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The beauty specialist was impressive. Such neglect! Madame, but why? This should have been taken in hand years ago. However, it was not too late.
Things were done to her face; it was pressed and kneaded and steamed. It had mud applied to it. It had creams applied to it. It was dusted with powder. There were various finishing touches.
At last she was given a mirror. ‘I believe I do look younger,’ she thought to herself.
The dressmaking seance was equally exciting. She emerged feeling smart, modish, up-to-date.
At half-past one, Mrs Packington kept her appointment at the Ritz. Mr Parker Pyne, faultlessly dressed and carrying with him his atmosphere of soothing reassurance, was waiting for her.
‘Charming,’ he said, an experienced eye sweeping her from head to foot. ‘I have ventured to order you a White Lady.’
Mrs Packington, who had not contracted the cocktail habit, made no demur. As she sipped the exciting fluid gingerly, she listened to her benevolent instructor.
‘Your husband, Mrs Packington,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘must be made to Sit Up. You understand–to Sit Up. To assist in that, I am going to introduce to you a young friend of mine. You will lunch with him today.’
At that moment a young man came along, looking from side to side. He espied Mr Parker Pyne and came gracefully towards them.
‘Mr Claude Luttrell, Mrs Packington.’
Mr Claude Luttrell was perhaps just short of thirty. He was graceful, debonair, perfectly dressed, extremely handsome.
‘Delighted to meet you,’ he murmured.
Three minutes later Mrs Packington was facing her new mentor at a small table for two.
She was shy at first, but Mr Luttrell soon put her at her ease. He knew Paris well and had spent a good deal of time on the Riviera. He asked Mrs Packington if she were fond of dancing. Mrs Packington said she was, but that she seldom got any dancing nowadays as Mr Packington didn’t care to go out in the evenings.
‘But he couldn’t be so unkind as to keep you at home,’ said Claude Luttrell, smiling and displaying a dazzling row of teeth. ‘Women will not tolerate male jealousy in these days.’
Mrs Packington nearly said that jealousy didn’t enter into the question. But the words remained unspoken. After all, it was an agreeable idea.
Claude Luttrell spoke airily of night clubs. It was settled that on the following evening Mrs Packington and Mr Luttrell should patronize the popular Lesser Archangel.
Mrs Packington was a little nervous about announcing this fact to her husband. George, she felt, would think it extraordinary and possibly ridiculous. But she was saved all trouble on this score. She had been too nervous to make her announcement at breakfast, and at two o’clock a telephone message came to the effect that Mr Packington would be dining in town.
The evening was a great success. Mrs Packington had been a good dancer as a girl and under Claude Luttrell’s skilled guidance she soon picked up modern steps. He congratulated her on her gown and also on the arrangement of her hair. (An appointment had been made for her that morning with a fashionable hairdresser.) On bidding her farewell, he kissed her hand in a most thrilling manner. Mrs Packington had not enjoyed an evening so much for years.
A bewildering ten days ensued. Mrs Packington lunched, teaed, tangoed, dined, danced and supped. She heard all about Claude Luttrell’s sad childhood. She heard the sad circumstances in which his father lost all his money. She heard of his tragic romance and his embittered feelings towards women generally.
On the eleventh day they were dancing at the Red Admiral. Mrs Packington saw her spouse before he saw her. George was with the young lady from his office. Both couples were dancing.
‘Hallo, George,’ said Mrs Packington lightly, as their orbits brought them together.
It was with considerable amusement that she saw her husband’s face grow first red, then purple with astonishment. With the astonishment was blended an expression of guilt detected.
Mrs Packington felt amusedly mistress of the situation. Poor old George! Seated once more at her table, she watched them. How stout he was, how bald, how terribly he bounced on his feet! He danced in the style of twenty years ago. Poor George, how terribly he wanted to be young! And that poor girl he was dancing with had to pretend to like it. She looked bored enough now, her face over his shoulder where he couldn’t see it.
