" the manager inquired.
"We have called to know whether you have a furnished suite to let in the best part of the hotel," Stephen explained.
The manager dotted down a few numbers, rang the bell, and handed them over to a reception clerk.
"Mr. Jonas will show you what we have," he said. "I trust that he will be able to suit you."
He dismissed them with a formal bow. "Unlikely clients," he had decided at once, from their appearance. The reception clerk agreed with his chief, but he did his duty. Several of the suites which he showed them were fairly attractive, but Stephen shook his head to all of them.
"These are too small," he said. "We require something with a little more space. Two sitting-rooms, two bedrooms and two bathrooms."
"A suite of that size will be expensive," the reception clerk ventured to remind his prospective clients.
"We are prepared to pay a reasonable figure," Stephen replied.
The young man showed them two suites in the Court. He considered it a waste of time, but he carried out his instructions with parrot-like politeness.
"These suites are better," Stephen acknowledged. "What is the price?"
"Number eighty-nine is thirty guineas a week. Number one hundred and nine is forty."
"Inclusive of what?" Stephen inquired.
"Inclusive of attendance, lighting and heating," was the polite reply.
The prospective tenants stepped on one side.
"The prices are most satisfactory," Stephen declared. "Do you realize, George Henry, that forty guineas a week is over two thousand pounds a year."
"Quite so, but that has to be divided between the two of us," George Henry reminded his brother.
"True, but even then the increase is enormous. I think that we might live quite comfortably here," Stephen ventured.
"I prefer it to Hampstead," George Henry acknowledged, in a tone of awed enthusiasm. "Life will seem strange at first, but we shall soon get used to it. There is an air of comfort about the place which appeals to me."
"I agree," Stephen acquiesced. "I agree entirely. There is no disguising the fact that Mrs. Hassall was beginning to assume a position of domination towards us which was at times irritating. I look forward to our residence here with pleasure—I could almost say, with pleasure and relief."
"We will decide, then," George Henry said, "to take one of the suites."
"Certainly," was the prompt assent. "The question is, which shall it be?"
George Henry deliberated.
"Number eighty-nine seems to me to be cosier. If anything, I rather prefer it. It is, however, unfortunately, ten guineas a week less."
"Of course," their cicerone remarked, beginning to wake to the possibilities of business, "if you were taking the suite for any length of time, it is possible that Mr. Holman, our manager, might see his way clear to accepting a little less."
"No, no!" Stephen exclaimed hastily. "We should not think of asking him. We find your price quite reasonable. We have decided, in fact, to take number one hundred and nine."
"By the week?" the young man inquired.
"By the quarter," Stephen replied. "If you will show us the way back to the office, we will deposit a cheque for the first quarter's rent. We shall be moving in this afternoon."
Mr. Jonas led them downstairs and back to the office. His demeanour was greatly altered. He talked at length of the conveniences and resources of the establishment. He predicted that the new tenants would find themselves, in every way, comfortable. He led them into the office and made his announcement with a little air of triumph.
"These gentlemen," he told the manager, "have decided upon suite one hundred and nine. I have agreed to let it to them for three months at forty guineas a week."
Mr. Holman bowed.
"We desire," Stephen said, producing his cheque book, "to pay you the first quarter's rent in advance."
"Pray take a seat, Mr. Underwood," the manager begged.
"If any references are needed——" George Henry began.
Mr. Holman shook his head and smiled as he watched Stephen write out the cheque.
"A cheque on the Bank of England," he said, "is quite satisfactory to us."
"We wish to move in to-day," George Henry announced.
"The rooms will be at your disposal in an hour," the manager replied. "I trust that you will be very comfortable. The head waiters of the restaurant and café will wait upon you during the evening."
The brothers left the hotel and took a taxicab to Savile Row. They were both a little nervous.
"It is a great change for us," Stephen meditated, "a great change in our daily lives."
"It has been forced upon us," George Henry pointed out. "No one could ignore such a solemn injunction as we have received. Our duty has been made perfectly plain, and I venture to think that we have made a good start."
