RS. Chetwind-Chetwynde tells me that he was born in the gutter. She is picturesque. Born in Notting Dale, he was weaned in Somers Town. After achieving those necessities he emigrated (he took his parents) to Philadelphia. His education was acquired, I infer, upon all the railways and in most of the mines between Panama and Alaska. At thirty-five he still lacks some of the finer graces. He smokes a green cigar, and his manner of eating a boiled egg is acrobatic.
There are many stories about him. This begins from a journey round the world made by Sir Joseph Paignton, an iron-king of Durham, and his daughter. They came back through Canada. In a desolate region of Ontario they were taken to see a copper-mine which, after the manner of mines, produced nothing. A little man with a brown face and a yellow shirt received them. Sir Joseph had been privately informed that he was "on the make," and treated him with the arrogance of the man already made. Therefore Cicely Paignton was kind to him. Harry Blaker was allowed to look into two eyes of a darker blue than he had known. For the first time since his undistinguished birth in Notting Dale, a lady's hand lay on his arm. Sir Joseph Paignton, in taking leave, genially suggested that Harry Blaker was making a fool of himself in putting his capital down a barren mine. Mr. Blaker looked him in the eye.
"I've took root," said he. "While I've got a cent to pay a boy, I sit on the shaft." Sir Joseph laughed at him and turned away. Cicely lingered.
"Good luck!" said Cicely, holding his hand. "Good luck!" And she took away the memory of a grip and a long scar on a tanned cheek.
Some years went by. Sir Joseph Paignton, very loth, left this world and his money. His daughter remained to make the best of both under the guidance of Mrs. Chetwind-Chetwynde. That lady reigned in the big, ugly house in Mount Street, capably representing propriety till such time as a husband came to take that duty. Cicely Paignton gave no sign of hastening his arrival; nor, naturally, Mrs. Chetwind-Chetwynde.
One afternoon, a footman came in and said something to Cicely that made her face flame as she answered sharply "No!" Mrs. Chetwind-Chetwynde looked up. "Cyril Vaughan," said Cicely angrily.
"Well?"
"He is horrid."
"You have refused him?" Cicely nodded. "Yes, his family have no tact."
"He is horrid. It is not as if he cared, you know, really cared."
Mrs. Chetwind-Chetwynde laughed. "My dear, the world is exceedingly horrid. It does not care, you know, really care."
"I wish I were poor," said Cicely.
Mrs. Chetwind-Chetwynde laughed again. "To find out who really cares? Oh, my dear, it would not be worth while. There are many possible men who care sufficiently to be polite to you. A man who really cares is a boor, or a bore, or impossible. And why want to know? If a man appears to care for you invariably—without interludes—independently of his liver"—a footman came in—"and your complexion—it is more than yon have a right to expect. So don't expect it, my dear." Cicely sat with her hands clasped on her lap, leaning forward at the fire.
"I never know if you know about people, or if you're trying to make yourself believe you know," she said.
Mrs. Chetwind-Chetwynde laughed for the third time. "I don't want to believe that I know about people. Knowledge and wrinkles come together. I have a little of both." She looked at herself in the mirror of a cabinet, and reflected that she contrived to hide one. The mirror said nothing about the other.
And the footman was standing like a graven image at Cicely's elbow. Mrs. Chetwind-Chetwynde directed Cicely's attention to him. Cicely took up a card; her brow creased; she read aloud: "Harry Blaker. Hotel Cecil. 999, King William Street, E.C." She gazed upon Mrs. Chetwind-Chetwynde, who shook her head, denying all connection with a gentleman of such a taste in addresses. Then: "I know! Has he a scar?" cried Cicely.
"I did seem to notice 'e 'ad 'ad, ma'am."
In a moment there was ushered into the room a little man, who brought with him a heavy fur coat and a hat of soft felt. The latter was under his arm, and he advanced with his hands in his pockets.