CONTENTS
II: PERMUTATIONS AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES
"Miss Spence will be down directly, sir."
"Thank you," said Mr. Hutton, without turning round. Janet Spence'sparlourmaid was so ugly—ugly on purpose, it always seemed to him,malignantly, criminally ugly—that he could not bear to look at hermore than was necessary. The door closed. Left to himself, Mr. Huttongot up and began to wander round the room, looking with meditative eyesat the familiar objects it contained.
Photographs of Greek statuary, photographs of the Roman Forum, colouredprints of Italian masterpieces, all very safe and well known. Poor, dearJanet, what a prig—what an intellectual snob! Her real taste wasillustrated in that water-colour by the pavement artist, the one she hadpaid half a crown for (and thirty-five shillings for the frame). Howoften his had heard her tell the story, how often expatiate on thebeauties of that skilful imitation of an oleograph! "A real Artist inthe streets," and you could hear the capital A in Artist as she spokethe words. She made you feel that part of his glory had entered intoJanet Spence when she tendered him that half-crown for the copy of theoleograph. She was implying a compliment to her own taste andpenetration. A genuine Old Master for half a crown. Poor, dear Janet!
Mr. Hutton came to a pause in front of a small oblong mirror. Stooping alittle to get a full view of his face, he passed a white, well-manicuredfinger over his moustache. It was as curly, as freshly auburn as it hadbeen twenty years ago. His hair still retained its colour, and there wasno sign of baldness yet—only a certain elevation of the brow."Shakespearean," thought Mr. Hutton, with a smile, as he surveyed thesmooth and polished expanse of his forehead.
Others abide our question, thou art free.... Footsteps in the sea ...Majesty ... Shakespeare, thou shouldst be living at this hour. No, thatwas Milton, wasn't it? Milton, the Lady of Christ's. There was no ladyabout him. He was what the women, would call a manly man. That was whythey liked him—for the curly auburn moustache and the discreetredolence of tobacco. Mr. Hutton smiled again; he enjoyed making fun ofhimself. Lady of Christ's? No, no. He was the Christ of Ladies. Verypretty, very pretty. The Christ of Ladies. Mr. Hutton wished there weresomebody he could tell the joke to. Poor, dear Janet wouldn't appreciateit, alas?
He straightened himself up, patted his hair, and resumed hisperegrination. Damn the Roman Forum; he hated those dreary photographs.
Suddenly he became aware that Janet Spence was in the room, standingnear the door. Mr. Hutton started, as though he had been taken in somefelonious act. To make these silent and spectral appearances was one ofJanet Spence's peculiar talents. Perhaps she had been there all thetime, had seen him looking at himself in the mirror. Impossible! But,still, it was disquieting.
"Oh, you gave me such a surprise," said Mr. Hutton, recovering his smileand advancing with outstretched hand to meet her.
Miss Spence was smiling too: her Gioconda smile, he had once called it,in a moment of half-ironical flattery. Miss Spence had taken thecompli