An elderly man with a pleasant expression, iron-grey hair, and faultlessly dressed may occasionally be seen walking along the shady side of St. James’s Street in the early afternoon. He gazes a good deal under the bonnets of the pretty women. But there is a demure and half-respectful expression in his glance which withers any rising feeling of resentment. His age and his unmistakably sympathetic half-smile give him an immunity which would not be extended to younger and bolder men. He is known to society as the Hon. Archibald Flodden.

Flodden is a member of three excellent clubs. His name is on some extremely desirable visiting lists. He goes to church when in town every Sunday morning. His conduct in public is most exemplary. And yet, somehow, Flodden has no men friends. He has money, and therefore can always command the society of a select circle of parasites. But men who ought to be in his own set—or of whose set he ought to be—do not care for his company. Nor do the female leaders of society give him great countenance. He is not, perhaps, regarded exactly as a mauvais sujet. But it is generally admitted that there is something queer about Flodden.

This sentiment was not, of course, inspired originally by the fact that after two years of domestic infelicity his wife left him, taking her infant daughter with her. Society naturally took the man’s part. The wife placed herself outside the pale, and Flodden never asked her to re-enter it. He took the matter philosophically, gave up his house in Sloane Square, took chambers in the Albany, refused all communication with his wife, and led the life of a sedate and philanthropic bachelor. For eighteen years he has led this blameless and almost idyllic life, and yet there exists in society an undefined distrust of him which is utterly unaccountable.

But though the great ladies of society, guided by an infallible instinct, do not regard the Hon. Archie Flodden with favour, there are certain other desirable persons who worship him as the very beau ideal knight. These are ladies of the middle-class, the wives of professional men, or the gushing ornaments of suburban Bohemia. Their experience of gentlemen is, perhaps, limited. They may be excused, therefore, in mistaking Flodden’s tinsel of politeness for the gold of real gallantry.

It is quite surprising the number of interesting young persons of the emotional and impressionable kind who have acquired a sincere, romantic, but quite Platonic, regard for Mr. Flodden. Happy chance has in the majority of instances procured the introduction; and, as a rule, the male relatives of the ladies are quite unaware of the discreet intimacy existing between Flodden and their women-folk. Indeed, these male relatives are all mere brutes, and it is part of Flodden’s edifying mission to sympathise with these dear creatures, to express distress that their sweetness should be wasted on such clods of earth, and generally to insinuate comparisons between himself and the lawful husband, which are infinitely detrimental to the latter.

This hoary-headed squire of dames has the pleasantest possible little five o’clock teas at his chambers in the Albany, and sometimes as many as eight, or even nine, of his young friends will join him at that simple repast. Lord Roach (“Cock” Roach he used to be called in his regiment), who lives in the next set, seeing the ladies file out at half-past six or so, has put it about that Flodden keeps a dancing academy. But, though there is occasionally a little piano playing, there has never been a dance; indeed, the entertainment is chiefly conversational. Mr. Flodden never used a rude or an improper expression. He has, however, a wonderful knack of leading the conversation into doubtful topics. The chaste annals of the Divorce Court afforded him much agreeable food for comment. He would argue with some of his impressionable admirers as to the possibility of a purely Platonic affection, and at times he would scribble off an epigram in choice French on some living beauty, notorious for the number of her amours. These trifles, written in a formal but trembling hand, have found themselves in the private albums of many an honest house in the suburbs. The ladies who were the objects of his disinterested regard invariably alluded to him as “a dear, kind creature,” the “most gentlemanly person,” “so sympathetic,” and the rest. The more gushing, recklessly declared him to be a “duck.” Dean Swift, remembering his own definition of the phrase, would have called him “a nice man.”

One hot afternoon in the July of last year, Mr. Flodden sat in his luxurious chambers surrounded by half-a-dozen of his female admirers, descanting on the superiority of French art as illustrated by the examples which adorned his walls. Having exhausted this topic, he proceeded to one more calculated to stimulate the curiosity of his guests.

“I have got a little surprise for you, my dear ladies: a fresh addition to our charmed, and may I say charming, circle.”

Six fragile cups descended from twelve ruby lips, and twelve eyes opened wide with curiosity.

“Such a charming creature—so young, so beautiful, so romantic, and so unfortunate.” Six long-drawn sighs.

“Husband a cruel brute; absolutely beats her.”

Twelve eyes cast in mute appeal to the heaven that exists above Albany ceilings. Then the still, small voice of a sympathetic inquirer—

“And where did you meet this—this—paragon?”

“A secret, my dear madam, an absolute and positive secret. She was on her way to give lessons—she sings divinely—in order to maintain her keeper in tobacco and beer. Faugh!”

Six more long-drawn sighs.

“If she keep her appointment she will be here directly. She is a shy, reserved little creature, but should, I think, in such genial society thaw somewhat. Yes, she really must thaw.”

In five minutes Flodden’s man—a highly-respectable person, well versed in his master’s little ways—announced Mrs. Bird. This was the lady who had so greatly fascinated the philanthropist, thereby driving six sympathetic souls into paroxysms of jealousy.

It must be admitted that anything less reserved or shy than Mrs. Bird had never before been presented to six neglected matrons. Mrs. Bird was stylishly dressed, greatly made up, and exhibited the undefinable cachet of the professional. She called Mr. Flodden “old chappie,” shook hands, unintroduced, with the assembled tea-drinkers, hoped they were quite jolly, and then asked the master of the establishment for a brandy and soda. That worthy man of the world had turned red and white and even blue. He was completely thunder-struck. It was evident he must stop the compromising flow of her conversation. The modest woman of his rambles had suddenly become transformed into a something too terrible for contemplation. A brilliant idea. He would ask her to sing. Mrs. Bird was a woman of a most obliging disposition. She sat down at the piano and dashed off a showy prelude and commenced her song. You remember the effect of Captain Shandon’s tipsy ditty upon the good Colonel Newcome; an effect somewhat similar was now produced on the neglected wives. Mrs. Bird warbled out with unctuous accent one of the most notorious ballads of a Parisian cafÉ chantant. The matrons rose for shawls, and the songstress, apprehending their intention, jumped from the piano and burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Flodden looked humiliated beyond measure; there was not a pennyweight of philanthropy left in him.

“This is awful!” he exclaimed; “in heaven’s name who and what are you?”

“I am your daughter Gwendolyn,” she hissed.

At that moment voices were heard from without—Flodden’s man shouting, “You sha’n’t go in,” and another voice consigning Flodden’s man to Hades. Then the door was thrust open, and a cad in loud check trousers, a green-coloured Newmarket coat, a white hat and innumerable rings, stood bowing to the assembled company. He eventually fixed a somewhat bloodshot eye on the philanthropist and said,—

“Now, then, my festive fossil, when next you go a followin’ other men’s wives, you see as they ain’t your own daughters! I’m the Great O’Daniel, the star comique. Gwen’s my wife, an’ you’re my pa-in-lor. Here’s a horder; give us a turn and bring your lady friends with you. My new song, ‘The Elderly Masher,’ is no end of a go. Come along, Gwen. Good-bye, par. Ladies, bong joor!”

So saying he tucked Gwendolyn under his arm, bowed, and left the apartment. The other guests retired in solemn silence, wiser, and, let us hope better, women.

And that was Mr. Flodden’s last five o’clock tea at the Albany.