Читать книгу Mr American - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 9

The great theatrical attraction of London in that week, or in that autumn for that matter, was undoubtedly The Whip, a drama of racing and high society which in addition to a highly sensational plot also offered the astonishing spectacles of a rail crash, a pack of hounds on stage, and a thrilling horse race. Unfortunately, as the Waldorf’s porter informed Mr Franklin, it had been booked out for weeks ahead; however, he was able to provide a synopsis from an evening paper of alternative entertainments, and Mr Franklin, having concluded that since Samson had decked him out for the theatre, he might as well go, studied it as his hansom drove west along the Strand.

To his disappointment, there was no Shakespeare available. The only performance of his father’s favourite author he had ever seen had been under canvas at the Tonopah diggings, when a travelling production of Hamlet had been broken up by a crowd of miners outraged at the prince’s cavalier treatment of Ophelia. He would have liked to see Falstaff in the flesh, for his father’s sake; the alternatives were not immediately inviting. Mrs Patrick Campbell in False Gods, and a new play badly entitled Smith, by Mr Somerset Maugham, did not sound interesting; he hesitated over an Arabian Nights comedy, The Brass Bottle, by F. Anstey, passed on to Making a Gentleman, the story of a retired pickle-maker aspiring to a place in society, decided it was a thought too close to home for comfort, and considered The Great Divide, a drama about three men in the backwoods gambling for possession of a girl. Understandably, it did not attract him, and he was left to choose between Miss Lily Elsie in The Dollar Princess, and a variety bill at the Oxford.

On the cab driver’s recommendation he settled for the latter, and sat gravely in the middle of an uproarious audience who revelled in the drolleries of a sad-looking man in a bowler hat called George Robey; Mr Franklin found the accent and topicalities equally confusing. The popularity of the other star attraction on the bill he found much easier to understand; the fish-netted thighs and voluptuous figure of Miss Marie Lloyd, swaying suggestively across the stage, brought uproar and a chorus of whistles which almost drowned out her stentorian rendering of “Yip-aye-addy-aye-ai”. She followed it with a ballad whose unabashed ribaldry was rapturously received; Mr Franklin, although not shocked, was mildly surprised that London should accept gleefully innuendoes which would have been regarded as out of place in some saloons he had known. What interested him most, however, was the tumultuous enthusiasm which greeted the rendering of a song, apparently an old favourite, anent the German Emperor and his naval ambitions:

His friends assert he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

But he’s building ships of war

What does he want ’em for?

They’ll all be ours by and by!

It was by two young writers unknown to Mr Franklin, an American named Kern and an Englishman called Wodehouse; hearing the chorus taken up by the audience with patriotic abandon, he recalled the dire prophecies of his companion of the railway train.

When the show had thundered to its brassy finale, Mr Franklin made his way to the theatre steps and paused among the dispersing, high-spirited audience, wondering, for the first time since he had come to England, what he should do next. He had spent a busy day; he had, thanks to Samson, experienced a London theatre, and been slightly surfeited by brilliant lights, heady, swinging music, and half-understood jokes and choruses; now he had time on his hands. As he hesitated on the steps, he felt perhaps just a touch of what every stranger to London, in any age, must feel: that consciousness of being alone in the multitude. It did not trouble him; he was only a little tired, but content, and presently he would feel hungry. Until then, he would walk and take in the sights, and at that he set off along the pavement, hat and cane in one hand, stepping briskly – to the chagrin of several bright-eyed and exotically-dressed ladies skirmishing in the foyer, who had simultaneously noted his diamond and silver studs, his hesitation, and his solitary condition, and had been sauntering purposefully towards him from various directions. Disappointed, they wheeled away gracefully like high-heeled, feathered galleons, while Mr Franklin, unaware of his escape, walked on where his feet led him, taking in the sights and sounds and wondering vaguely where he was, exactly.

It seemed to him, as he walked, that this section of London was one vast theatre – everywhere there were canopies with their myriad electric bulbs, names in lights, huge posters, and audiences escaping into the open air, laughing and surging out in quest of cabs and taxis. To escape the crowds, he turned into a less-congested side street, and found himself confronting a stout little old woman, surrounded by flower baskets, soliciting his custom.

“Posy fer the lady, sir. Boo-kays an’ posies. W’ite ’eather fer luck, sir. Buy a posy.”

