no means to discover that the coupling of his native bias with his professional duty was unprofitable nowadays. Wariness, however, was not somnolent, even when he said: ‘You know, I am never the lawyer out of my office. Man of the world to men of the world; and I have not lost by it. I am Mrs. Barman Radnor’s legal adviser: you are Mr. Victor Radnor’s friend. They are, as we see them, not on the best of terms. I would rather—at its lowest, as a matter of business—be known for having helped them to some kind of footing than send in a round bill to my client—or another. I gain more in the end. Frankly, I mean to prove, that it’s a lawyer’s interest to be human.’
‘Because, now, see!’ said Fenellan, ‘here’s the case. Miss Natalia Dreighton, of a good Yorkshire family—a large one, reads an advertisement for the post of companion to a lady, and answers it, and engages herself, previous to the appearance of the young husband. Miss Dreighton is one of the finest young women alive. She has a glorious contralto voice. Victor and she are encouraged by Mrs. Barman to sing duets together. Well?
Why, Euclid would have theorem’d it out for you at a glance at the trio. You have only to look on them, you chatter out your three Acts of a Drama without a stop. If Mrs. Barman cares to practise charity, she has only to hold in her Fury-forked tongue, or her Jarniman I think ‘s the name.’
Carting shrugged.
‘Let her keep from striking, if she’s Christian,’ pursued Fenetlan, ‘and if kind let her resume the name of her first lord, who did a better thing for himself than for her, when he shook off his bars of bullion, to rise the lighter, and left a wretched female soul below, with the devil’s own testimony to her attractions—thousands in the Funds, houses in the City. She threw the young couple together. And my friend Victor Radnor is of a particularly inflammable nature. Imagine one of us in such a situation, Mr. Carting!’
‘Trying!’ said the lawyer.
‘The dear fellow was as nigh death as a man can be and know the sweetness of a woman’s call to him to live. And here’s London’s garden of pines, bananas, oranges; all the droppings of the Hesperides here! We don’t reflect on it, Mr. Carling.’
‘Not enough, not enough.’
‘I feel such a spout of platitudes that I could out With a Leading Article on a sheet of paper on your back while you’re bending over the baskets. I seem to have got circularly round again to Eden when I enter a garden. Only, here we have to pay for the fruits we pluck. Well, and just the same there; and no end to the payment either. We’re always paying! By the way, Mrs. Victor Radnor’s dinner-table’s a spectacle. Her taste in flowers equals her lord’s in wine. But age improves the wine and spoils the flowers, you’ll say. Maybe you’re for arguing that lovely women show us more of the flower than the grape, in relation to the course of time. I pray you not to forget the terrible intoxicant she is. We reconcile it, Mr. Carling, with the notion that the grape’s her spirit, the flower her body. Or is it the reverse? Perhaps an intertwining. But look upon bouquets and clusters, and the idea of woman springs up at once, proving she’s composed of them. I was about to remark, that with deference to the influence of Mrs. Burman’s legal adviser, an impenitent or penitent sinner’s pastor, the Reverend gentleman ministering to her spiritual needs, would presumptively exercise it, in this instance, in a superior degree.’
Carling murmured: ‘The Rev. Groseman Buttermore’; and did so for something of a cover, to continue a run of internal reflections: as, that he was assuredly listening to vinous talk in the streets by day; which impression placed him on a decorous platform above the amusing gentleman; to whom, however, he grew cordial, in recognizing consequently, that his exuberant flow could hardly be a mask; and that an indication here and there of a trap in his talk, must have been due rather to excess of wariness, habitual in the mind of a long-headed man, whose incorrigibly impulsive fits had necessarily to be rectified by a vigilant dexterity.
‘Buttermore!’ ejaculated Fenellan: ‘Groseman Buttermore! Mrs. Victor’s Father Confessor is the Rev. Septimus Barmby. Groseman Buttermore—Septimus Barmby. Is there anything in names? Truly, unless these clerical gentlemen take them up at the crossing of the roads long after birth, the names would appear the active parts of them, and themselves mere marching supports, like the bearers of street placard-advertisements. Now, I know a Septimus Barmby, and you a Groseman Buttermore, and beyond the fact that Reverend starts up before their names without mention, I wager it’s about all we do know of them. They’re Society’s trusty rock-limpets, no doubt.’
‘My respect for the cloth is extreme.’ Carling’s short cough prepared the way for deductions. ‘Between ourselves, they are men of the world.’
Fenellan eyed benevolently the worthy attorney, whose innermost imp burst out periodically, like a Dutch clocksentry, to trot on his own small grounds for thinking himself of the community of the man of the world. ‘You lawyers dress in another closet,’ he said. ‘The Rev. Groseman has the ear of the lady?’
‘He has:—one ear.’
‘Ah? She has the other open for a man of the world, perhaps.’
‘Listens to him, listens to me, listens to Jarniman; and we neither of us guide her. She’s very curious—a study. You think you know her—next day she has eluded you. She’s emotional, she’s hard; she’s a woman, she’s a stone. Anything you like; but don’t count on her. And another thing—I’m bound to say it of myself,’ Carling claimed close hearing of Fenellan over a shelf of saladstuff, ‘no one who comes near her has any real weight with her in this matter.’
‘Probably you mix cream in your salad of the vinegar and oil,’ said Fenellan. ‘Try jelly of mutton.’—‘You give me a new idea. Latterly, fond as I am of salads, I’ve had rueful qualms. We’ll try it.’
‘You should dine with Victor Radnor.’
‘French cook, of course!’
‘Cordon bleu.’
‘I like to be sure of my cutlet.’
‘I like to be sure of a tastiness in my vegetables.’
‘And good sauces!’
‘And pretty pastry. I said, Cordon bleu. The miracle is, it ‘s a woman that Victor Radnor has trained: French, but a woman; devoted to him, as all who serve him are. Do I say “but” a woman? There’s not a Frenchman alive to match her. Vatel awaits her in Paradise with his arms extended; and may he wait long!’
Carling indulged his passion for the genuine by letting a flutter of real envy be seen. ‘My wife would like to meet such a Frenchwoman. It must be a privilege to dine with him—to know him. I know what he has done for English Commerce, and to build a colossal fortune: genius, as I said: and his donations to Institutions. Odd, to read his name and Mrs. Burman Radnor’s at separate places in the lists! Well, we’ll hope. It’s a case for a compromise of sentiments and claims.’
‘A friend of mine, spiced with cynic, declares that there’s always an amicable way out of a dissension, if we get rid of Lupus and Vulpus.’
Carling spied for a trap in the citation of Lupus and Vulpus; he saw none, and named the square of his residence on the great Russell property, and the number of the house, the hour of dinner next day. He then hung silent, breaking the pause with his hand out and a sharp ‘Well?’ that rattled a whirligig sound in his head upward. His leave of people was taken in this laughing falsetto, as of one affected by the curious end things come to.
Fenellan thought of him for a moment
