It is probable that George Henry had never admired his brother more than
at the moment when he made this bold pronouncement. The ‘Milan’ was
known by name to both of them and represented all the things which they
had hitherto studiously avoided in life. Needless to say, neither of
them had ever crossed its portals.
“We shall need money,” he observed in an awed tone.
“That we must at once arrange,” was the firm reply. “We must make it a
habit now to carry money with us. One can never tell when the
opportunity for expenditure may arise.”
They left their place of business, George Henry collecting himself
sufficiently to observe, with a sigh, that Harold’s stool, which had
been temporarily occupied during the morning, was again vacant. A few
minutes later the swing doors of a neighbouring bank were pushed open,
and the brothers entered. They were neither of them of commanding
presence, their attire was ordinary, their bearing unassuming.
Nevertheless, the atmosphere of the bank for the next few minutes can
only be described as resembling one velvety purr. A cashier hurried from
the back regions to greet them with a welcoming smile. The
commissionaire raised his hat a whole foot away from his head. The
manager himself waved his hand from behind the curtains of his private
office and embarked upon a desperate struggle to get rid of an
importunate client, who desired to increase his overdraft. Meanwhile,
Stephen produced a cheque book from his pocket, carefully filled in the
counterfoil first, and, in a reasonable space of time, handed across the
counter a cheque for a thousand pounds.
“In tens and twenties, if you please,” he directed.
The cashier received the cheque with an unctuous smile, drew a glass
receptacle filled with water to his side, wetted his forefinger, and
commenced the business of counting.
“Five hundred pounds in tens, Mr. Underwood, and five hundred in
twenties,” he remarked urbanely a few minutes later, as he pushed the
two little piles of notes across the counter. “Wonderfully mild weather
we are having.”
“Extraordinary for the time of the year,” Stephen agreed.
“Quite remarkable,” George Henry echoed.
Then there was a brief silence. The brothers had produced very similar
brown morocco pocketbooks and were absorbed in the task of dividing the
money. Finally this was accomplished and they turned to leave the bank,
after a further exchange of civilities. Before they reached the door,
however, they were overtaken by the bank manager, who had got rid of his
client.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “I’ll walk along
with you to Prosser’s. You’ve left us a little money to be going on
with, I hope.”
Neither brother replied to the time-honoured joke. They exchanged
glances, and George Henry nodded slightly. It was Stephen who accepted
the onus of disclosure.
“We are not going to Prosser’s this morning, Mr. Lawford,” he announced
deliberately.
“Not this morning,” George Henry echoed.
Mr. Lawford stopped short upon the pavement. His appearance indicated
shock.
“Not going–to Prosser’s?” he faltered. “God bless my soul!”
He glanced feverishly at the date upon the newspaper which he was
carrying. It was Tuesday, beyond a doubt–a common, ordinary week-day.
Reassured, he sought for enlightenment.
“You are both all right, eh?” he asked anxiously.
“Perfectly,” George Henry assured him.
“The fact is,” Stephen announced, with an elaborate air of unconcern,
“we are lunching in the West End.”
“Having just a snack at the ‘Milan’,” George Henry put in airily.
“God bless my soul!” Mr. Lawford murmured again, thereby displaying a
pitiful lack of originality in his emotional outlets. “Ah!–a customer,
perhaps?” he added, seizing eagerly upon a possible explanation. “I
thought you always left that sort of thing to Mr. Hanworth?”
“We do,” Stephen acquiesced. “If you are going to Prosser’s, perhaps you
will be good enough to tell William not to reserve our places to-day.”
Mr. Lawford had found himself. He understood that any further expression
of astonishment would be out of place.
“Certainly! Certainly!” he agreed. “You haven’t forgotten that this is
boiled beef and dumplings day?” he added jocularly. “Well, well, good
morning! Prosser’s won’t seem itself, without you.”
The brothers hailed a taxicab, and Stephen gave the address. There was a
brief silence after they had started on their pilgrimage westwards.
