CHAPTER XXV

NATALY IN ACTION

A ticket of herald newspapers told the world of Victor’s returning to his London.  Pretty Mrs. Blathenoy was Nataly’s first afternoon visitor, and was graciously received; no sign of inquiry for the cause of the lady’s alacrity to greet her being shown.  Colney Durance came in, bringing the rumour of an Australian cantatrice to kindle Europe; Mr. Peridon, a seeker of tidings from the city of Bourges; Miss Priscilla Graves, reporting of Skepsey, in a holiday Sunday tone, that his alcoholic partner might at any moment release him; Mr. Septimus Barmby, with a hanged heavy look, suggestive of a wharfside crane swinging the ponderous thing he had to say.  ‘I have seen Miss Radnor.’

‘She was well?’ the mother asked, and the grand basso pitched forth an affirmative.

‘Dear sweet girl she is!’ Mrs. Blathenoy exclaimed to Colney.

He bowed.  ’Very sweet.  And can let fly on you, like a haggis, for a scratch.’

She laughed, glad of an escape from the conversational formalities imposed on her by this Mrs. Victor Radnor’s mighty manner.  ’But what girl worth anything! . . .

We all can do that, I hope, for a scratch!’

Mr. Barmby’s Profession dissented.

Mr. Catkin appeared; ten minutes after his Peridon.  He had met Victor near the Exchange, and had left him humming the non fu sogno of ERNANI.

’Ah, when Victor takes to Verdi, it’s a flat City, and wants a burst of drum and brass,’ Colney said; and he hummed a few bars of the march in Attila, and shrugged.  He and Victor had once admired that blatancy.

Mr. Pempton appeared, according to anticipation.  He sat himself beside Priscilla.  Entered Mrs. John Cormyn, voluminous; Mrs. Peter Yatt, effervescent; Nataly’s own people were about her and she felt at home.

Mrs. Blathenoy pushed a small thorn into it, by speaking of Captain Fenellan, and aside, as if sharing him with her.  Nataly heard that Dartrey had been the guest of these Blathenoys.  Even Dartrey was but a man!

Rather lower under her voice, the vain little creature asked:  ’You knew her?’

‘Her?’

The cool counter-interrogation was disregarded.  ’So sad!  In the desert! a cup of pure water worth more than barrow-loads of gold!  Poor woman!’

‘Who?’

‘His wife.’

‘Wife!’

‘They were married?’

Nataly could have cried:  Snake!  Her play at brevity had certainly been foiled.  She nodded gravely.  A load of dusky wonders and speculations pressed at her bosom.  She disdained to question the mouth which had bitten her.

Mrs. Blathenoy, resolving, that despite the jealousy she excited, she would have her friend in Captain Fenellan, whom she liked—­liked, she was sure, quite as innocently as any other woman of his acquaintance did, departed and she hugged her innocence defiantly, with the mournful pride which will sometimes act as a solvent.