Instinctively he reached for a coin, smiling; he did not want flowers, but he was in that relaxed, easy state which is easily imposed on. As it happened, the coin he held out was a florin, and before he knew it he was grasping a massive bunch of blooms, and the grateful vendor was calling down luck, blessings, and good health on his head. He was on the point of suggesting an exchange for something smaller, but another customer had arrived, so Mr Franklin shrugged ruefully and walked on, examining his trophy, vaguely aware that just ahead of him, in that unpromising side-street, with its dust-bins and littered gutters, some activity was taking place round a lighted doorway.

His glance took in several couples, men dressed like himself, each with a girl on his arm, laughing and chattering as they moved away towards the main street; he was abreast of the doorway when a young woman came tripping out and almost collided with him. Mr Franklin stepped back, starting to apologize; the young woman looked right and left and straight at him; her glance went to the flowers in his hand, she smiled radiantly, then looked more closely at the bouquet, and regarded him with astonishment.

“Where did you get those, then?” she demanded.

“I beg your pardon?” Mr Franklin, nonplussed, looked from her to the flowers. “Why – from the old woman – along there.”

“You never!” She found it incredible. “Well, you’re a fine one, I must say!”

For a moment Mr Franklin, recalling his encounter with the suffragette the previous night, wondered if all Englishwomen were mad, or at least eccentric. This one looked sane enough – not only sane, in fact, but beautiful. Or if not beautiful, perhaps, then quite strikingly pretty. She was small, with bright blonde hair piled on top of her neat little head to give her added height; the face beneath was a perfect oval with pert nose, dimpled chin, and vivid blue eyes – one of them unfortunately had a slight squint, and Mr Franklin instinctively dropped his glance, taking in instead the hour-glass figure in the glittering white evening dress beneath the fur cape. Altogether, she was something of a vision in that grimy back street – a slightly professional vision, though, with her carefully made-up complexion and bosom rather over-exposed even by the generous Edwardian standard.

“You buy flowers from a florist, dear,” she said, regarding him with something between laughter and indignation, “not from street-hawkers. Not for me, anyway.”

Mr Franklin stiffened. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I didn’t buy flowers for –”

“Here!” exclaimed the young woman. “Aren’t you from Box 2A?”

“No,” said Mr Franklin firmly. “I’m not. Not lately.”

“This isn’t your card?” And she held up a rectangle of pasteboard on which some message, indecipherable in that faint light, was scrawled. He shook his head.

“Well!” she exclaimed in some vexation. “I was sure you were him. Where the hell is he, then?”

Mr Franklin automatically looked round; certain there was no one else waiting. Behind her two other girls, in the same theatrical finery, were emerging from the doorway. For the first time he realized that the light overhead shone from within an iron frame reading “Stage Door”, and understanding dawned.

“Oh, damn!” said the blonde. “Another one with cold feet! Honestly, it makes you sick. They get all feverish, watching you on stage, and then at the last minute they remember mama, all worried about her wandering boy, and leave you flat.” She pouted, tore up the card, shrugged, and regarded Mr Franklin ruefully. “Who were you waiting for, then – Elsie, is it? She’ll be out in a minute. I say, Glad,” she said over her shoulder, “he isn’t from 2A after all.”

“Shame.” Glad, a dark, languorous beauty, looked Mr Franklin up and down regretfully. “Elsie has all the luck. “Night, Pip.” She and her companion sauntered off, and Mr Franklin, conscious that he was at a rather ridiculous disadvantage, was about to withdraw with what dignity he could, when the small blonde snorted indignantly.

“Of all the rotten tricks! D’you know, I haven’t been stood up since I was in the chorus? Brewster’s Millions, that was – and just as well, really; I think he was married –”

“I’m afraid –”

“’Course, in the chorus, you learn to expect it – now and then. But when you get out in front – well, when you have a solo, and if you’ve got any kind of figure at all – and I have, no mistake about it – well, you don’t get billings as ‘The Pocket Venus’ if you haven’t, do you? Huh! Of all the disky beasts! Blow him – whoever he was. I could have done with dinner at the Troc., too,” she added wistfully. “Hold on, I’ll see what’s keeping Elsie. Won’t be a sec.”

