Chapter 2

THE EPISODE OF THE GENTLEMAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING

One day, about those times, I went round to call on my aunt, Lady
Tepping. And lest you accuse me of the vulgar desire to flaunt my fine
relations in your face, I hasten to add that my poor dear old aunt is
a very ordinary specimen of the common Army widow. Her husband, Sir
Malcolm, a crusty old gentleman of the ancient school, was knighted
in Burma, or thereabouts, for a successful raid upon naked natives, on
something that is called the Shan frontier. When he had grown grey
in the service of his Queen and country, besides earning himself
incidentally a very decent pension, he acquired gout and went to his
long rest in Kensal Green Cemetery. He left his wife with one daughter,
and the only pretence to a title in our otherwise blameless family.

My cousin Daphne is a very pretty girl, with those quiet, sedate manners
which often develop later in life into genuine self-respect and real
depth of character. Fools do not admire her; they accuse her of being
"heavy." But she can do without fools; she has a fine, strongly built
figure, an upright carriage, a large and broad forehead, a firm chin,
and features which, though well-marked and well-moulded, are yet
delicate in outline and sensitive in expression. Very young men seldom
take to Daphne: she lacks the desired inanity. But she has mind, repose,
and womanly tenderness. Indeed, if she had not been my cousin, I almost
think I might once have been tempted to fall in love with her.

When I reached Gloucester Terrace, on this particular afternoon, I found
Hilda Wade there before me. She had lunched at my aunt's, in fact. It
was her "day out" at St. Nathaniel's, and she had come round to spend it
with Daphne Tepping. I had introduced her to the house some time before,
and she and my cousin had struck up a close acquaintance immediately.
Their temperaments were sympathetic; Daphne admired Hilda's depth and
reserve, while Hilda admired Daphne's grave grace and self-control, her
perfect freedom from current affectations. She neither giggled nor aped
Ibsenism.

A third person stood back in the room when I entered--a tall and
somewhat jerry-built young man, with a rather long and solemn face, like
an early stage in the evolution of a Don Quixote. I took a good look
at him. There was something about his air that impressed me as both
lugubrious and humorous; and in this I was right, for I learned later
that he was one of those rare people who can sing a comic song with
immense success while preserving a sour countenance, like a Puritan
preacher's. His eyes were a little sunken, his fingers long and nervous;
but I fancied he looked a good fellow at heart, for all that, though