"Good night, Drexley," he said.

And Drexley, rising to his feet, bowed gravely, looking into the girl's face with a light in his eyes which ever afterwards haunted her when his name was mentioned--a light, half wistful, half kindly. For several minutes after they had left, he sat looking idly at the "bill of fare"

with the same look on his face. There had been no such chance of salvation for him.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE COUNTESS, THE COUSIN, AND THE CRITIC

Out in the streets they paused. A theatre or any place of amus.e.m.e.nt was out of the question, for Cicely dared not stay out later than half-past nine. Then a luminous idea came to Douglas.

"Why on earth shouldn't you come to my rooms?" he asked. "I can give you some decent coffee and read you the first chapter of my novel."

She hesitated, but barely for a moment.

"It sounds delightful," she admitted. "I'll come. Glad to. Isn't it lovely to be in this great city, and to know what freedom is--to do what seems well and hear nothing of that everlasting 'other people say'?"

"It's magnificent," he answered.

He beckoned a hansom, handed her in, and somehow forgot to release her hand. The wheels were rubber-tyred and the springs easy. They glided into the sea of traffic with scarcely a sense of movement.

"Life," he said, "is full of new sensations," holding her fingers a little tighter.

"It is our extreme youth," she murmured, gently but firmly withdrawing them. "In a year's time all this will seem crude to you."

"In a year's time," he answered, looking down at her, suddenly thoughtful, "I will remind you of that speech."

She sighed, but her gravity was only for a moment. She was chattering again gaily by the time they reached the street where Douglas's rooms were. He led her up the stairs, ill-carpeted and narrow. His room had never seemed so small and shabby as when at last they reached it and he threw the door open.

She walked at once to the window. The Houses of Parliament, Westminster, the Thames, were all visible. A hundred lights flashed upon the embankments and across the bridges, away opposite, a revolving series of illuminations proclaimed the surpa.s.sing quality of a well-known whiskey. Westwards, a glow of fire hung over the city from Leicester Square and the theatres. She gazed at it all, fascinated.

"What a wonderful view, Douglas!" she exclaimed. He rose up, hot from his struggles with a refractory lamp, and came to her side. A sound of bubbling and a pleasant smell of coffee proclaimed the result of his labours.

"I have never yet tired of looking at it," he answered. "I have no blind, as you see, and at night I have had my writing-table here and the window open. Listen."

He threw up the sash. A deep, monotonous roar, almost like the incoming tide of the sea, fell upon their ears.

"You hear it," he said. "That is life, that rolling of wheels, the falling of a thousand footsteps upon the pavement, men and women going to their pleasures, the outcasts and the parasites bearing them company.

It is like the sea. It is always there. It is the everbeating pulse of humanity."

He closed the window and led her to an easy chair.

"Cissy," he said, "do you know, this is what we always talked of, that I should write a story and read it first to you? Do you remember?"

"Yes," she answered softly, "I remember."

"We didn't antic.i.p.ate this." He looked around. "Don't judge me altogether by my surroundings. To tell you the truth, when I started I went too much to the other extreme. I discovered I had made a mistake, so I sold up and found myself in debt. I am earning plenty of money, but I have to economise to get clear. This novel is going to set me straight."

He took some loose pages up in his hand. She looked over his shoulder.

"You haven't improved a bit in your writing," she exclaimed. "Do let me type it for you."

"You shall, with pleasure," he answered. "I believe you're the only person who could read it."

She laughed and took her coffee from him.

"Please light a cigarette," she begged. "I loathe the taste, but the perfume is delightful."

He obeyed her, and she arranged the lamp so that the light fell upon the sheets which he had gathered up into his hand. Then she leaned back in her chair and listened.

"Well?"

She sat up and faced him, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes flashing soft fires.

"There is nothing I can say beyond this," she cried: "it is the sort of book which I always hoped and believed that one day you would write."

"You like it?"

"Like is no word. It is magnificent."

He laughed at her.

"If all my critics were like you."

She sighed.

"I am only afraid of one thing," she said. "When it is finished and published you will be a great man. You will be so far off. I think I wish that it were not quite so clever. It makes me feel lonely."

He came over and sat upon the arm of her chair. She was very sweet, very dainty, very pretty.

"Cissy," he said, "you need never be afraid of that. Whatever might happen in the future, I shall never enjoy an evening more than this one.

It rests with you to say whether we may not have many more."

"With me?"

She looked up at him quickly. From where he sat he could see her bosom rising and falling quickly. Then he started suddenly away--Cicely sat up in terror, grasping the sides of her chair. There was a sharp knock at the closed door.

"Is Mr. Jesson in?" a soft voice asked.

"Who is it?" Douglas cried, in blank amazement.

The door opened, and a woman, in a long opera cloak and rustling skirt gathered up in her hands, glided in. It was the Countess de Reuss.

She stood in a little halo of lamplight, a diamond star flashing in her hair, and her neck ablaze with gems. She was dressed to make her bow presently in the presence of Royalty, her dress _decollete_, her figure superb, her jewels famous throughout the world. Cicely looked at her and gasped--Douglas was speechless. She herself maintained a magnificent composure, although she had, as a matter of fact, received a shock.