“Just a minute!” Mr Franklin spoke sharply, and the blonde checked, startled. “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not waiting for Elsie. In fact, I’m not waiting for anyone. I bought these flowers by chance –”

“You’re an American,” said the blonde, smiling brilliantly. “Well, I never!”

“I’m sorry if you were disappointed,” Franklin went on. “But you see—”

“Hold on a shake.” She was considering him, head on one side. She descended the step, still smiling, but with less animation than before. “I think you are the fellow from 2A, aren’t you? And you did send round the card, asking me to dinner at the Troc, didn’t you?”

“I assure you –”

“And then you saw me, close to. And I’ve got a squint. Wasn’t that it?” There was a curl of bitterness at the corner of the pretty mouth. “It’s my damned squint, isn’t it?”

Mr Franklin stood for a moment in silence. He was a level-tempered man, but he had found the last few minutes uncomfortable. He had felt momentarily bewildered, and then slightly foolish, and he was not used to either. The fact that the situation should have been amusing, or that most men would have seen it as an opportunity to further acquaintance with this unusually attractive girl, only increased his natural reserve. And now it was not amusing at all. He found himself at a loss, holding a bunch of flowers (something he had not done since childhood, if then) being reproached by a creature who was apparently preparing to feel aggrieved, through no fault of his. It was new to him, and he must take thought how to deal with it.

“No,” he said at last. “You’re quite wrong. I wasn’t waiting for you, or anyone. I said so. And I didn’t even notice if you had … a squint,” he lied. “I still don’t. And if I did, it wouldn’t make any difference – if I had been waiting for you, I mean.” For Mr Franklin, this was positively garrulous, but in this novel and disturbing situation he felt that frontier chivalry demanded something more. “You’re a remarkably beautiful girl, and anyone who saw you on the stage would be even more … impressed, when he met you. I’m sorry your friend didn’t turn up.”

He stepped back, intending to say good-night and go, but the blonde was regarding him with quizzical amusement.

“My,” she said, “you aren’t half solemn. Look, it’s all right, really. If you’re waiting for Elsie, I’ll be gone in a –”

“I am not waiting for Elsie,” said Mr Franklin emphatically.

“Well, the flowers, I mean … it looks odd. And if you are the chap from Box 2A – well, I don’t mean about the squint, but some fellows really do get quite nervous, you know, and change –”

“And I’m not from Box 2A. I’ve never even been in this theatre –”

“You mean you haven’t seen me singing ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots”? That’s my number, you know – a bit vulgar, but if you’ve got a shape for tights, why, that’s what they give you – and it hasn’t done Marie Lloyd any harm, has it? Are you married – is that it?” she asked speculatively.

“No,” said Mr Franklin patiently, “I’m not.”

“Well, then, that’s all right!” she said cheerfully. “Neither am I. And here we are – I’ve been stood up, and I’m starving – and you’re an American visitor, from the wild and woolly west, seeing the sights of London – you are, aren’t you? Well, then, you can’t go home to … to New York, or wherever it is, and say you missed the chance of taking a musical comedy star to supper in a fashionable restaurant – I don’t know about the Troc., though – I had a bad oyster there last time – but there’s the Cri.; no, that’s getting a bit common. Or there’s Gatti’s, that would do.” She smiled winningly at the silent American. “Well – don’t look so worried! It’s only a dinner – and it’s your own fault, anyway, promenading outside stage doors with bunches of flowers – a likely story! Give ’em here,” and she took the bunch of flowers, surveyed them critically, and dropped them on the pavement. “Now, then,” she put a gloved hand on Mr Franklin’s arm. “Where you going to take me?”

Mr Franklin understood that he was being made the victim of a most practised opportunist, but there was little that he could do about it – or, on reflection, that he wanted to do about it. She was a remarkably good-looking girl, and with all his reserve, he was human. However, it was not in him to capitulate informally; he looked down at her, the dark face thoughtful, and finally nodded.

“Very well. May I take you to supper, Miss …?”

“Delys. Miss Priscilla Delys, of the Folies Satire,” and she dropped him a little mock curtsey. “Enchanted to accept your gracious invitation, Mr …?”

“Franklin. Mark J. Franklin.” He found himself smiling down at her.

“Why have all Americans got a middle initial? You know, like Hiram J. Crinkle? Mind you, I’m one to talk – it’s not really Delys – it’s Sidebotham, but when you sing numbers like ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots’” you need all the style you can get. Priscilla’s real, though – Pip, for short. Come on, let’s get a taxi.”

