Book Description

A a woman in search of sensation, you should not have come to me. I can tell you tales, but they are not exactly sensational — hardly a detective in them.” “The detective is a slur on any story. He is merely the author’s fool.” “But they are not even love stories of the kind you’re accustomed to.” “Of course not. Here in an Inn of Court you have no opportunities — no conservatory, no ballroom, no garden parties. Gerald proposed to me on the Underground Railway — and deserved to be refused. But he had the grace to apologize.” “Well, I’ll tell you all I know — or nearly. Some very droll things that I could tell would not interest you.” “I don’t mind being startled. You promised not to irritate me by being chivalrous. Chivalry! That subtle grip of the Middle Ages on my sex.” “But a woman — don’t interrupt; I use the word in a superior sense — can never appreciate the fine humor of a tipsy man. She expects him to be obvious: to fall in the gutter, to be towed home by the policeman, or fined for being disorderly. Tales of buoyancy, funny from the man’s point of view, would bore you.” “Humph!” “There are other tales — quite of the feudal period — which Gerald would rather I did not tell. Merry tales, with an undercurrent of sadness: the most perfect form of humor.” “I hope you don’t tax me with immodest prudery.” “I tax your husband. Some of the tales may be rather mad.” “Lunatics are the salt of the earth. Come and dine with us once a week. Tell me a story after dinner — Gerald goes to sleep.” “I must tell them in the Inn or they’d lose their flavor.” “Here! Once a week — that is settled. I’ll come. Marlowe’s Inn is charming. These quiet squares, just off Holborn; these sedate houses, with their old staircases and sets of chambers, each with its stout black door, appeal to me. I like the archway, the porter at the gate. I never saw such a green garden. I love rooks. Everything is gay, cool, monastic; a most fascinating place. And such queer people! I met a man with the face of a mystic — — ” “Probably Guy Blockley, the comedian.” “There was another man with a striped waistcoat, closely cropped hair, and a bulldog jaw. He looked like a prizefighter.” “That’s Paradale, the poet.” “Good Heavens! Then I met a woman, very fat. She carried a pail of dirty water. No doubt she was a political hostess, famous for her parties, or a popular lady novelist.” “She was only a charwoman — laundresses we call them in the Inn. She has probably ‘seen better days.’” “Well — about the tales?” “Sad tales, remember — partly sad. But you’ll get a laugh out of them.” “I prefer sad tales; there is more strength in a sob than in a giggle. Anything, so long as they are not commonplace. So long as the people don’t marry in the last chapter. I’m so sick of sane, respectable people who do exactly what they ought to do. Gerald has a regular income — that blight on originality. I was doomed to middle-class ease from my very cradle.” “I wonder if you really are broad-minded. I wonder! You are not very young — — ” “Nowadays a woman only comes of age at thirty.” “After thirty she is often a prude.” “But I am not so very much after. Why waste time in parrying? Tell me a story at once. Let this be the first sitting.” ***** “It was very stupid of me to clutch your arm like that — to scream. A scream is the admission of small intellect, of nerves, of everything that went out with smelling-bottles. But that noise startled me — it was the prologue to your tale — too realistic. What was it? I think it came from that house across the way, from that open window on the third floor, with the blue window box.” “From No. 7. Yes; of course.” “How somber you look!” “I must go and see what is up. Promise me to keep quite still. Don’t even look out of the window.” “I promise. I’ll look at the album instead. That is a most harmless, a most creditable thing to do. My heart thumps still. Do you think it’s a suicide? I’d like a smelling-bottle, if you had one. But a drop of whisky is the modern substitute. Thank you. And in this little cup. How pretty!” “It belonged to Kinsman. You will hear about him later. Here is the album. There are portraits of Adeline Pray and Minnie Chaytor — women whose acquaintance you’ll make. I won’t be long.” ***** “What was it? Here, take the rest of the whisky; you look as if you wanted it.” “It was Dick Simpson. He’s shot himself. Let me take you out and put you in a hansom. This is our first installment; a melodramatic one.” “Why did he shoot himself? How shocking! Love? There’s a girl going in at the door now.” “Why? You will understand when I tell you about that set of chambers in which he lived. Poor Dick! He’s left a note, just saying that all his accounts are in order. He was in the City; some of the men of Marlowe’s are. The odd thing is — there is always a quip in our tragedies — that he had dressed for the occasion. Frock coat, flower in his buttonhole, new tie — he only bought it last night; showed it to me; asked if I admired the pattern. They’ll never let that set again; it is the most extraordinary thing — that’s the fifth man that I know of, counting Drummond and Jimmy. “He was such a thrifty, cautious little chap, too! No debts, no difficult position. He wasn’t hard up — as most of us are. He lived within his income.” “He seems to have been a commonplace person.” “Poor Dick! Here you are. Where shall I tell the man to drive to?” “To the Circus. Good-by. I’ll come again, about this time this day week. Poor man! How shocking!” FROM THE BOOK