Arnold Bennett - Imperial Palace

“What is she going to say?” he thought. He half-expected, after the exposure of the realities of cookery which she had been witnessing, that she would say that never again could she enjoy a meal. She confronted him with a swift movement; then paused, her lips apart. He saw Sir Henry cross-examining the master across the busy, reverberating kitchen. And on the edge of his held of vision he saw Gracie’s beauty, and the dazzling smartness of her frock.

“I must work!” she exclaimed, in a rich, passionate whisper. “I must work! This place makes me ashamed. Ashamed. I wish I could put a pinafore on, and work here, with all these men, instead of going back to that awful restaurant full of greedy rotters. Why can’t I work? I must begin my life all over again.” Then, more quietly: “Well, I did start some work this morning, after Smithfield. Oh! I told you, didn’t I? I swear I will keep it up. Don’t you believe me?” Her tone was now wistfully appealing for confidence and encouragement.

“Yes, I believe you. Of course you will keep it up,” said Evelyn, staggered by the astonishing outburst. He recalled that in the morning she had made a vague brief reference to writing. Was writing, then, to be her work?

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” she said sadly.

A man strode through the kitchen carrying a pale dish on a tray.

“Oh! My soufflé!” cried Gracie. “It is. I know it is. I’d forgotten all about it, and you never reminded me!”

She almost ran to the master.

“Good-bye, maître! Au revoir. You have been all that is most amiable to us. Thank you. Thank you.”

“But——”

“Thank you again.”

Her tone was definite, imperative.

The master, puzzled, took the proffered highly manicured hand. She was reducing him to his proper social level, after all this pretence about maîtrise. But the master brought his defences into action.

“Too honoured!” he said, with geniality, with deference; and yet the steel breastplate glinted through. The touch of his hand round hers indicated the proud reserve which as the prince of his great world he was entitled to show to no matter whom. And the master consoled his pride further by a Gallic reflection upon the nature of beautiful girls. Toys! Still, Gracie had very much impressed him.

Gracie scurried off towards the frontier, Evelyn following.

“My soufflé! It’s gone!”

And indeed a waiter was now disappearing with it over the frontier. The tail of Gracie’s brilliant skirt disappeared after him. The whole kitchen was momentarily agitated by the flying spectacle.

When Evelyn and Gracie reached table No. 37, having traversed the staring restaurant in a scarcely dignified dash, the soufflé was already magically deposited on the side-table from which No. 37 was served.

Sir Henry did not arrive till quite five minutes later. What remained of the soufflé was then cold. But Sir Henry did not fancy soufflés.

“That fellow has a nerve!” thought Evelyn, “pumping the ingenuous Planquet before my face, and behind my back too!”

I

At ten minutes to eleven Evelyn said that urgent work compelled him to leave them. He had not asked Gracie to dance again, and she had given not the slightest sign that she wished him to do so. Time had passed quickly. Evelyn had been relating the somewhat melodramatic professional history of Maître Planquet. Also quite a number of minutes had gone to the business, suddenly undertaken by Gracie, of writing a note and sending it across to Nancy Penkethman and obtaining a reply.

“But you’re coming upstairs to my little party later,” she said to Evelyn with a confident inviting smile. “You coming, daddy?” she added negligently to Sir Henry.

“No,” said Sir Henry, promptly, positively and curtly.

Gracie kept her smile waiting for Evelyn’s answer. A smile which could not reasonably have been described otherwise than as irresistible. Since the visit to the kitchens her demeanour to the guest had been even more exquisitely agreeable than before. Forgotten, apparently, was the short passionate outburst concerning work!

“I’m afraid I mustn’t,” Evelyn said quietly. He had no intention whatever of going to her party, to meet people whom he did not personally know, and of the frivolous, notorious sort, which he had no desire to know. Indeed he had been wondering how a unique girl such as Gracie, and a public power such as Lord Watlington, could have arrived at intimacy with smart, merely ornamental futilities such as Nancy Penkethman, Lady Devizes and the two tall Cheddars. Further, his sense of proportion, of the general plan of a day and of a life, made him hostile to the very idea of these suddenly, capriciously arranged festivities. Still further, he was tired, and he thought that Gracie ought to be tired too.

But he had a far stronger motive for refusing. He emphatically did not want to placard himself too strikingly with a famous girl like Gracie. Already (he recalled again and again) the entire upper-staff of his hotel was certainly aware that he had taken her to Smithfield at an ungodly hour that morning, and that immediately on their return to the Palace he had shown her over parts of the hotel. Also that she had been enquiring for him in the afternoon and had asked for the number of his car. And had he not dined with her that night? Was he not still, in fullest publicity, sitting at her father’s table? Had she not danced with him? Had he not exhibited to her the kitchens of Maître Planquet? Impossible that he should add fatuity to indiscretion, and increase tittle-tattle, by going to her infantile party, which probably he would not be permitted to leave till 2 or 3 a.m.! And why should he imperil his next day’s work by turning night into day? He was a serious man, admired, loved and feared by other serious men. He hated any form of notoriety for himself. And he would not yield to this bewildering, lovely chit.

“Oh! But you can’t say ‘No,’ ” Gracie protested sweetly.

“Afraid I must,” Evelyn insisted, and rose to depart. “So many thanks for your hospitality,” he said in a formal tone, addressed equally to father and daughter.

“But I’ve told them you’re coming!” said Gracie.

“Whom?”

“Nancy Penkethman. In my note. I’ve promised you to them.”

Evelyn laughed a little, saying: “A young woman as beautiful as you are is entitled to break any promise. I’m so sorry. Good night. I’m fearfully sorry.”

“I say, Orcham,” Sir Henry stopped him.

“Yes?”

“You aren’t forgetting my message to you this morning?”

Evelyn acted shame and alarm.

“Upon my soul I was!” he exclaimed. “Old age! Old age! Do forgive me. You wanted to see me—wasn’t it?”

“I’d like to have five minutes some time.”

“You and your five minutes!” thought Evelyn. “Do you imagine I can’t see through you?” And aloud: “I’ll be delighted if I can be of any use.”

“I’m busy to-morrow morning,” said Sir Henry.

“And my afternoon’s full up,” Evelyn instantly retorted; and added, in a tone intentionally sardonic: “Our Annual Meeting.”

“Oh, really! Well, there’s no frantic hurry,” said Sir Henry, very calm. “Shall we say day after to-morrow, or the day after that. I shall be here for a few days, might be here for a few weeks.” Evelyn drew out his pocket engagement-book and they fixed a rendezvous.

“It’s coming at last,” said Evelyn to himself as he walked away. “As if the man didn’t know I knew he knew all about the shareholders’ meeting!” He was only sardonic, not apprehensive.

As for Gracie, the girl’s smile, at parting, had lost none of its delicious, acquiescent sweetness. She might be erratic, wayward, unpredictable; but she had manners.