The Parts Men Play | Page 3

almost succeeded in creating a scandal; but, to the great
disappointment of them both, London flatly refused to believe there
was anything wrong. For one thing, she was the daughter of a
commoner--and the morality of the middle classes is a conviction
solidly rooted in English society. And then there were his writings.
How could one doubt the character of a man so dull?
Undiscouraged, they still maintained their perfectly innocent friendship,
and, like kittens playing with a spool, invested it with all the
appearances of an intrigue.
Dismissing his depressing thoughts, H. Stackton Dunckley noticed that

his cigarette was out, and closing his eyes, fell asleep once more.
III.
Madame Carlotti, clothed in a kimono of emphatic shade, sat by the fire
in her rooms in Knightsbridge and read her mail while sipping coffee.
She was the wife of an Italian diplomat, a sort of wandering
plenipotentiary who did business in every part of the world but London,
and with every Government but that of Britain. It was the signora's
somewhat incomprehensible complaint that her husband's duties forced
her to live in that fog-bound metropolis, and having thus achieved the
pedestal of a martyr, she poured abuse on everything English from
climate to customs. Possessed of a certain social dexterity and the
ability to make the most ordinary conversation seem to concern a
forbidden topic, Madame Carlotti was in great demand as a guest, and
abused more English habits and attended more dinner-parties than any
other woman in London.
From beneath seven tradesmen's letters she extracted one from Lady
Durwent.
'8 CHELMSFORD GARDENS,
'DEAREST LUCIA,--I am counting on you for next Friday. A young
American author studying England--I suppose like that Count
Something-or-other in _Pickwick Papers_--is coming to dinner. I
understand he drinks very little, so I am relying on you to thaw him.
'Stackton Dunckley insists upon coming, though I tell him that it is
dangerous; and of course people are saying dreadful things, I know. He
is so persistent. There will be just half-a-dozen unusual people there,
my dear, so don't fail me. Dinner will be at 8.30.--So sincerely, SYBIL
DERWENT.
'P.S.--Don't you think you could make Stackton interested in you? Your
husband is away so much.'
Madame Carlotti smiled with her teeth and drank some very strong

coffee.
'It ees deefficult,' she said, with that seductive formation of the lips
used by her countrywomen when speaking English, 'for a magnet to
attract putty. Still--there ees the American. At least I shall not be
altogether bored.'
IV.
That noon, in a restaurant of Chelsea, the district of Pensioners and
Bohemians, two young gentlemen, considerably in need of renovation
by both tailor and barber, met at a table and nodded gloomily. One was
Johnston Smyth, an artist, who, finding himself possessed neither of a
technique nor of the industry to acquire one, had evolved a
super-futurist style that had made him famous in a night. He was
spoken of as 'a new force;' it was prophesied that English Art would
date from him. Unfortunately his friends neglected to buy his paintings,
and as his art was a vivid one, consisting of vast quantities of colour
splashed indiscriminately on the canvas, it took more than his available
funds to purchase the accessories of his calling. He was tall, with
expressive arms that were too long for his sleeves, and a nose that
would have done credit to a field-marshal.
The other was Norton Pyford, the modernist composer, who had
developed the study of discord to such a point that his very features
seemed to lack proportion, and when he smiled his face presented a
lop-sided appearance. He had given a recital which set every one who
is any one in London talking. There was but one drawback--they talked
so much that he could persuade no one to listen, and he carried his
discords about with him, like a bad half-crown, unable to rid himself of
them. He was short, with a retreating forehead and an overhanging
wealth of black, thread-like hair, gamely covering the retreat as best it
could.
'Hello, Smyth!' drawled the composer, who affected a manner of speech
usually confined to footmen in the best families. 'Hah d' do?'
'Topping, Pyford. How's things?'

'Rotten.'
'Same here.'
'I say, you couldn't'----
'Just what I was going to ask you.'
The composer sighed; the artist echoed the sigh.
'Have you seen Shaw's show?'
'Awful, isn't it?'
'Putrid--but the English don't'----
'Ah! What a race!'
'Just so. I say, are you going to Lady Durwent's on Friday?'
'Yes, rather.'
'Look here, old fellow--don't dress, eh?'
'Right. Let's be natural--what? Just Bohemians.'
'The very thing. By-the-by, you don't know a laundry that gives'----
'No, I can't say I do.'
'Well, so long.'
'Good-bye.'
'See you Friday.'
'Right.'
V.

Mrs. Le Roy Jennings looked up from