CHAPTER II

 The compact

So petrified was Theydon by coming face to face with the last person breathing whom he expected to meet in that room, that he stumbled over a small chair which lay directly between him and his hostess.  At any other time the gaucherie would have annoyed him exceedingly; in the existing circumstances, no more fortunate incident could have happened, since it brought Evelyn Forbes herself unwittingly to the rescue.

“I have spoken twenty times about chairs being left in that absurd position,” she cried, as their hands met, “but you know how wooden-headed servants are.  They will not learn to discriminate.  People often sit in that very place of an afternoon, because any one seated just there sees the Canaletto on the opposite wall in the best light.  When the lamps are on, the reason for the chair simply ceases to exist, and it becomes a trap for the unwary.  You are by no means the first who has been caught in it.”

Theydon realized, with a species of irritation, that the girl was discoursing volubly about the offending chair merely in order to extricate an apparently shy and tongue-tied young man from a morass of his own creation.

That an author of some note should not only behave like a country bumpkin, but actually seem to need encouragement so that he should “feel at home” in a London drawing room, was a fact so ridiculous that it spurred his bemused wits into something approaching their normal activity.

“I have not the excuse of the Canaletto,” he said, compelling a pleasant smile, “but may I plead an even more distracting vision?  I came here expecting to meet an elderly gentleman of the class which flippant Americans describe as ‘high-brow,’ and I am suddenly brought face to face with a Romney ‘portrait of a lady’ in real life.  Is it likely that such an insignificant object as a chair, and a small one at that, would succeed in catching my eye?”

Evelyn Forbes laughed, with a joyous mingling of surprise and relief.  Most certainly, Mr. Theydon’s manner of speech differed vastly from the disconcerting expression of positive bewilderment, if not actual fright, which marred his entrance.

“Do I really resemble a Romney?  Which one?” she cried.

“An admitted masterpiece.”

“Ah, but people who pay compliments deserve to be put on the rack.  I insist on a definition.”

“Lady Hamilton as Joan of Arc.”

He drew the bow at random, and was gratified to see that his hearer was puzzled.

“I don’t know that particular picture,” she said, “but I cannot imagine any model less adapted to the subject.”

“Romney immortalized the best qualities of both,” he answered promptly.  “Please, may I look at the Canaletto which indirectly waylaid me?”

She turned to cross the room, but stopped and faced him again with a suddenness that argued an impulsive temperament.