Without any clear idea of how he got there, Mr Franklin found himself on the main street again, surveying the post-theatre bedlam in the vain hope of spotting an empty cab. But Miss Delys was equal to the occasion; she stepped daintily to the edge of the pavement, removed a glove, inserted two fingers in her mouth, and let out a piercing whistle, followed by a shrill cry of “Oi, Clarence!” A taxi swung into the kerb as though by magic, Miss Delys smiled right and left as heads turned, some obviously in recognition, said “Monico’s, Ginger,” to the driver, and seated herself regally, followed by a diffident but grateful Mr Franklin.

He was still collecting his thoughts as they sped towards the restaurant, which was just as well, since Pip Delys talked non-stop. He learned, in short order, of her career in the chorus of Brewster’s Millions, of her brief sojourn at the Gaiety, and of her emergence as third principal at the Folies Satire, where she hoped for even greater things, “’cos Jenny Slater, who’s second, is sure to go into panto somewhere this season, as principal boy – she’s got the thighs for it, you see, like sides of bacon – an’ Elsie Chappell can’t last much longer – stuck-up cow, just ’cos she started in the chorus at the Savoy – well, I mean, that was back before the Flood, practically, not that she hasn’t got a good voice, ’cos she has, but she’s getting on – must be thirty if she’s a day, and dances like an ostrich.” Miss Delys giggled happily, and Mr Franklin took the opportunity to wonder if thirty was so old, after all.

“Well, I’m twenty-three,” said Pip seriously. “Twenty-three, professionally, that is. I’m twenty, really, but I’ve been in the business five years, and you daren’t tell ’em you’re just fifteen, you see. Anyway, I’ve always been plump enough, but I’m small, that’s the trouble – you’ve got to be tall, really, to be a principal – but I make up for it with bounce and bubble – that’s what Mr Edwardes used to say. Here we are – the Monico. All right, Ginger –” she tapped the driver on the shoulder – “double or quits.”

The driver, who was elderly and had no vestige of hair, ginger or otherwise, sighed heavily and glanced at Mr Franklin, who was producing change. Pip snatched a coin from him, spun it and clapped it deftly on her gloved wrist. “’Eads,” said the driver hopefully, and she crowed with delight. “Too bad, Ginge – it’s tails. Better luck next time,” and she skipped out onto the stained velvet carpet which covered the Monico pavement, leaving Mr Franklin to present a tip which more than covered the lost fare.

Within, Monico’s was a glaze of crystal and gilt, with a small covey of flunkeys greeting Miss Delys by name, removing her wrap, and bowing obsequiously to Mr Franklin. It was at this point he recalled a name, supplied by Samson, and felt himself obliged to mention it.

“I’d like to speak to Maurice,” he told the nearest minion, a small Italian who looked puzzled and repeated: “Morris, sir? Ah – Morrees, but of course.” Pip raised a questioning brow.

“What’s that, then? I thought you were a stranger. Never mind, Renzo – table for two on the balcony, for champagne, and a supper-room afterwards.” To Mr Franklin she went on archly: “How d’you know the head-waiter’s name, straight from the backwoods? I can see you’ll need an eye kept on you – flowers at the stage door, too. Well, well! You’re a dark horse.”

He explained, as they were conducted to their table by the balcony rail, that the name had been learned accidentally, but Pip was too occupied to listen; she was making her entrance, keeping an eye cocked and a profile turned for theatrical managers, calling and waving brightly to acquaintances, keeping up a running fire of comment while the champagne was poured, and pausing only to take an appraising sip.

“Not bad for a tanner a glass,” was her verdict, and Mr Franklin, who had tasted French champagne for the first time on the Mauretania, would not have presumed to argue. Privately, he thought it an overrated drink, but he was content to sip while his companion prattled, and watch the well-dressed throng in the dining room below.

“Thin house tonight,” was how Pip described it. “’Course, it’s early yet; there’ll be more later.” Mr Franklin remarked that so far as he could see, every table was full, and Pip clicked impatiently.