How much more enviable, thought Mrs Packington contentedly, was her own situation. She glanced at the perfect Claude, now tactfully silent. How well he understood her. He never jarred–as husbands so inevitably did jar after a lapse of years.
She looked at him again. Their eyes met. He smiled; his beautiful dark eyes, so melancholy, so romantic, looked tenderly into hers.
‘Shall we dance again?’ he murmured.
They danced again. It was heaven!
She was conscious of George’s apologetic gaze following them. It had been the idea, she remembered, to make George jealous. What a long time ago that was! She really didn’t want George to be jealous now. It might upset him. Why should he be upset, poor thing? Everyone was so happy…
Mr Packington had been home an hour when Mrs Packington got in. He looked bewildered and unsure of himself.
‘Humph,’ he remarked. ‘So you’re back.’
Mrs Packington cast off an evening wrap which had cost her forty guineas that very morning. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m back.’
George coughed. ‘Er–rather odd meeting you.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ said Mrs Packington.
‘I–well, I thought it would be a kindness to take that girl somewhere. She’s been having a lot of trouble at home. I thought–well, kindness, you know.’
Mrs Packington nodded. Poor old George–bouncing on his feet and getting so hot and being so pleased with himself.
‘Who’s that chap you were with? I don’t know him, do I?’
‘Luttrell, his name is. Claude Luttrell.’
‘How did you come across him?’
‘Oh, someone introduced me,’ said Mrs Packington vaguely.
‘Rather a queer thing for you to go out dancing–at your time of life. Musn’t make a fool of yourself, my dear.’
Mrs Packington smiled. She was feeling much too kindly to the universe in general to make the obvious reply. ‘A change is always nice,’ she said amiably.
‘You’ve got to be careful, you know. A lot of these lounge-lizard fellows going about. Middle-aged women sometimes make awful fools of themselves. I’m just warning you, my dear. I don’t like to see you doing anything unsuitable.’
‘I find the exercise very beneficial,’ said Mrs Packington.
‘Um–yes.’
‘I expect you do, too,’ said Mrs Packington kindly. ‘The great thing is to be happy, isn’t it? I remember your saying so one morning at breakfast, about ten days ago.’
Her husband looked at her sharply, but her expression was devoid of sarcasm. She yawned.
‘I must go to bed. By the way, George, I’ve been dreadfully extravagant lately. Some terrible bills will be coming in. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Bills?’ said Mr Packington.
‘Yes. For clothes. And massage. And hair treatment. Wickedly extravagant I’ve been–but I know you don’t mind.’
She passed up the stairs. Mr Packington remained with his mouth open. Maria had been amazingly nice about this evening’s business; she hadn’t seemed to care at all. But it was a pity she had suddenly taken to spending Money. Maria–that model of economy!
Women! George Packington shook his head. The scrapes that girl’s brothers had been getting into lately. Well, he’d been glad to help. All the same–and dash it all, things weren’t going too well in the city.
Sighing, Mr Packington in his turn slowly climbed the stairs.
Sometimes words that fail to make their effect at the time are remembered later. Not till the following morning did certain words uttered by Mr Packington really penetrate his wife’s consciousness.
Lounge lizards; middle-aged women; awful fools of themselves.
Mrs Packington was courageous at heart. She sat down and faced facts. A gigolo. She had read all about gigolos in the papers. Had read, too, of the follies of middle-aged women.
Was Claude a gigolo? She supposed he was. But then, gigolos were paid for and Claude always paid for her. Yes, but it was Mr Parker Pyne who paid, not Claude–or, rather, it was really her own two hundred guineas.
Was she a middle-aged fool? Did Claude Luttrell laugh at her behind her back? Her face flushed at the thought.
Well, what of it? Claude was a gigolo. She was a middle-aged fool. She supposed she should have given him something. A gold cigarette case. That sort of thing.
A queer impulse drove her out there and then to Asprey’s. The cigarette case was chosen and paid for. She was to meet Claude at Claridge’s for lunch.
As they were sipping coffee she produced it from her bag. ‘A little present,’ she murmured.
