“Ta-ta, Mr Danford,” he nodded to the little mimic, and left the room.
“I shall walk a little way with you, Lionel,” said Sinclair, who had got up to say good-bye to his hostess.
“Come along with us,” replied Lionel. “Good-bye, dear Lady Carey. I am going to ring up old Victor de Laumel by telephone, and ask him what they think of us in ‘_la ville lumière_.’”
“My dear boy,” said Lady Carey, “you may be sure of this, that the smart Parisians would have found a way out of this difficulty before now. But at any rate, they never would have taken it _au serieux_, as you are doing; for they are too punctilious on the question of good taste, and more than anything fear ridicule!”
A few days after this animated discussion at Lady Carey’s, there were to be seen dashing along Pall Mall numerous chariots which halted at the ex-Walton Club, where also fair ladies were alighting from their wheeled couches (these had been designed by Sinclair at Lionel’s suggestion). There were also public conveyances of a practical and artistic shape, made to accommodate several passengers in a comfortable posture. The fastidious designer could not conceal his satisfaction at the disappearance of advertisements, which formerly had distracted his æsthetic mind, and roused his indignation at the public’s gullibility. The Walton was filling fast. Everyone interested in the future of art was there, as Lord Somerville had promised to give an address on the Royal Academy; and the telephones had been kept going by friends and acquaintances of his, inviting their friends to attend the meeting.
Who was that throwing the reins to his groom and jumping out of his chariot? A familiar face. Of course, it was H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum, so well known to every shoe-black. He had been the very first Royal Prince to apply to the Committee of Social Guides and was now the mentor of Mrs Webster. It was only natural that the eldest of the Princes should make the first move, for rulers still they were, if only in name and amongst themselves. The other members of the august family had rushed zealously into the arena, and they were all enjoying the work. Here was Montagu Vane walking up the steps and entering through the swing doors at the same time as H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum who occasionally, when Mrs Webster gave him time to breathe, instructed the _dilettante_ in the art of knowing who was who. Vane had not yet adopted a chariot; when he was not going far from home he walked, on other occasions he would ask his friend Mowbray to give him a lift; for Lord Mowbray had greatly improved in the handling of the ribbons. He had lately attached to his service a young member of the Royal Family, for he could endure no one lower than a scion of royalty as his constant companion through life! Lord Petersham, his hand on old Watson’s shoulder, was slowly mounting the steps. Watson had lost his insular swagger, while his lordly companion was daily forgetting his love of party politics as he learnt more of humanity. Since they were no more beholden to each other for liberal cheques, and introductions into Society, the two men understood each other better. On their heels rushed Tom Hornsby; he was here, there and everywhere, witty Tom; raillery was still his weapon, but he appeared very old-fashioned to his contemporaries, whilst his satirical outbursts seemed now more antiquated than the _Tatler_ or _Spectator_ of Georgian civilisation. There, with his nonchalant demeanour, came along George Murray, who had, a few days previously, begged his publishers to destroy his last MS., as he wished to observe the turn of events before bringing out his next novel.