“Lord Walthamstowe and he have come to an arrangement,” said Pennell,
speaking very slowly, “that his marriage with Miss Elinor Leyton shall
take place sooner than was at first intended. The Limerick Rangers
are under orders for foreign service, and Captain Pullen naturally
wishes to take his wife out with him, and though, of course, all this
is no excuse for his omitting to write you a letter, the necessary
preparations and the consequent excitement _may_ have put his duty out
of his head. Of course,” he continued, “you know that Ralph is engaged
to marry Miss Leyton?”

“I ’eard something of it,” replied the Baroness reluctantly, “but one
never knows what is true and what is not. Anyway, Captain Pullen didn’t
give out the news ’imself! ’E seemed ’appy enough without Miss Leyton,
didn’t ’e, ’Arriet?”

But turning round to emphasise her words, she found that Harriet had
not followed them into the library. Whereupon she became confidential. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Pennell,” she continued, “’e just be’aved
like a scoundrel to our little ’Arriet there. ’E ran after the gal all
day, and spent all ’is evenings in our private sitting-room, gazing
at ’er as if ’e would eat ’er, whilst she sang and played to ’im. ’E
never said a word about marrying Miss Leyton. It was all ‘’Ally, ’Ally,
’Ally’ with ’im. And if the gal ’adn’t been a deal too clever for ’im,
and wise enough to see what a vain zany ’e is, she might ’ave broken
’er ’eart over it. The conceited jackanapes!”

“But she has not fretted,” said Anthony Pennell eagerly. “Not she! I wouldn’t let ’er! She’s meat for Captain Pullen’s master! A gal with fifteen ’undred a year in ’er own ’ands, and with a pair of
eyes like that! Oh! no! ’Arriet can pick up a ’usband worth two of your
cousin any day!”

“I should think so indeed,” replied Mr. Pennell fervently, “I have
heard Mrs. Pullen mention Miss Brandt, but she did not prepare me for
meeting so beautiful a girl. But I can hardly wonder at my cousin
running away from her, Madame Gobelli. Knowing himself to be already
engaged, Miss Brandt must have proved a most dangerous companion. Perhaps he found his heart was no longer under his own control, and
thought discretion the better part of valour. You must try and look
upon his conduct in the best light you can!”

“Oh! well! it don’t signify much anyway, for ’e’s no miss at the Red
’Ouse, I can tell you, and ’Arriet could marry to-morrow if she chose,
and to a man worthy of ’er. But now you must look at my Spode.”

She walked up to a tall cabinet at one end of the room, which was piled
with china, and took up a fragile piece in her hands. “Do you see that?” she said, turning up the plate and showing the
mark upon the bottom, “there it is, you see! There’s the M. These
five pieces are said to be the oldest in existence. And here’s a cup
of Limoges. And that’s Majolica. Do you know the marks of Majolica? They’re some of the rarest known! A cross on a shield. The first real
bit of china I ever possessed was a Strasbourg. Have you ever seen any
Dutch Pottery--marked with an A.P.? I picked that up at an old Jew’s
shop in the market in Naples. And this Capo di Monte, strange to say,
in a back alley in Brighton. There’s nothing I like better than to grub
about back slums and look for something good. Some of my best pieces
’ave come out of pawnbrokers’ shops. That plate you’re looking at is
old Flemish--more than two ’undred years, I believe! It came out of the
rag market at Bruges. There used to be first-rate pickings to be ’ad at
Bruges and Ghent and in Antwerp some years ago, but the English ’ave
pretty well cleared ’em out.”

“I never saw a better private collection, Madame Gobelli,” said Anthony
Pennell, as he gloated over the delicate morsels of Sèvres and Limoges
and Strasbourg. “The Baron should have had an old curiosity and
bric-a-brac establishment, instead of anything so prosaic as boots and
shoes.”

“O! I couldn’t ’ave ’ad it!” exclaimed the Baroness, “it would ’ave
gone to my ’eart to sell a good bargain when I ’ad made it! My cups
and saucers and plates and teapots are like children to me, and if I
thought my Bobby would sell ’em when I was gone, I believe I should
rise from my grave and whack ’im.”

The woman became almost womanly as her eyes rested lovingly on her
art treasures. It seemed incongruous to Pennell, to watch her huge
coarse hands, with their thick stumpy fingers and broad chestnut nails,
fingering the delicate fabric with apparent carelessness. Cup after cup
and vase and plate she almost tossed over each other, as she pushed
some away to make room for others, and piled them up on the top of one
another, until he trembled lest they should all come toppling down
together. “You are more used to handle these treasures than I am,” he remarked
presently, “I should be too much afraid of smashing something, to move
them so quickly as you do.”

“I never broke a bit of china in my life,” returned the Baroness
energetically. “I’ve broken a stick over a man’s back, more than once,
but never ’ad an accident with my plates and dishes. ’Ow do you account
for that?”

“You must have a flow of good luck!” said Mr. Pennell, “I am so
fearful for mine that I keep all the best under glass!”

“I ’ave more friends to ’elp me than perhaps you know of,” said the
Baroness, mysteriously, “but it ain’t only that! I never let a servant
dust it! Miss Wynward does it, but she’s too much afraid to do more
than touch ’em with the tip of her feather brush. They come to me
sometimes and complain that the china is dirty. ‘Let it be dirty,’ I
say, ‘_that_ won’t break it, but if you clean it, you will!’ Ha! ha! ha!”

At that moment Harriet Brandt entered the room, moving sinuously across
the carpet as a snake might glide to its lair. Anthony Pennell could
not take his eyes off that gliding walk of hers. It seemed to him the
very essence of grace. It distracted all his attention from the china. “The Baron has just come in,” observed Harriet to her hostess. “Oh! well! come along and leave the rest of the china till after
dinner,” said Madame Gobelli. “Gustave likes to ’ave ’is dinner as soon
as ’e comes ’ome.”

She thrust her arm through that of Anthony Pennell, and conducted
him to the dining-room, where the Baron (without having observed the
ceremony of changing his coat or boots) was already seated just as he
had come in, at the table. He gave a curt nod to the visitor as Mr.
Pennell’s name was mentioned to him, and followed it up immediately
by a query whether he would take fish. Mr. Pennell sat out the meal
with increasing amazement at every course. He, who was accustomed, in
consequence of his popularity, to sit at the tables of some of the
highest in the land, could liken this one to nothing but a farmhouse
dinner.