"You are quite right," Stephen assented. "I think that we shall be very comfortable at the 'Milan'. For a place of that description, our rooms seem to me to be quiet and unostentatious. When we have brought a few of our personal trifles, such as our books and family portraits, it will, I am sure, seem quite homey."
They found Harold anxiously awaiting them when they reached their destination. He pounced upon them directly as they left the taxicab and led the way inside a palatial establishment. Depositing his charges on two plush chairs, he departed in search of the principal of the establishment, whose name was Mr. Ernest Poulton. The latter welcomed him warmly.
"I felt quite sure, Mr. Margetson, that, after my letter, you would be bringing me in a cheque this morning," he declared. "How much shall I prepare a receipt for?"
"You can chuck that for the moment," Harold replied eagerly. "I've brought you in two of the best customers you could possibly have."
The principal looked disparagingly through the glass partition to where Stephen and George Henry were seated.
"Are you referring to the two hayseeds outside?" he asked.
"Yes, and don't be a fool," Harold enjoined. "Those are my uncles, Stephen and George Henry Underwood, of the firm of Underwood and Sons, in the City, where I shall be a partner some day. Worth a million, if they're worth a penny. Bank at the Bank of England. You've only got to make the simplest inquiry. Cash down for all they buy."
"This sounds most interesting," Mr. Poulton admitted. "They certainly look as though they needed to change their tailor."
"Come with me," Harold insisted. "You will find that I am not romancing. When you've taken their order and realized what it means to you, you'll be very sorry you ever wrote me that most uncalled-for epistle. However, 'Forgive and forget' is my motto. Come along."
Mr. Poulton made his best bow to his new customers.
"You would like to be measured for some clothes, gentlemen, I understand," he said. "Of what description, may I ask?"
"You are the principal of the firm?" Stephen inquired.
"My name is Poulton. I am the only active partner," the other assented.
"Let me explain our position," Stephen continued. "My brother and I have been living very retired lives. We are City men, and two suits a year from a City tailor have been the extent of our purchases. We have decided to change our mode of life. We have taken a suite at the 'Milan'. We require you to furnish us with all the clothes necessary and suitable for two people of our age."
Mr. Poulton bowed.
"Lounge suits, I presume, morning suits and evening clothes?"
"All those," Stephen answered firmly.
"Especially the evening clothes," George Henry put in. "We should like those first."
"Certainly," Mr. Poulton agreed. "What about sport?"
"Sport!" Stephen repeated.
"Sport!" his brother echoed meditatively.
"At present," Stephen explained, "we have not decided to indulge in anything of that sort. My brother and I have it in our minds to ride in the Park a little later on, and to take up golf. Perhaps, after all, it would be as well for you to provide suitable attire for these diversions."
Mr. Poulton coughed and dropped his pencil hurriedly.
"Our prices——" he began.
"We will leave the matter of prices to you," Stephen interrupted. "We do not expect to be overcharged, but we wish to pay such prices as are usual."
"And terms," Mr. Poulton ventured, feeling that there must be a catch somewhere.
"My brother and I have no running accounts," Stephen explained. "We will pay you cash for the clothes as you deliver them."
Mr. Poulton bowed low. Royalty itself could not have drawn from him a more respectful salute. He pointed to a little row of private rooms.
"If you will step this way, gentlemen," he said, "I will send a cutter to take your measurements. Afterwards we can discuss the matter of materials."
Harold lingered behind with Mr. Poulton. The latter's manner had become more genial.
"Well, what about it, old dear?" Harold demanded, buttonholing him forcibly.
"We shall much appreciate your uncles' custom," Mr. Poulton declared. "You can consider the letter, which you received this morning, unwritten."
"I should jolly well think so," Harold grumbled. "And what about that brown suit I mentioned?"
"You can place your order," Mr. Poulton conceded graciously. "The suit shall be proceeded with at once."
