Short Fiction, P. G. Wodehouse [books for 20 year olds .txt] 📗

As Mr. Galloway had been in this frame of mind for a matter of eleven years, it seemed to Rollo not unreasonable to hope that he might continue in it permanently. He had the very strongest objection to his uncle marrying a chorus girl; and, as the years went on and the disaster did not happen, his hopes of playing the role of heir till the fall of the curtain grew stronger and stronger. He was one of those young men who must be heirs or nothing. This is the age of the specialist, and years ago Rollo had settled on his career. Even as a boy, hardly capable of connected thought, he had been convinced that his speciality, the one thing he could do really well, was to inherit money. All he wanted was a chance. It would be bitter if Fate should withhold it from him.

He did not object on principle to men marrying chorus girls. On the contrary, he wanted to marry one himself.

It was this fact which had given that turn to his thoughts which had finally resulted in the schedule.

The first intimation that Wilson had that the schedule was actually to be put into practical operation was when his employer, one Monday evening, requested him to buy a medium-sized bunch of the best red roses and deliver them personally, with a note, to Miss Marguerite Parker at the stage-door of the Duke of Cornwall’s Theatre.

Wilson received the order in his customary gravely deferential manner, and was turning to go; but Rollo had more to add.

“Flowers, Wilson,” he said, significantly.

“So I understood you to say, sir. I will see to it at once.”

“See what I mean? Third week, Wilson.”

“Indeed, sir?”

Rollo remained for a moment in what he would have called thought.

“Charming girl, Wilson.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Seen the show?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“You should,” said Rollo, earnestly. “Take my advice, old scout, and see it first chance you get. It’s topping. I’ve had the same seat in the middle of the front row of the stalls for two weeks.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Looks, Wilson! The good old schedule.”

“Have you noticed any satisfactory results, sir?”

“It’s working. On Saturday night she looked at me five times. She’s a delightful girl, Wilson. Nice, quiet girl⁠—not the usual sort. I met her first at a lunch at Oddy’s. She’s the last girl on the O.P. side. I’m sure you’d like her, Wilson.”

“I have every confidence in your taste, sir.”

“You’ll see her for yourself this evening. Don’t let the fellow at the stage-door put you off. Slip him half a crown or a couple of quid or something, and say you must see her personally. Are you a close observer, Wilson?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Because I want you to notice particularly how she takes it. See that she reads the note in your presence. I’ve taken a good deal of trouble over that note, Wilson. It’s a good note. Well expressed. Watch her face while she’s reading it.”

“Very good, sir. Excuse me, sir.”

“Eh?”

“I had almost forgotten to mention it. Mr. Galloway rang up on the telephone shortly before you came in.”

“What! Is he in England?”

Mr. Galloway was in the habit of taking occasional trips to Great Britain to confer with the general manager of his London branch. Rollo had grown accustomed to receiving no notice of these visits.

“He arrived two days ago on the Baltic, sir. He left a message that he was in London for a week, and would be glad if you would dine with him tomorrow at his club.”

Rollo nodded. On these occasions it was his practice to hold himself unreservedly at Mr. Galloway’s disposal. The latter’s invitations were royal commands. Rollo was glad that the visit had happened now. In another two weeks it might have been disastrous to the schedule.

The club to which the Braces King belonged was a richly but gloomily furnished building in Pall Mall, a place of soft carpets, shaded lights, and whispers. Grave, elderly men moved noiselessly to and fro, or sat in meditative silence in deep armchairs. Sometimes the visitor felt that he was in a cathedral, sometimes in a Turkish bath; while now and then there was a suggestion of the waiting-room of a more than usually prosperous dentist. It was magnificent, but not exhilarating.

Rollo was shown into the smoking-room, where his uncle received him. There was a good deal of Mr. Andrew Galloway. Grief, gnawing at his heart, had not sagged his ample waistcoat, which preceded him as he moved in much the same manner as Birnam Woods preceded the army of Macduff. A well-nourished hand crept round the corner of the edifice and enveloped Rollo’s in a powerful grip.

“Ah, my boy!” bellowed Mr. Galloway cheerfully. His voice was always loud. “Glad you’ve come.”

It would be absurd to say that Rollo looked at his uncle keenly. He was not capable of looking keenly at anyone. But certainly a puzzled expression came into his face. Whether it was the heartiness of the other’s handshake or the unusual cheeriness of his voice, he could not say; but something gave him the impression that a curious change had come over the Braces King. When they had met before during the last few years Mr. Galloway had been practically sixteen stone five of blood and iron⁠—one of those stern, soured men. His attitude had been that of one for whom Life’s music had ceased. Had he then inserted another record? His manner conveyed that idea.

Sustained thought always gave Rollo a headache. He ceased to speculate.

“Still got the same chef here, uncle?” he said. “Deuced brainy fellow. I always like dining here.”

“Here!” Mr. Galloway surveyed the somnolent occupants of the room with spirited scorn. “We aren’t going to dine in this forsaken old mausoleum. I’ve sent in my resignation today. If I find myself wanting this sort of thing at any time, I’ll go to Paris and hunt up the Morgue. Bunch of old deadbeats! Bah! I’ve engaged a table at Romano’s. That’s more in my line. Get your coat, and let’s be going.”

In the cab Rollo