He looked up, frowned. ‘For me?’
‘Yes. I–I hope you like it.’
His hand closed over it and he slid it violently across the table. ‘Why did you give me that? I won’t take it. Take it back. Take it back, I say.’ He was angry. His dark eyes flashed.
She murmured, ‘I’m sorry,’ and put it away in her bag again.
There was constraint between them that day.
The following morning he rang her up. ‘I must see you. Can I come to your house this afternoon?’
She told him to come at three o’clock.
He arrived very white, very tense. They greeted each other. The constraint was more evident.
Suddenly he sprang up and stood facing her. ‘What do you think I am? That is what I’ve come to ask you. We’ve been friends, haven’t we? Yes, friends. But all the same, you think I’m–well, a gigolo. A creature who lives on women. A lounge lizard. You do, don’t you?’
‘No, no.’
He swept aside her protest. His face had gone very white. ‘You do think that! Well, it’s true. That’s what I’ve come to say. It’s true! I had my orders to take you about, to amuse you, to make love to you, to make you forget your husband. That was my job. A despicable one, eh?’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked.
‘Because I’m through with it. I can’t carry on with it. Not with you. You’re different. You’re the kind of woman I could believe in, trust, adore. You think I’m just saying this; that it’s part of the game.’ He came closer to her. ‘I’m going to prove to you it isn’t. I’m going away–because of you. I’m going to make myself into a man instead of the loathsome creature I am because of you.’
He took her suddenly in his arms. His lips closed on hers. Then he released her and stood away.
‘Goodbye. I’ve been a rotter–always. But I swear it will be different now. Do you remember once saying you liked to read the advertisements in the Agony column? On this day every year you’ll find there a message from me saying that I remember and am making good. You’ll know, then, all you’ve meant to me. One thing more. I’ve taken nothing from you. I want you to take something from me.’ He drew a plain gold seal ring from his finger. ‘This was my mother’s. I’d like you to have it. Now goodbye.’
George Packington came home early. He found his wife gazing into the fire with a faraway look. She spoke kindly but absently to him.
‘Look here, Maria,’ he jerked out suddenly. ‘About that girl?’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘I–I never meant to upset you, you know. About her. Nothing in it.’
‘I know. I was foolish. See as much as you like of her if it makes you happy.’
These words, surely, should have cheered George Packington. Strangely enough, they annoyed him. How could you enjoy taking a girl about when your wife fairly urged you on? Dash it all, it wasn’t decent! All that feeling of being a gay dog, of being a strong man playing with fire, fizzled out and died an ignominious death. George Packington felt suddenly tired and a great deal poorer in pocket. The girl was a shrewd little piece.
‘We might go away together somewhere for a bit if you like, Maria?’ he suggested timidly.
‘Oh, never mind about me. I’m quite happy.’
‘But I’d like to take you away. We might go to the Riviera.’
Mrs Packington smiled at him from a distance.
Poor old George. She was fond of him. He was such a pathetic old dear. There was no secret splendour in his life as there was in hers. She smiled more tenderly still.
‘That would be lovely, my dear,’ she said.
Mr Parker Pyne was speaking to Miss Lemon. ‘Entertainment account?’
‘One hundred and two pounds, fourteen and sixpence,’ said Miss Lemon.
The door was pushed open and Claude Luttrell entered. He looked moody.
‘Morning, Claude,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Everything go off satisfactorily?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘The ring? What name did you put in it, by the way?’
‘Matilda,’ said Claude gloomily. ‘1899.’
‘Excellent. What wording for the advertisement?’
‘“Making good. Still remember. Claude.”’
‘Make a note of that, please, Miss Lemon. The Agony column. November third for–let me see, expenses a hundred and two pounds, fourteen and six. Yes, for ten years, I think. That leaves us a profit of ninety-two pounds, two and fourpence. Adequate. Quite adequate.’
Miss Lemon departed.
‘Look here,’ Claude burst out. ‘I don’t like this. It’s a rotten game.’