“Mr. Lawford seemed quite surprised,” George Henry observed presently.
“Unreasonably so, I thought,” Stephen assented severely. “Mr. Lawford is
a man of the world. He should realize that one’s movements are subject
to–er–derangement.”
George Henry coughed.
“Except on holidays,” he ventured, “and the week when you had a bilious
attack, we have lunched at Prosser’s, at the same table, every day for
eleven years.”
Stephen frowned.
“It is too long,” he declared. “I am very glad that Mr. Duncan thought
the time had arrived to send on our dear father’s letter. If we are not
careful, we shall get groovey. We must make changes–in other directions
as well, perhaps. We must not get into a rut.”
George Henry shivered a little with excitement as he listened to his
brother’s bold words. The taxicab driver leaned backwards and addressed
them through the window.
“Café Parisien or restaurant?” he inquired.
George Henry was, by accident of places, the recipient of this inquiry.
Vaguely excited by his brother’s words, he was all for adventure. The
Café Parisien sounded foreign and mysterious. His voice almost shook as
he replied:
“The Café, driver.”
He leaned back in his seat with the air of one who has performed a great
deed. Stephen smiled approvingly.
“The Café Parisien sounds most attractive,” he admitted. “This, I
suppose, is it.”
The taxicab had turned into the ‘Milan’ courtyard, and pulled up
outside the glass-covered portico on the left-hand side. A liveried
servant opened the door. Gorgeous persons in silk coats and knee
breeches relieved them of their hats and umbrellas in a little lobby
crowded with a most distinctly cosmopolitan throng. It was, perhaps, not
altogether to be wondered at that, when the brothers pushed open the
swing doors and stood upon the threshold of the restaurant, they were
conscious of a certain sense of confusion. The room was full, and there
was no one to recognize in them new and important patrons. They missed
the obsequious approach of the head waiter at Prosser’s, the respectful
greetings of City men to whom their name was holy, the urbane smile of
the frock-coated manager himself. At Prosser’s, too, the feminine
element was entirely absent–here it was insistent and amazing. A
dark-eyed Frenchwoman, wearing a military widow’s veil, carrying a small
dog under her arm, and displaying more ankle and leg than either Stephen
or George Henry had seen for a great many years, enveloped them in a
little cloud of perfume and pushed past with a muttered–“Pardon,
messieurs!” And at every table. The brothers exchanged doubtful glances.
George Henry coughed.
“These young ladies seem rather young to be lunching in a public
restaurant,” he murmured.
“They are, perhaps, older than they seem,” Stephen replied, with an air
of wisdom.
It was at this precise moment that Providence intervened on behalf of
the newcomers. The High Priest of the Café, gazing around him for a
means of escape from an undesirable but persistent client, saw them
blocking the way. His necessity invested their presence with a new
significance. He bore down upon them like a whirlwind. His bow and
smile were such as were usually reserved for patrons of the highest
distinction.
“We should like some luncheon,” Stephen confided. “We have been
recommended here by a friend.”
Monsieur Louis, recovering from the shock of this somewhat quaint
introduction, looked around the place long and searchingly. He would
have been glad to have found a retired table for these unusual but
opportune patrons. The place, however, was packed.
“If you could wait for a quarter of an hour, gentlemen,” he ventured.
The faces of the two brothers fell simultaneously. It was obvious that
the suggestion was unwelcome.
“We are used to lunching punctually at a quarter-past one,” George Henry
explained. “My brother’s digestion—-“
“There is a table here,” Stephen interrupted, pointing to one just
inside the door.
The _maître d’hôtel_ hesitated. It was true that he had the table in
question at his disposal, for it had only that morning been given up by
a regular patron who had returned to America. It was one of the most
desirable in the room, and he had been reserving it as a _bon bouche_
for some especial client. Like all great men, however, confronted with a
crisis, he made up his mind quickly. With a shrug of the shoulders he
withdrew the “Reserved” card from its place, and invited his new patrons
to be seated.
