The Hillman

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 179, 19 October 1927, Page 14

The Hillman

Sir

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

CHAPTER XX (Continued) “That may be so,” Graillot confessed. “On© makes mistakes. Let us leave it at that. You are a young man of undeveloped temperament. You may be capable of much which at present I do not find in you.” “Tell me the one quality in which you consider me most lacking,” John begged. “You think that I am narrow. too old-fashioned in my views? Perhaps I am, but. on the other hand. I am very anxious to learn and absorb all that is best in this wider life. You can't really call me prejudiced. I hated the stage before I came to London, but during the last few months no one has been a more assiduous theatregoer. I understand better than I did, and my views are immensely modified. I admit that Louise is a great artist, I admit that she has wonderful talents. I am even willing, if she wished it, to allow her to remain lor a time upon the stage. What could I say more? I want you on my side. Graillot.” “And I,” Graillot replied, as he shook his friend's hand and hurried off, • want only to be on the side that will mean happiness for you both.” He left the room a little abruptly. John walked back to the window, oppressed with a sense of something almost ominous in the Frenchman’s manner, something which he could not fathom, against which he struggled in vain. Side by side with it, there surged into his memory the disquietude which his present relations with Louise had developed. She was always charming when she had any time to spare—sometimes almost affectionate. On the other hand, he was profoundly conscious of her desire to keep him at arm’s length for the present. He had accepted her decision without a murmur. He mad© but few efforts to see her alone, and when they met he made no special claim upon her notice. He was serving his apprenticeship doggedly and faithfully. Vet there were times like- the present when lie found his task both hateful and difficult. He walked aimb-ssly backward and forward, chafing against the restraint of the narrow walls and the low c<il- '! s«-l/.«-d *o fly hack to the hills, wreathed In t a* tnoosfb th' / n>ight b* to struggle % . < > ./ •. »h* blinding tain.

to drink down long gulps of his own purer, less civilised atmosphere. The telephone bell rang. He placed the receiver to his ear almost mechanically. “Who is it?” he asked. “Lady Hilda Mulloch is asking for you, sir,” the hall porter announced. Lady Hilda peered around John’s room through her lorgnette, and did not hestitate to express her dissatisfaction. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “what makes you live in a hotel? Why don’t you take rooms of your own and furnish them? Surroundings like these are destructive to one’s individuality.” “Well, you see,” John explained, as he drew an easy chair up to the fire for his guest, “my stay in London is only a temporary one, and it hasn’t seemed worth while to settle anywhere.” John, at her direct invitation, had called upon her once or twice since their meeting at the opera, and he had found her, from the first, more attractive than any other society woman of his acquaintance. None the less, he was a little taken aback at her present visit. “Exactly why are you here, anyhow?” she demanded. “I feel sure that Eugene told me the reason which had brought you from your wilds, but I have forgotten it.” “For one thing,” John replied, “1 have come because I don’t want to appear prejudiced, and the fact that I had never spent a month in London, or even a week, seemed a little nar-row-minded.” “What’s the real attraction” Lady Hilda asked. “It is a woman, isn’t it?” “I am very fond of a woman who is in London,” John admitted. “Perhaps it is true that I am here on her account.” Lady Hilda withdrew from her muff a gold cigarette case and a little box of matches. “Order some mixed vermuth with lemon for me, please,” she begged. “I have been shopping, and I hate tea. I don’t know why I came to see you. I suddenly thought of it when I was In Bond Street.” “It was very kind of you,” John said. “If I had known that you cared .-ibout seeing me, I would have come to you with pleasure.” ' What does it matter?” she an-

swered. “You are thinking, perhaps, that I risk my reputation in coming to a young man’s rooms? Those things do not count for me. Ever since I was a child I have done exactly as I liked, and, people have shrugged their shoulders and said, ‘Ah, well it is only Lady Hilda!’ I have been six months away from civilisation, big-game shooting, and haven’t seen a white woman. It didn’t matter, because it was I. I travelled around the world with a most delightful man who was writing a book, but it didn’t affect my reputation in the slightest. I am quite convinced that if I chose to take you off to Monte Carlo with me next week and spend a month with you there, I should get my pass to the Royal enclosure at Ascot when I returned, and my invitation to the next court ball, even in this era of starch. You see, they would say, ‘lt is only Lady Hilda!’” The waiter brought the vermuth, which his visitor sipped contentedly. “So there is a woman, is there?” she went on, looking across the room at her companion. “Have you committed yourself already, then? Don’t you remember what I told you the first night we met after the opera—that it is well to wait?” “Yes, I remember,” John admitted. “I meant it.”

