He had a little house in Philip's neighbourhood, that was the envy of all who were privileged to enter its doors. Women thought it impudence of a man to dare to install himself thus, and so prove _urbi et orbi_ that it is not absolutely necessary to have a woman under one's roof to enjoy the most perfect comfort. And yet, when asked why Lorimer did not marry, all that women had to say, was, "No inclination, I suppose."

Women adore parties given by bachelors. They went in crowds, when Lorimer asked them to an "At home" or a garden-party. They took free advantage of the permission he gave them to wander over the house, and examined all its corners. Every bachelor's house interests women and arouses their curiosity. They pried into every nook and cranny, in the hope of bringing to light a mystery, perchance some woman's portrait--Heaven knows what, perhaps a hairpin on the carpet. Wherever they looked, everything was ease, comfort, and liberty; and they arrived at the conclusion, that one may be a bachelor and yet live happily, but consoled themselves with the thought that n.o.body has found the way to live a bachelor and die happily. Lorimer's house was arranged with taste, in the oriental style. The drawing-room, dining-room, library, and smoking-room formed a delightful suite of rooms.

"You see," said some woman, "nothing but men-servants--a French cook, a German valet: our host must be a woman-hater."

"I do not see that that follows, dear," said another one: "men are more discreet and less gossiping than women, and I warrant that this house has been the scene of many an interesting little tete-a-tete."

Each one had her own opinion; none of them really knew anything about it. Lorimer had never given anyone occasion to gossip about him; he was English and a gentleman, therefore discreet. The French boast often of things they have never done; the English never boast of what they do.

The latter are right. Besides, a bachelor, in giving his house a reputation of perfect respectability, can thus invite to it not only his friends, but their wives and daughters.

Lorimer knew all London: the club world, the aristocratic world, the artistic world of Chelsea and St. John's Wood; and at his parties d.u.c.h.esses, actresses, cabinet ministers, painters, writers, actors, and journalists jostled one another.

A friend of men, because of his good-fellowship, frankness, and loyalty; and of women, by reason of his wit, his discretion, and his charming manners, Lorimer was received everywhere with open arms. He could have dined and lunched out every day, if this had been the programme of his existence. On the contrary, he worked hard, went out little, knew everybody, but was the intimate acquaintance of but few, and amongst these were numbered Philip and Dora, whom he liked exceedingly and who interested him intensely.

They sat down in merry mood and did honour to the simple and appetising lunch.

"What a pity you did not turn up a few moments earlier, my dear fellow!"

said Philip to Lorimer. "You would have been edified, and have heard Dora holding forth against wealth. The contempt my wife has for money is sublime. She is of the opinion that art, like virtue, should be its own reward."

"I'm sorry to say it's often the only one art gets," said Lorimer.

"Well, what's your news?"

"Haven't any," said Philip. "Oh yes, though," added he, "Sir Benjamin Pond threatens to pay us a visit to-day ... deuce take him."

"You're in luck; he spends a mint of money in pictures."

"They say he buys them by the dozen."

"Hum," said Lorimer, "by the square yard. He's an awful a.s.s, but his money is as good as that of the cleverest. When I said just now, 'What's your news?' I meant from the workshop."

"My wife's portrait will be finished in an hour's time; you shall see it after lunch."

"And what will you call it?"

"Oh, simply, 'Portrait of Mrs. Grantham,' or perhaps, 'A Bunch of Pansies.'"

"'A Bunch of Pansies,' that's charming," said Lorimer; "I should like to have a t.i.tle like that for my new play, as simple" ...

"Oh, by-the-bye, how about your play, is it getting on?"

"It's finished, my dear fellow. I have the ma.n.u.script with me. I have to read it to the company at the Queen's Theatre to-day at four o'clock."

"Are you pleased with it?"

"My dear friend, when a man has the artistic temperament, his work never realises his ideal--but, thank goodness, when I have finished a play, I think of nothing but--the next one."

"You are right--but, still, with your experience--you have been writing plays for years."

"I wrote my first play when I was seventeen," said Lorimer, drawing himself up in a comic manner.

"When you were seventeen?" exclaimed Dora.

"Yes! a melodrama, and what a melodrama it was!--blood-curdling, weird, terrible, human, fiendish. I portrayed crime, perfidy and lying triumphing for a while, but overtaken in the long-run by fatal chastis.e.m.e.nt."

"And was the piece produced?" interrupted Dora.

"It was read," answered Lorimer. "I received a very encouraging letter from the manager of the theatre. My play, it appeared, showed a deplorable ignorance of stagecraft, but was well written and full of fine and well-conceived situations. However, horrors followed one another so closely that it was to be feared that the audience would scarcely have time to draw breath and dry their tears. Finally, the letter terminated with a piece of good advice. This was, in the future, not to kill all my _dramatis personae_, so that, at the fall of the curtain, there might be someone left alive, to announce the name of the author, and bring him forward!"

"It was most encouraging," said Dora, in fits of laughter.

"That is not all," added Lorimer; "I received, a month later, an invitation to a dinner given by the Society of Dramatic Authors, and found myself amongst the leading authors and actors of the day."

"You must have been proud," said Dora.

"Proud, my dear madam," said Lorimer; "if you would form an idea of what I felt, try to imagine a little shepherd of Boeotia asked to dine with Jupiter, to meet all the G.o.ds of Olympus."

"Now, come, tell us about your new play," said Philip.

"Oh, well, you know, I hope it will be a success, but you never know what will please the great B.P. The dialogue is good, the characters are interesting, the situations are strong without being vulgar, the idea is new ... yes, I must say, I am sanguine."

"Bravo!" said Philip, "the theme is original."

"Perfectly original," said Lorimer. "I don't adapt Parisian plays for the _Pharisian_ stage."

"It must be enchanting," cried Dora, "to see one's own creations in flesh and blood ... alive!"

"Yes, for one month, two months, perhaps six months. The creations of painters last for centuries."

"That is true," said Dora, looking at Philip.

"Shakespeare and Moliere are still being played with success," said Philip.

"Yes, I grant you these two. Human nature is still and always will be what it was in their time. There are no new pa.s.sions, follies, to portray since their time; but against those two names which you cite ...

real demi-G.o.ds ... I could give you two hundred painters and sculptors dating from antiquity down to the present day."

Dora was delighted with the turn the conversation had taken. It seemed to her that Philip no longer enthused over his art, and she tried her utmost to rekindle the sacred fire that threatened to go out. So, encouraging Lorimer to continue in the same strain, she said--

"Yes, you are right. It is painting that expresses all that is beautiful in the world."

"Especially Philip's art," said Lorimer, seeming to grasp Dora's meaning from the warmth with which she spoke. "You paint nature, my dear friend, flowers, portraits ... you do not inflict the nude upon us, as do so many of your brothers in art, who show themselves but poor imitators of the French school, _servum pecus_."

"But nature is surely always beautiful, wherever she is found," said Dora.

"The ideal, yes," said Lorimer; "but it is the realistic method of treatment, in most pictures, that displeases me. Perhaps I am a little puritanical; but what can you expect? I'm English!"

"But there is no ideal nature, there is only true nature," said Dora.

"Call it realism, if you wish: what is real is true, and what is true is beautiful."

"My dear Lorimer," exclaimed Philip, "if you are going to argue out that subject with Dora, you are lost, I warn you. You will get the worst of it."