“I mean real people, silly – celebrities. They’re nobodies –” and she dismissed the assembly with an airy wave. “Let’s see, though – there’s one or two – see, over there, that dark lady with the pearls, beside the chap with whiskers? Mrs Pat Campbell, that is – you’ve heard of her. They reckon she’s a great actress – in all them grisly plays by Henry Gibson, or whatever his name is. She’s got a new play now, at Her Majesty’s, but I heard tell it was a stinker. False Gods, I ask you!” Pip rolled her eyes and pronounced in a strangled contralto: “‘Desmond, our ways must part – forevah! Yah touch defiles me!’ Honest, that’s the sort of thing they put on – well, how can that run against revues and variety and niggers singing in the bioscope?”

She drained her glass, and twitched at the sleeve of a passing waiter. “Menus, Dodger – I’m peckish.” She suddenly put her forearms on the table and leaned across towards him, smiling impishly, but with a hint of apology. “I’m sorry – I’m dead common, aren’t I? Chivvying waiters and taxi-drivers, shouting out and making an exhibition of myself. Aren’t you ashamed? Sorry you came? But it’s the way I’m made – and being in the show business, you see. I’m just a Cockney sparrow – well, you can tell by the accent. And I squint, too.”

Mr Franklin was spared a gallant denial by the arrival of the menus, imposing documents of several pages in ornate script, most of it in French. Pip seized on hers with satisfaction.

“Oysters! Say a couple of dozen between us? I love oysters – prob’ly comes of having a father in the fish business.”

“He keeps a shop?” said Mr Franklin, idly scanning his menu.

“He had a barrow. Jellied eels and whelks – but you won’t know about those, I guess. He’s retired now. Rheumatism – and rum, too, if you ask me. Poor old Dad. Here –” she suddenly lowered her menu and regarded him seriously “– you all right for a fiver, are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you got five quid? – let’s see, that’s twenty-five dollars, your money. ’cos that’s what this’ll cost you, including our private room. Well, we could eat out here, but nobody does who’s anybody in the theatre – and then we could get away for three quid, if you’re stretched.”

“If your standing in the theatre is at stake,” said Mr Franklin gravely, “I think I could manage five pounds without embarrassment.”

“You’re sure?” The pretty face under the blonde tresses was earnest, and Mr Franklin found himself liking this girl a great deal. “’cos if you’re not – we can go dutch, you know. That’s fifty-fifty. Oh, stop grinning like that – “ Mr Franklin realized that he had been smiling at her with pure pleasure. “Just for that, I’ll have the consommé, the salmon stuffed with shrimps in champagne sauce – let’s see, the veal cutlets, the pheasant – and we’ll see about pudding after. That’ll take care of your fiver, all right …”

Five pounds at the Monico … ten cents at Yancy’s if you hadn’t any grub of your own to bring … eggs at a dollar apiece when the boom was at its height at Tonopah … the Indian girl baking bread at Hole-in-the-Wall, and Sundance Harry Longbaugh burning his fingers on the crust … tortillas and flapjacks, and his father frying bacon and corn that morning after the Battle of Shrewsbury on the El Paso road … “No beef this trip, son … ‘I am a great eater of beef, and I believe it does harm to my wit’” … the old man saying grace over the frying-pan … salmon and shrimps in champagne sauce … that steak and fried onions at the Bella Union, with the tin plate on his knees as he sat on the trunk watching the door, looking over a balcony rail just like this one, but instead of the orderly parties of diners in their evening finery, eating off china and crystal and snowy cloths, with waiters hovering – instead of that, the huge crowded bar-room of the big bonanza time, with bearded, booted miners capering on the tables with the sluts, yelling and sprawling and smashing furniture while the fiddlers on the stage scraped out, “Hurrah, boys, hurrah!” and the long bar was three-deep with drinkers, awash with beer and red-eye, while he finished his steak, touching the hilt of his Remington every so often as his eyes ranged over the inferno of celebration, looking for the Kid and his gang, and old Davis snoring drunk on the bed with his britches round his ankles… and he had sat through that thundering, boozing, carousing night on the tin trunk, drinking coffee with his back to the wall, shaking his head at the brown girl with smoky eyes in the red silk dress, and she had tossed her head and spat in disappointment and left him to his determined vigil in the brawling, bawling Bella Union, with a fortune in silver six inches beneath his pants-seat….

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying, have you?” Pip was laughing at him across the table. “Where were you? Renzo wants to know if you want Bordeaux or Burgundy – unless you want to carry on with the bubbly?”

