BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS - CHAPTER I - FRENSHAM'S - PART II

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_ The hansom of Matthew Peel-Swynnerton drew up in front of No. 26,
Victoria Grove, Chelsea; his kit-bag was on the roof of the cab.
The cabman had a red flower in his buttonhole. Matthew leaped out
of the vehicle, holding his straw hat on his head with one hand.
On reaching the pavement he checked himself suddenly and became
carelessly calm. Another straw-hatted and grey-clad figure was
standing at the side-gate of No. 26 in the act of lighting a
cigarette.

"Hello, Matt!" exclaimed the second figure, languidly, and in a
veiled voice due to the fact that he was still holding the match
to the cigarette and puffing. "What's the meaning of all this
fluster? You're just the man I want to see."

He threw away the match with a wave of the arm, and took Matthew's
hand for a moment, blowing a double shaft of smoke through his
nose

"I want to see you, too," said Matthew. "And I've only got a
minute. I'm on my way to Euston. I must catch the twelve-five."

He looked at his friend, and could positively see no feature of it
that was not a feature of Mrs. Scales's face. Also, the elderly
woman held her body in exactly the same way as the young man. It
was entirely disconcerting.

"Have a cigarette," answered Cyril Povey, imperturbably. He was
two years younger than Matthew, from whom he had acquired most of
his vast and intricate knowledge of life and art, with certain
leading notions of deportment; whose pupil indeed he was in all
the things that matter to young men. But he had already surpassed
his professor. He could pretend to be old much more successfully
than Matthew could.

The cabman approvingly watched the ignition of the second
cigarette, and then the cabman pulled out a cigar, and showed his
large, white teeth, as he bit the end off it. The appearance and
manner of his fare, the quality of the kit-bag, and the opening
gestures of the interview between the two young dukes, had put the
cabman in an optimistic mood. He had no apprehensions of miserly
and ungentlemanly conduct by his fare upon the arrival at Euston.
He knew the language of the tilt of a straw hat. And it was a
magnificent day in London. The group of the two elegances
dominated by the perfection of the cabman made a striking tableau
of triumphant masculinity, content with itself, and needing
nothing.

Matthew lightly took Cyril's arm and drew him further down the
street, past the gate leading to the studio (hidden behind a
house) which Cyril rented.

"Look here, my boy," he began, "I've found your aunt."

"Well, that's very nice of you," said Cyril, solemnly. "That's a
friendly act. May I ask what aunt?"

"Mrs. Scales," said Matthew. "You know--"

"Not the--" Cyril's face changed.

"Yes, precisely!" said Matthew, feeling that he was not being
cheated of the legitimate joy caused by making a sensation.
Assuredly he had made a sensation in Victoria Grove.

When he had related the whole story, Cyril said: "Then she doesn't
know you know?"

"I don't think so. No, I'm sure she doesn't. She may guess."

"But how can you be certain you haven't made a mistake? It may be
that--"

"Look here, my boy," Matthew interrupted him. "I've not made any
mistake."

"But you've no proof."

"Proof be damned!" said Matthew, nettled. "I tell you it's HER!"

"Oh! All right! All right! What puzzles me most is what the devil
you were doing in a place like that. According to your description
of it, it must be a--"

"I went there because I was broke," said Matthew.

"Razzle?"

Matthew nodded.

"Pretty stiff, that!" commented Cyril, when Matthew had narrated
the prologue to Frensham's.

"Well, she absolutely swore she never took less than two hundred
francs. And she looked it, too! And she was worth it! I had the
time of my life with that woman. I can tell you one thing--no more
English for me! They simply aren't in it."

"How old was she?"

Matthew reflected judicially. "I should say she was thirty." The
gaze of admiration and envy was upon him. He had the legitimate
joy of making a second sensation. "I'll let you know more about
that when I come back," he added. "I can open your eyes, my
child."

Cyril smiled sheepishly. "Why can't you stay now?" he asked. "I'm
going to take the cast of that Verrall girl's arm this afternoon,
and I know I can't do it alone. And Robson's no good. You're just
the man I want."

"Can't!" said Matthew.

"Well, come into the studio a minute, anyhow."

"Haven't time; I shall miss my train."

"I don't care if you miss forty trains. You must come in. You've
got to see that fountain," Cyril insisted crossly.

Matthew yielded. When they emerged into the street again, after
six minutes of Cyril's savage interest in his own work, Matthew
remembered Mrs. Scales.

"Of course you'll write to your mother?" he said.

"Yes," said Cyril, "I'll write; but if you happen to see her, you
might tell her."

"I will," said Matthew. "Shall you go over to Paris?"

"What! To see Auntie?" He smiled. "I don't know. Depends. If the
mater will fork out all my exes ... it's an idea," he said
lightly, and then without any change of tone, "Naturally, if
you're going to idle about here all morning you aren't likely to
catch the twelve-five."

Matthew got into the cab, while the driver, the stump of a cigar
between his exposed teeth, leaned forward and lifted the reins
away from the tilted straw hat.

"By-the-by, lend me some silver," Matthew demanded. "It's a good
thing I've got my return ticket. I've run it as fine as ever I did
in my life."

Cyril produced eight shillings in silver. Secure in the possession
of these riches, Matthew called to the driver--

"Euston--like hell!"

"Yes, sir," said the driver, calmly.

"Not coming my way I suppose?" Matthew shouted as an afterthought,
just when the cab began to move.

"No. Barber's," Cyril shouted in answer, and waved his hand.

The horse rattled into Fulham Road. _

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