“It was reserved,” he explained, “but no matter. And for lunch?”
Stephen took up the menu and George Henry looked over his shoulder. The
result was chaos and distress. Once again, however, the pioneer of this
enterprise was equal to the occasion.
“We do not understand the French language,” Stephen observed simply,
laying down the _carte_. “What joints have you ready?–or we should be
glad to try the dish of the house.”
The lips of Monsieur Louis twitched. It was the affair of a moment,
however.
“Allow me to serve the _table d’hôte_ luncheon,” he suggested. “And to
drink?”
“A little Perrier water with lemon in it,” Stephen replied. “Afterwards,
two glasses of port.”
Monsieur Louis made his escape, and paused for a moment by his desk to
recover himself before he plunged once more into the fray. The brothers
were served with their luncheon and enjoyed it. They vied with one
another in their praise of everything that was set before them. Each was
anxious to proclaim the experiment a success.
“A most delicious omelette,” Stephen declared.
“Those little things in small dishes were most savoury,” George Henry
proclaimed.
“And the thin steak–_entrecôte minute_, they called it,” his brother
continued, “had a most agreeable flavour. I sometimes wonder—-“
Stephen paused to take another sip of his port, and proceeded with
vinous confidence.
“I sometimes wonder whether Mrs. Hassall is quite as good a cook as she
used to be.”
“It is melancholy to have to contemplate a change,” George Henry sighed,
“but her cutlets last night were floating in grease.”
“We will give her a fair chance,” Stephen decided Jesuitically. “We will
dine here one night and compare the result.”
George Henry shook with excitement.
“We should have to wear evening dress,” he murmured.
“We are provided in that respect,” Stephen reminded him, with dignity.
“I remember thinking last year, at the dinner to Mr. Ferguson, how well
your dress coat looked.”
“It is eighteen years old!”
“I see no reason why a dress coat should not last for a lifetime. It is
a garment for use on rare occasions, George Henry!”
“What is it, Stephen?”
“The youth at the table opposite, with the exceedingly well-favoured
young lady. It seems to me–yes, it is Harold!”
The recognition appeared to be mutual. The fashionably dressed young man
indicated arose, muttered something to his companion, and somewhat
sheepishly approached the table at which his uncles were seated. He wore
a black lounge suit with a thin white stripe running through it, a white
flannel collar with a long, carefully arranged tie. His hair was brushed
sleekly back, and a monocle dangled from a cord around his neck. His
coat curved in at the waist exactly as the coats of all the other young
men. The sight of him, and the consciousness of their relationship,
seemed to bring the brothers into more definite touch with their
surroundings. They welcomed their nephew, therefore, with unexpected
cordiality.
“This is indeed a surprise, Harold,” Stephen declared.
“Mutual, what?” the young man rejoined nervously. “What price Prosser’s,
eh?”
“We are seeking a change,” George Henry remarked. “It is our first visit
here.”
“Tophole grub,” the young man murmured, with a sidelong glance back
towards his table.
“We have lunched excellently,” Stephen admitted. “We are pleased with
the place. How is your mother, Harold?”
“A1. She is down at Bournemouth for a few days.”
The uncles tactfully avoided any reference to a possible connection
between that fact and Harold’s luncheon companion. Stephen became
suddenly inspired.
“Since you appear to be accustomed to the ways of this place, Harold,”
he said, “you can possibly advise us upon the subject of the
remuneration ordinarily tendered to the waiter. At Prosser’s—-“
“Ten per cent. of the bill,” Harold interrupted. “Same everywhere at
these places.”
Stephen smiled a well-pleased smile and nodded understandingly at George
Henry.
“That is easy to calculate,” he remarked. “And, Harold?”
The young man, who was becoming more at his ease under the influence of
this unexpected geniality, assumed an air of interest.
“The head waiter with the dark moustache, coming up the room now, was
very civil to us on our arrival. Would it be in order if we were to
tender him also some recognition–say, a shilling?”