He laughed good-humouredly, yet not without some trace of self-con-sciousness. “The mischief was done then,” he said. “Please don’t stand about in that restless way at the other end of the room. Bring a chair close to me—there, close to my side!” John obeyed, and his visitor contemplated him thoughtfully, through a little cloud of tobacco smoke. “Yes,” she decided, “there is no use denying it. You are hatefully goodlooking, and somehow or other I think your clothes have improved you. You have a little more air than when you first came to town. Are you quite sure that you haven’t made up your mind about this woman in a hurry?” “Quite sure,” John laughed. “J suppose I am rather an idiot, but I am addicted to the vice of which you were speaking.” She nodded. A ‘l should imagine,” she said, “that you were not an adept in the art of flirtation. Is it true that the woman is Louise Maurel?” “Quite true,” John replied. “But don’t you know—” She broke off abruptly. She saw the face of the man by her side suddenly change, and her instinct warned

her of the danger into which she was rushing. “You surprise me very much,” she said. “Louise Maurel is a very wonderful woman, but she seems to spend the whole of her time with my cousin, the prince.” “They are, without doubt, very friendly,” John assented. “They have a good many interests in common, and the prince is connected with the syndicate which finances the theatre. I do not imagine, however, that the prince wishes to marry her, or she him.” Lady Hilda began to laugh, softly, but as if genuinely amused. John sat and watched her in ominous silence. Not the flicker of a smile parted his set lips. His visitor, however, was undisturbed. She leaned over and patted his hand. “Simple Simon!” she murmured, leaning a little toward him. “If you go on looking like that, I shall pat your cheeks, too. You are really much too nice-looking to wear such thunder- ; clouds!” John was silent. Her face darkened a little, and an angry light flashed in her eyes. “Well, I’ll leave you alone, if you like,” she decided, tossing her cigarette into the grate. “If my friendship isn’t worth having, let it go. It hasn’t often been offered in vain. There are more men in London than I could count who would go down on their knees for such a visit as lam paying you. And you—you,” she added, with a little tremble of real anger in her tone, “you’re too hatefully polite and priggish! Come and ring the bell for the lift. I am going! ” She slid gracefully to her feet, shook the cigarette ash from her clothes, and picked up her muff. “I am very sorry,” he declared. “I don’t know quite what I have done. I do appreciate your friendship. You have been very kind to me indeed.” r She hesitated as his finger touched * the bell of the lift, and glanced at the > watch on her wrist. “Well,” she said, “if you want to be . friends, I will give you one last chance. I am doing what sounds rather a ghastly thing—l am having a little week-end party down at my cottage at 1 Bourne End. It will be rather like ! camping out, but some interesting people are coming. Will you motor > down on Saturday evening and stay , till Sunday night or Monday?” ' “I shall be very pleased indeed,” John replied. “It is very good of you to ask me. When I come, I’d like, if • I may,” he went on, “to tell you about 5 myself, and why I am here, and about : Louise.” She sighed, and watched the top of ; the lift as it came up. Then she drop- [ ped her veil. ‘‘You will find me,” she assured him, as she gave him the tips of her fingers, > “a most sympathetic listener.” Louise and Sophy came to dine that l evening with John in the grill-room at ; the Milan. They arrived a little late l and were still in morning clothes. Louise was looking pale and tired, and her greeting was almost listless. 1 “We are dead beat,” Sophy ex--5 claimed. “We’ve been having a secret rehearsal this afternoon without Graill lot, and he came in just as we were finishing. He was perfectly furious!” » “He was here to tea with me,” John remarked as he led the way to their . table. (To be Continued.)