Of course they continued with the champagne, and as they ate their splendid dinner in the velvet-lined little private cabinet on the second floor, Mr Franklin wondered if it was the working of the wine that made him enjoy himself more and more with each passing minute. No, to be fair, he decided, it was Pip herself; she was merry and animated and full of gossip, about the theatre, and herself, and her eccentric parents and their large family, who appeared to live on laughter and a portion of her earnings, and about London, which was all the world to her, and her ambitions, which consisted simply of being the Queen of Musical Comedy some day, and strutting the boards of the West End, singing the latest rude songs, having hosts of admirers waiting at the stage door, preferably in carriages with crests – and marrying one of the richest and most noble of them? wondered Mr Franklin.

“No,” said Pip, and sighed. “I’m not the kind they marry. Oh, plenty from the chorus finish up as My Lady – they say half the heirs to the Lords married Gaiety Girls, and it’s not far wrong. But I like the theatre, you see – couldn’t be happy away from it, and all the noise and chat and fun. I couldn’t give that up. Can’t see me in a stately home, dishing out tea – not while there’s curtains going up and orchestras playing my cue.” She laughed. “I’m just a shameless, painted hussy of the variety stage – common as dirt and glad of it. You have to be, if you want to get to the top of my trade – look at Marie Lloyd, she’s no lady, but she’ll be topping the bill until she drops, no matter how fat she gets. Maybe I’ve got a little of what she’s got – not just the voice, and the figure, and the cheek, but – well, you know, it’s how you put it over. If I’ve got it, then I’ll go on until I drop, too – and if I haven’t, I’ll prob’ly finish up married to some sobersides in Ealing, if I’m lucky, with six kids and a couple of maids.” She chuckled happily. “Sing ’em ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots’” at the church social, too. Meantime, I’m enjoying myself, so who cares? Anyway,” and she stretched a hand across and patted Mr Franklin on the arm, “I’m fed up talking about me, and you must be, too. What about you, Mr American? You’ve just sat all evening, very polite and quiet, listening to me gassing on and on and on, and you haven’t said a word about little ole New York, or Redskins, or anything.” She pushed her plate aside, put her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and smiled eagerly. “I’m listening.”

It took him by surprise – but what was even more surprising was that he found himself responding. Later, he was to reflect that in all his life he had hardly ever talked about himself – certainly not to a stranger, and that stranger a woman. Perhaps it was the novelty or, he was prepared to admit, that he was under the spell of that lively beauty hanging on his every word. It did not occur to him that Miss Pip Delys, the professional performer, could be as skilled a listener as she was a prattler. In any event, he found himself talking – about half-remembered Nebraska, and about the time of wandering, with his itinerant schoolmaster father, from one small settlement to another – “I don’t even remember their names, just the wall-paper in the rooming-houses where we stayed; one or two of them didn’t have wallpaper” – and later, the brief years as ranch-hand, railroad ganger, timber-jack, miner, and transient on the dwindling frontier; it was a fairly bald recital, and far from satisfying Pip’s curiosity, which was evidently well-grounded in comic papers and Colonel Cody’s Wild West Show.

“Weren’t you ever a cowboy, with them hearth-rug things on your legs? Didn’t you have to fight Indians, or rustlers? You must have had a six-gun, surely …?”

“Yes, I was a cowboy,” he said, smiling. “Anyway, I worked with cattle – it isn’t all that fun. No, I didn’t fight Indians, or rustlers – there aren’t really many of them about, nowadays. A six-shooter? Yes – mostly for scaring prairie dogs.” There was no point in telling her of that night of waiting at the Bella Union for the Kid and his cronies. But it was in his mind when she asked her next question.

“Outlaws? Now, why on earth should I know any such people? D’you think America’s peopled by bandits and pistoleers? You’ve been reading dime novels.”

“Well, you can’t say there aren’t any!” said Pip indignantly. “I mean, it didn’t get called the Wild West for nothing, did it? Why, I don’t suppose we’ve had an outlaw in England since … oh, since Robin Hood. I just thought – if you’d been a cowboy –”

“That I might have been a road agent myself, on the side? Texas Tommy, with pistols stuck in a crimson sash and a big sombrero?”

