  “What have you been up to in Torchester, eh? Shopping?” Mr. Marx inquired. I saw no reason for concealing anything from him, nor did I do so. Rather awkwardly I told him of Mr. Ravenor’s note to me, and that I had been with Reynolds all the afternoon. Perhaps I spoke with a little enthusiasm of our somewhat elaborate purchases. At any rate, when I had finished, he laughed softly to himself—a long, noiseless, but not unpleasant laugh. “Well, I’m glad I met you,” he said, his lips still twitching, as though with amusement. “Sit down and have some dinner with me.” I hesitated, for just at that moment Mr. Ravenor’s words concerning his secretary flashed into my mind. Besides, I was not at all sure that I liked him. But, on the other hand, what alternative was there for me? What excuse could I find for declining so simple an invitation? In a few minutes the waiter would appear with the modest meal which I had ordered, and it would be impossible for me to order him to set it down in another part of the room, or to leave it and walk out of the hotel, just because this man was there. To do so would be to tell him as plainly as possible that I had some particular desire for avoiding him, and he would instantly divine that I was obeying a behest of Mr. Ravenor’s. No; it was unavoidable. I had better accept his invitation, and, briefly, I did so. “That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “It’s a queer fancy of mine, but I hate dining alone. Waiter, bring some more soup at once. This gentleman will dine with me.” During dinner our conversation was interrupted. Hat in hand, Reynolds was standing before us, looking at Mr. Marx and then at me and the table before us with a look on his face which I did not altogether understand, although it annoyed me excessively. He spoke to me: “The dogcart has come round, sir.” I half rose and threw down my napkin, though with some reluctance. I held out my hand regretfully to Mr. Marx, but he refused to take it. “You needn’t go home with Reynolds unless you like,” he said. “I have a brougham from the Castle here, and I can drop you at the farm on my way home.” I hesitated, for the temptation to stay was strong. In fact, I should have accepted at once, only that Reynolds’s grave, frowning face somehow reminded me of Mr. Ravenor’s injunction. Reynolds, like a fool, settled the matter. “I think Mr. Morton had better return with me, sir,” he said to Mr. Marx. “If you are ready, sir,” he added to me. “The mare gets very fidgety if she’s kept waiting.” My boyish vanity was wounded to the quick by the style of his address, and his unwise assumption of authority, and I answered quickly: “You’d better be off at once, then, Reynolds. I shall accept Mr. Marx’s offer.” He was evidently uneasy and made one more effort. “I think Mr. Ravenor would prefer your returning with me, sir,” he said. Mr. Marx had been leaning back in his chair, sipping his coffee somewhat absently, and to all appearance altogether indifferent as to which way I should decide. He looked up now, however, and addressed Reynolds for the first time. “How the deuce do you know anything about what your master would prefer?” he said coolly. Reynolds made no answer, but looked appealingly at me. I chose not to see him. “I should imagine,” Mr. Marx continued, leaning back in his chair again and deliberately stirring his coffee, “that if Mr. Ravenor has any choice about the matter at all, which seems to me very unlikely, he would prefer Mr. Morton’s riding home in safety with a dry skin. Listen!” We did so, and at that moment a fierce gust of wind drove a very deluge of rain against the shaking window-panes. “That decides it!” I exclaimed. “I’ll accept your offer, Mr. Marx, if you don’t mind.” “By far the more sensible thing to do,” he remarked carelessly. “Have a glass of wine, Reynolds, before you start. You’ve a wet drive before you.” Reynolds shook his head, and, wishing me a respectful good evening, withdrew. Mr. Marx watched Reynolds leave the room and then shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Honest, but stupid. Well, now you’re in my charge, Morton, I must see whether I can’t amuse you somehow. Ever been to the theatre?” I could not help a slight blush as I admitted that I had never even seen the outside of one. Mr. Marx looked at me after my admission as though I were some sort of natural curiosity. “Well, we’ll go if you like,” he said. “There’s a very good one here, I believe, for the provinces, and it will be a change for you.” “It will make us very late, won’t it?” I ventured to say. “Not necessarily. I suppose it will be over about half-past ten and the carriage can meet us at the door.” I said no more, for fear that he would take me at my word and give up the idea of going. In a few minutes Mr. Marx called for his bill and settled it, and, glancing at his watch, declared that it was time to be off. The waiter called a hansom, and we drove through the busy streets, Mr. Marx leisurely smoking a fragrant cigarette, and I leaning forward, watching the hurrying throngs of people, some pleasure-seekers, but mostly just released from their daily toil at the factory or workshop. It was a wet night and the streets seemed like a perfect sea of umbrellas. The rain was coming down in sheets, beating against the closed glass front of our cab and dimming its surface, until it became impossible to see farther than the horse’s head. I leaned back by Mr. Marx’s side with a sigh, and found that he had been watching me with an amused smile. “Busy little place, Torchester,” he remarked. “It seems so to me,” I acknowledged. “I have never been in any other town except Mellborough.” “Lucky boy!” he exclaimed, half lightly, half in earnest. “You have all the pleasures of life before you, with the sauce of novelty to help you to relish them. What would I not give never to have seen Paris or Vienna, or never to have been in love, or tasted quails on toast! But here we are at the theatre!” |
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