Читать книгу The Anxious Days - Philip Gibbs - Страница 9

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Commander Compton took his daughter home from Horridge’s. As the taxi rattled through London at an hour after midnight there were still crowds in the streets and squares, thickest in Piccadilly Circus, where gangs of young men were getting rowdy and groups of girls were singing and cheering in shrill voices. To a man just back from Singapore and other distant places it was all rather astonishing and strange. Once or twice he stared through the window at new buildings which altered the skyline as he had remembered it. The tall mass of masonry above St. James’s Park station, dazzling white through some flood-lighting effect, caught his eye for a moment. Rather good, he thought, but a bit fantastic—and Egyptian. He was more interested in this girl by his side—his daughter, of whom he still felt shy after five years’ absence, when she had developed out of his knowledge.

“So you chucked Aunt Betty?” he remarked.

“Oh yes, Father. I had to save my own soul, you know. She was very kind, I must say, when I came down from Somerville, but I couldn’t waste my young life taking her Chow for a walk and serving tea to South Kensington ladies. Paralysing!”

“Yes, I dare say. What happened about that job in a florist’s shop? You didn’t tell me why you gave it up.”

Madge Compton laughed, and he had an idea that she was blushing slightly.

“Oh, well, that’s a long story. There was a manager who became rather amorous. The situation became—absurd!”

“How do you like this stage career? Doesn’t the same situation arise sometimes for a pretty girl?”

He held her hand and put it to his lips.

“Oh, probably. So far I’ve been with a nice crowd. And, Father, I’m very keen on it. I believe I have the makings of an actress. Quite seriously, I mean. Mr. Keening—that’s a producer I know—says he’s going to give me a chance in a straight play at the Royalty. Isn’t that marvellous?”

Compton agreed that it might be marvellous, but he felt a little dejected about it. If Madge went on acting he wouldn’t see as much of her as he had hoped.

“It sounds good,” he said, keeping the disappointment out of his voice.

They were rattling along the King’s Road, towards Church Street, Chelsea. The street was empty now, except for a few stragglers and a policeman turning his bull’s-eye lantern on to locks and bolts.

“Do you like your rooms, Madge?” asked Compton.

“Yes. They’re rather sweet, Father.”

“And that stable companion of yours? What sort of a girl? Her voice sounded pleasant over the telephone this evening.”

“Oh, Jean is a heroine. Jean Macgregor, with ginger hair and freckles, and all the virtues of the Scotch. She designs the advertisements and looks after my morals, and does the housekeeping. She’s the terror of all the tradespeople—and keeps a crippled brother up in Edinburgh. You’ll love her, Father.”

“She sounds attractive,” said Compton. “I’d like to love her, and I’m glad she looks after your morals!”

“Oh, they need a bit of watching,” said Madge carelessly. “But I give her the slip sometimes.”

He held her hand clasped in his own. He had been a lonely man without love.

“I shall have to get to know you,” he said. “Five years make a difference to a young woman of your age. Glad to have me back, Madge?”

“Delighted,” said Madge. “It’s going to be nice having a father somewhere handy in case of trouble. And here we are at my slum dwelling.”

“Well, good night, my dear. When can I see you—to-morrow?”

He stood with his hat off, waiting for her good-night kiss. It seemed rough on him that he had to go back to a lonely club.

“Oh, come up for half an hour,” said Madge. “It’s quite early yet, and I dare say we can rake out a drop of whisky for you.”

It was nearly half past one, but Compton could not resist this invitation to his daughter’s rooms on the night of his homecoming.