This sent her into peals of delight. “Course not! Though you could look the part, you know – you really could! Specially when you come all over grim and thoughtful – like when you were thinking, faraway, down on the balcony. Made me all goose-pimply.” She shuddered deliciously. “You might have been planning to rob the stage to Cactus Gulch, or –”

“You’ve got a real theatrical imagination, I’ll say that for you.” He shook his head. “If you must know, I’ve seen outlaws, one or two – and they look pretty much like anyone else, only a bit more in need of a bath. Matter of fact, my old mining partner, Pop Davis – he’d been outside the law in his time, I guess. But you wouldn’t have thought much of him – looked just like any old tramp. He was all right, though. Good partner.”

“But the other ones,” she insisted. “You said one or two – what were they like?”

“Oh, just ordinary fellows; nothing very romantic, I’m afraid. And yet – I don’t know. You’d have liked Big Ben Kilpatrick, I guess – very tall, good-looking; and Cassidy, too – he must have been the politest brigand that ever was, and quite presentable when shaved. Ever hear of them?” She shook her head, wistfully. “Well, they’re the best I can do for you – and I couldn’t claim more than nodding acquaintance. Old Davis and I stayed with them once for a spell, at a place called Hole-in-the – Wall; he’d once been teamed up with one of Kilpatrick’s gang –”

“Hole-in-the-Wall! You’re making it up!”

“That’s what it was called. And they called themselves the Wild Bunch, if you like. Not so wild, either; they’d robbed a train or two, I guess, but didn’t make much of it. Pretty harmless outlaws, I reckon.” He picked up the menu. “Most of them. Anyway, what are you going to eat for dessert?”

“Oh, never mind that! I want to hear about the Bad Bunch – and the ones who weren’t pretty harmless!”

“Well, you’re not going to – or you’ll wind up with the idea that I’m some sort of crook myself. And I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” said Pip, dutifully consulting her menu. “You’re a very respectable cowboy, visiting England, wearing silver and diamond cuff-links and studs, and dining in a swish restaurant, as visiting cowboys always do.” She stole a glance at him over the top of the menu. “I’m real cheeky, aren’t I? And it’s none of my business, is it? All right, I’ll keep quiet.”

“I doubt it,” said Mr Franklin drily. “I’d just like you to understand that this dinner is not going to be paid for out of the loot from the … the Cactus Gulch stage-coach. You’re eating the result of a lot of hard, dirty, very ordinary digging in the earth, and an old man’s crazy hunch, and a great deal of luck. Now, what –”

“Ooh!” Her eyes were wide. “You mean you struck it rich!”

“Crepes Suzette,” read Mr Franklin. “Bombe Caligula, whatever that is; Poire Belle Hélène; Macedoine à la duchesse –”

“Mean thing! I just wondered … right-ho, then, I’ll have trifle and a double helping of whipped cream. But you might tell a fellow …”

But Mr Franklin felt he had said enough for one evening, and when Pip had worked her way through a mountainous trifle, and coffee was served, their talk returned to normal channels – in other words, the theatre, and the possibility that she might play Dandini in the forthcoming Gaiety pantomime, but then she might find herself replaced at the Folies, and it was a good billet, with excellent prospects, but Dandini would pay at least an extra pound a week … Mr Franklin smoked a cigar, and nodded attentively, and presently, when the waiter presented the bill, Pip rose and stretched and sauntered in behind the crimson curtain which screened off a small alcove at the back of the supper-room. Mr Franklin paid, and added a handsome tip, and smoked for a few moments more before he began to wonder idly what she was doing. At that moment there came a soft whistle from behind the curtain; he rose, slightly startled, and going across, pulled the curtain aside. There he stopped, stock-still.

The third principal of the Folies Satire had piled her clothing neatly on a chair, all except her stockings, and was reclining on a large couch which filled most of the alcove, observing herself with approval in a large overhead mirror, and humming softly. She glanced at Mr Franklin, smiled brightly, and asked:

“Did you bolt the door?”

“My God,” said Mr Franklin, and then paused. He turned away, put his cigar in an ash-tray, and returned to the alcove, looking down at her.

“Pip,” he said, “you don’t have to, you know.”

Pip stopped in the act of smoothing her stockings. “Course I don’t,” she said, and winked at him. “But I’d rather. Here,” and she patted the couch beside her, “come and sit down. You make me feel all girlish, standing there.”