Harold glanced behind and his face was transformed by a beatific grin.
“Monsieur Louis?” he exclaimed. “Lord love us, Uncle Stephen! A
shilling! My hat!”
Stephen’s forehead was puckered and he became instantly contrite.
Obviously he had been on the point of a _faux pas_.
“Advise us, if you please, Harold,” he begged simply. “We wish to do the
correct thing.”
“Monsieur Louis,” Harold explained, with bated breath, “is a pedagogue,
a mandarin, a–er–the big bug of the place. He gets about two thousand
a year salary, and commission. You could send him a cheque for fifty
pounds at Christmas time, perhaps, or give him a sure Stock Exchange
tip, or make him a present of that pearl pin you are wearing. But to
offer him money–a shilling! Phew!”
The young man seemed suddenly wordless. His uncles were both humble and
penitent.
“We are very much obliged to you, Harold,” Stephen acknowledged. “You
have probably saved us from committing a grave mistake.”
“One moment,” George Henry intervened, as Harold showed signs of backing
away. “Our curiosity has been somewhat excited by the–er–dissimilarity
between the faces of the young ladies who seem present here in such
large numbers and their attire. They seem mostly to be still in short
skirts, but to have an older appearance, so far as regards their
features and deportment. One hears that at boarding-school nowadays—-“
“Fluff,” the young man interrupted laconically. “It’s a great place for
it.”
“Fluff,” George Henry repeated gravely.
“I am afraid,” Stephen admitted with amiable candour, as he toyed with
his last drop of port, “that the phrase conveys nothing to us.”
“Chorus girls,” Harold explained patiently–“young actresses and cinema
débutantes, what? Those short skirts are all the go now. Fetching, too,
ain’t they, with white silk stockings and black patent shoes?”
“And the young lady who is your companion?” George Henry inquired
diffidently.
“Oh, she is on the musical comedy stage. Jolly nice girl and clever,
too. Blanche Whitney, her name is. She’s looking out for some guy to
finance her. So long!”
The young man departed, and his uncles exchanged somewhat furtive
glances. Stephen cleared his throat.
“It is very good-natured of Harold, no doubt,” he declared. “The lives
of these poor girls who are forced to work for their living are
doubtless dull and strenuous, and a little change may be desirable. But
I cannot think that he is quite wise in entertaining this young lady for
luncheon in the middle of a business day. I am afraid that Amelia would
disapprove.”
George Henry coughed. He had the air, somehow, of sympathizing with his
recalcitrant nephew.
“We must remember,” he said, “that we are, to a certain extent, in what
is termed Bohemia. Until we appreciate the conditions a little better,
perhaps, we had–er–we should be wiser not to worry Amelia.”
“I quite agree,” his brother assented, unfolding the bill which had just
been brought to him. “Amelia would doubtless wonder at our own presence
here.”
Stephen with great care added up the items of his bill, calculated the
ten per cent., and received the waiter’s bow and thanks.
“I think, George Henry,” he declared, with an air of satisfaction, “that
we have made a move in the right direction. The cost of our luncheon was
enormous–fully three times as much as the charges at Prosser’s.”
“Capital!” was his brother’s cheerful comment.
“At the same time,” Stephen reminded him, “it will take a great many
lunches to help us to any real extent towards our object.”
“I fear,” George Henry sighed, a little hypocritically, “that we must
look upon this change in the whereabouts of our midday meal as the first
step towards changes all round.”
“You are right,” Stephen agreed. “You are very right indeed.”
The room now was overhung with a faint cloud of cigarette smoke. The hum
of conversation had grown louder, a general air of relaxation prevailed.
George Henry found himself glancing often at a couple of fair-haired
young ladies who were lunching at an adjacent table. He was conscious of
a peculiar elevation of spirits, a sense of suppressed excitement,
pleasurable but most unusual. He found himself suddenly interested in
his age. After all, he was still on the right side of fifty.
