"A table for eighteen,sir!It is quite too late to arrange it,except in a private room.""The ladies prefer the large room,"Trent answered decidedly,"and you must arrange it somehow.I'll give you carte blanche as to what you serve,but it must be of the best."The man bowed.This must be a millionaire,for the restaurant was the "Milan.""And the name,sir?""Scarlett Trent -you may not know me,but Lady Tresham,Lord Colliston,and the Earl of Howton are amongst my guests."The man saw no more difficulties.The name of Scarlett Trent was the name which impressed him.The English aristocrat he had but little respect for,but a millionaire was certainly next to the gods.
"We must arrange the table crossways,sir,at the end of the room,"he said."And about the flowers?""The best,and as many as you can get,"Trent answered shortly."Ihave a 1OO pound note with me.I shall not grumble if I get little change out of it,but I want value for the money.""You shall have it,sir!"the man answered significantly -and he kept his word.
Trent reached the theatre only as the people were streaming out.
In the lobby he came face to face with Ernestine and Francis.They were talking together earnestly,but ceased directly they saw him.
"I have been telling Captain Francis,"Ernestine said,"of your delightful invitation.""I hope that Captain Francis will join us,"Trent said coldly.
Francis stepped behind for a moment to light a cigarette.
"I shall be delighted,"he answered.
The supper party was one of those absolute and complete successes which rarely fall to the lot of even the most carefully thought out of social functions.Every one of Lady Tresham's guests had accepted the hurried invitation,every one seemed in good spirits,and delighted at the opportunity of unrestrained conversation after several hours at the theatre.The supper itself,absolutely the best of its kind,from the caviare and plovers'eggs to the marvellous ices,and served in one of the handsomest rooms in London,was really beyond criticism.To Trent it seemed almost like a dream,as he leaned back in his chair and looked down at the little party -the women with their bare shoulders and jewels,bathed in the soft glow of the rose-shaded electric lights,the piles of beautiful pink and white flowers,the gleaming silver,and the wine which frothed in their glasses.The music of the violins on the balcony blended with the soft,gay voices of the women.Ernestine was by his side,every one was good-humoured and enjoying his hospitality.Only one face at the table was a reminder of the instability of his fortunes -a face he had grown to hate during the last few hours with a passionate,concentrated hatred.Yet the man was of the same race as these people,his connections were known to many of them,he was making new friends and reviving old ties every moment.During a brief lull in the conversation his clear,soft voice suddenly reached Trent's ears.He was telling a story.
"Africa,"he was saying,"is a country of surprises.Attra seems to be a city of hopeless exile for all white people.Last time Iwas there I used to notice every day a very old man making a pretence of working in a kitchen garden attached to a little white mission-house -a Basle Society depot.He always seemed to be leaning on his spade,always gazing out seawards in the same intent,fascinated way.Some one told me his history at last.He was an Englishman of good position who had got into trouble in his younger days and served a term of years in prison.When he came out,sooner than disgrace his family further,he published a false account of his death and sailed under a disguised name for Africa.There he has lived ever since,growing older and sinking lower,often near fortune but always missing it,a slave to bad habits,weak and dissolute if you like,but ever keeping up his voluntary sacrifice,ever with that unconquerable longing for one last glimpse of his own country and his own people.I saw him,not many months ago,still there,still with his eyes turned seawards and with the same wistful droop of the head.Somehow I can't help thinking that that old man was also a hero."The tinkling of glasses and the sort murmuring of whispered conversation had ceased during Francis'story.Every one was a little affected -the soft throbbing of the violins upon the balcony was almost a relief.Then there was a little murmur of sympathetic remarks -but amongst it all Trent sat at the head of the table with white,set face but with red fire before his eyes.This man had played him false.He dared not look at Ernestine -only he knew that her eyes were wet with tears and that her bosom was heaving.
The spirits of men and women who sup are mercurial things,and it was a gay leave-taking half an hour or so later in the little Moorish room at the head of the staircase.But Ernestine left her host without even appearing to see his outstretched hand,and he let her go without a word.Only when Francis would have followed her Trent laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder.
"I must have a word with you,Francis,"he said.
"I will come back,"he said."I must see Miss Wendermott into her carriage."But Trent's hand remained there,a grip of iron from which there was no escaping.He said nothing,but Francis knew his man and had no idea of making a scene.So he remained till the last had gone and a tall,black servant had brought their coats from the cloak-room.
"You will come with me please,"Trent said,"I have a few words to say to you."Francis shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.