From Savile Row, Harold piloted his charges to Borrodaile's in Bond Street, where a somewhat similar programme was gone through. A plentiful stock of socks, shirts, ties and underclothes was conscientiously ordered. On the way back to the City, Stephen addressed a few words of mingled explanation and admonition to his nephew.
"Harold," he said, "I think it as well to take you into our confidence to a certain extent. Your Uncle George Henry and I have decided to entirely alter our course of life, in consequence of a letter written by your grandfather before he died, which he left with one of his executors to be delivered to us when our prosperity was assured. It appears to be the wish of your grandfather that we should endeavour to spend a reasonable portion of the profits we make in the business. We are endeavouring to conform to his wishes."
"Jolly old buffer he must have been," Harold murmured approvingly.
"We shall repeat this explanation to your mother on her return," Stephen went on. "In the meantime, you would be well advised to be discreet."
"Mum's the word, so far as I am concerned," Harold assured them. "Never was one to go blabbing things about."
"We are not altogether satisfied with your work," Stephen continued, "but we wish to encourage you. Your uncle and I have decided to start you now at a reasonable salary. You should have learnt enough of the business to earn it. We shall watch you closely, and if you show no signs of ability or desire to further the interests of the firm, we shall ask your mother to make other arrangements for you. In the meantime, we have opened a salary account for you at the rate of five hundred a year."
Harold was startled, elated and serious, within the next few seconds. He ended on the latter note.
"Now I know where I am," he promised, "I'll earn it. Best thing you could have possibly done for the firm. I am with you now, all the way through."
"We shall be glad to appreciate your more strenuous efforts," Stephen said. "It is your Uncle George Henry's idea that a position of greater responsibility in the firm might induce you to take a serious interest in its affairs. I trust that neither he nor I will be disappointed. We will leave it at that, Harold."
"Certainly," George Henry echoed. "We will leave it at that."
That night the two tenants of number one hundred and nine, Milan Court, moved into their new quarters. They arrived with a moderate amount of luggage of a mediocre description, and dined downstairs in the grillroom in morning clothes, at Harold's suggestion. They spent the remainder of the evening in their sitting room, where they played a game of chess, read The Times, and were, generally speaking, extraordinarily content. At half-past ten the waiter came to pay his final call.
"Is there anything more I can get you, gentlemen?" he asked.
"Nothing, I think," Stephen replied.
The waiter glanced towards the sideboard.
"I could give you some Antiquary whisky, sir," he suggested. "A bottle, if you like, and some soda water."
The brothers exchanged glances.
"It is an excellent idea," Stephen assented. "Certainly, bring a bottle."
The man smiled and departed.
"We are not obliged to drink it, you know," Stephen continued apologetically. "It looks hospitable to have something of the sort on the sideboard."
"I once took some whisky for the toothache," George Henry observed. "I found it rather pleasant."
The waiter brought the bottle and glasses, accepted with gratification a munificent tip, and wished his new patrons a warm good night.
"We will make the experiment," Stephen declared. "I have scarcely, if ever, tasted spirits, but a great deal of whisky seems to be drunk by people who exercise a reasonable care in life."
He mixed two whisky and sodas. They leaned back in their armchairs. In the far-away distance they could just hear the sound of violins from the orchestra, playing in a private supper room. George Henry sipped his whisky and soda—and liked it.
"This is a great change for us, Stephen," he said.
"A very desirable change," Stephen assented. "I have just been to look at our beds. The linen is beautiful. The mattresses are far better than our own. Whoever designed and furnished these rooms was imbued with a wonderful idea of comfort. I do not think that we shall regret Hampstead."
"Or Mrs. Hassall," George Henry murmured. "I do not know whether it has occurred to you, Stephen, but Mrs. Hassall used to treat us as though we were a couple of children. We were never allowed to give orders. We had what we were given, and wore the clothes that were put out for us."
"It was quite time," Stephen declared, with a sigh of content, "that we got rid of Mrs. Hassall."