“One misses, perhaps, the exchange of a few remarks with Mr. Ferguson
and our other friends,” Stephen reflected, a little wistfully.
“In time,” George Henry surmised, looking innocently up at the ceiling,
“we may perhaps make acquaintances here.”
“Quite possible, quite possible,” his brother assented. “I think, if you
are ready, we might now take our departure. We have the export accounts
to go through this afternoon, you know.”
They rose, George Henry with much reluctance. It was absurd, of course,
but the nearer of the two fair young ladies had certainly glanced more
than once lately in his direction. He straightened his tie, stood up and
wished that he were a little taller. Monsieur Louis, passing down the
room, paused before their table.
“The luncheon all right, I hope, gentlemen?” he inquired, with one of
his famous bows.
A cold shiver passed down Stephen’s spine at the reflection that a short
time ago he had actually contemplated offering this august being a
shilling. He remembered that it was his nephew who had saved him–the
boy should never lose by it! Then inspiration came. He would atone for
the unoffered insult.
“The luncheon was excellent,” he replied. “My brother and I would like
you to accept this little offering,” he added, drawing his pearl pin
from his tie. “We should like this table reserved for us every morning,
except on Saturdays and Sundays, at one-fifteen, and for dinner to-night
at eight o’clock. Our name is Underwood. Good morning!”
However timid their entrance to the hallowed precincts of the Café had
been, the honours certainly remained with the brothers on their
departure. Monsieur Louis, with the pin in the palm of his hand, was
speechless. His bow was automatic, and his murmured word of thanks
inaudible. He drew a little breath and straightened himself.
“Charles,” he directed an adjacent _maître d’hôtel_, “that table is
reserved for dinner to-night at eight o’clock, and every day except
Saturdays and Sundays for luncheon, for those two gentlemen. Their name
is Underwood.”
The waiter hesitated.
“There have been a great many inquiries for it, sir,” he reminded his
chief.
Monsieur Louis waved him away.
“We have here,” he announced, “a new order of patron. Where they come
from or what they may be I do not know, but the table is theirs.”
Monsieur Louis’ stately progress down the room was checked by a summons
from Harold Margetson. He stopped short.
“Know those two old buffers?” his young client inquired.
“Except that their name is Underwood,” Louis replied, “I know nothing of
them.”
Harold grinned.
“They are my uncles,” he declared. “And they are rolling in it. No one
knows what their income is. Millionaires, I should say, both of them.”
“Dollars or pounds?” the young lady by his side asked quickly.
“Pounds–good English pounds,” her escort assured her. “They’ve got it
to burn.”
Miss Whitney’s very beautiful eyes glistened. She became thoughtful.
“The gentlemen will lunch here every day,” Louis announced. “I have
promised them Mr. Higgins’ table.”
“By Jove, Louis!” the young man exclaimed, with a faint whistle.
“They’ve got round you all right!”
“Your uncle is very generous,” the _maître d’hôtel_ murmured, opening
his palm. “He has just given me this.”
The two young people stared at the pin.
“It’s worth a cool fifty,” Harold muttered.
Miss Whitney’s manner was no longer abstracted. She laid her hand upon
her companion’s.
“I must know your uncles,” she declared firmly. “When did you say that
they were coming again, Louis?”
“They dine to-night at eight o’clock, madam.”
“So, then, shall we,” she insisted. “Not a word, Harold, or we shall
quarrel.”
The young man grinned.
“You’re as clever as paint, Blanche,” he declared, “but–I don’t know
what they would say if they saw me here with you again.”
“I’ll make that all right for you,” she promised. “You leave everything
in my hands. All you have to do is to be here on time.”
“I’m agreeable,” the young man assented. “We’ll dine all right, but if
you think there’s anything doing with those old curmudgeons of uncles of
mine you’re on a dead wrong ‘un. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The young lady smiled.
“Nice boy,” she murmured tolerantly. “You don’t need to worry, anyway.”
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