Mr Franklin frowned. Then, in response to her outstretched hand, he came to the couch and sat down, looking at her steadily.

“I don’t,” he began, and paused before adding: “I just brought you out to supper, Pip.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Pip. “I brought you. And it wasn’t just for supper, Mr American.” She slipped her arms round his neck and pulled his face down to hers, parting her lips and flickering her tongue at him. “You don’t get off that lightly.” She kissed him, slowly at first, then very deeply and lingeringly before drawing her lips away. “Are you looking at my damned squint again?”

A rather dazed Mr Franklin shook his head. “Good,” murmured Pip, “now you’d really better go and bolt the door, so we won’t have any distractions. I want to enjoy myself.”

Which she did, so far as Mr Franklin could judge, for the next twenty minutes, at the end of which time she lay very still, panting moistly into the pillow until she had recovered her breath, when she observed that that was better than working, or standing in the rain.

“Aren’t you glad you bought that bunch of flowers, then?” she added, and Mr Franklin admitted, huskily, that it had been a most fortunate chance. She nodded happily, running her fingers idly up and down his naked back while she studied her reflection overhead.

“I’m losing weight … I think. Here, any more of that champagne left? Oh, good, I need it, I can tell you! Talk about the Wild Bunch – you’re a bit wild yourself, aren’t you, though? Hey – you’re not getting dressed! The idea!”

In fact, it was after two o’clock in the morning before Pip sighed regretfully that she supposed they had better call it a night, because Renzo would be wanting to get to bed, and a relieved but contented Mr Franklin agreed. He was, to tell the truth, rather shaken, and not a little puzzled by the events of the evening, as appeared when they were preparing to leave the supper-room, and Pip was making final, invisible adjustments to a coiffure which had miraculously remained undisturbed through all the hectic activity in the alcove. Mr Franklin in the background, was contemplating his hat and gloves thoughtfully; Pip observed him in her hand-mirror.

“Don’t reach for your note-case, or I might get offended,” she said and as his head came up she turned, smiling, and shook her head at him. “You were going to, weren’t you?”

Mr Franklin cleared his throat. “I wasn’t certain.”

“You don’t give money to actresses,” said Pip, gravely, and kissed him on the nose, giggling at his perplexity. “Don’t you understand, darling? – I do it ’cos I like doing it. With the right one. Girls enjoy it, too, you know, spite of what you hear. You didn’t stand a chance, from the minute I saw you outside the stage door, you poor silly! No, you’re not, either – you’re a nice American, and it’s been a beautiful evening, and I just wish it could have gone on and on.”

“So do I,” said Mr Franklin. “Perhaps another –”

“Careful,” said Pip. “It might get to be a habit.” She frowned, and dropped her voice: “You don’t have to, you know,” and they both laughed. Then she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him again, stretching up on tip-toe before subsiding breathlessly. “That’s enough of that – Renzo’s got to get to bed sometime.”

They went down to the street through the restaurant, where the lights had been turned down, and Pip called “‘Night, Renzo” to the darkened dining-room. Mr Franklin hailed a growler, and they clopped slowly down to Chelsea, where Pip had a room. “Next rise I get, it’ll be Belgravia, and chance it,” she confided. “Mind you, many more dinners like tonight, and I’ll get so tubby I’ll be bloody lucky if I can afford Poplar.”

Mr Franklin thought for a moment, and asked: “Aren’t there lots of dinners like tonight’s?” She turned to look at him in the dimness of the cab, and he heard her chuckle.

“Lots of dinners,” she said. “All the time. But not many like tonight. So you needn’t be jealous.”

He handed her out on the corner. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he was beginning. “I mean, I wish I could express my appreciation …”

“Oh, you know,” she shrugged. “Diamond bracelet to the stage door – couple of emerald earrings. Any little trinket your lordship happens to have lying around spare.” She giggled again and pecked his cheek. “Don’t be so soft. Tell you what – pay your money at the box-office some night and watch my solo. Then you’ll have done your bit.” Her gloved hand touched his cheek. “’Night, Mr American.”

Her heels clicked on the pavement, the white figure faded into the gloom, humming happily:

Boiled beef an’ carrots,

Boiled beef an’ carrots!

That’s the stuff for your derby kell …

Mr Franklin sighed, climbed into the growler, and was driven back to the Waldorf.