The Crack of Doom | Page 6

the station. Would I
send on what I required for a short visit, and meet them at eleven
o'clock on the bridge over the Serpentine? It was enough for me. I

packed a large portmanteau hastily, sent it to Charing Cross, and spent
the time at my disposal in the park, which was close to my hotel.
Although the invitation I had received gave me pleasure, I could not
altogether remove from my mind a vague sense of disquietude
concerning Herbert Brande and his Society. The advanced opinions I
had heard, if extreme, were not altogether alarming. But the mysterious
way in which Brande himself had spoken about the Society, and the
still more mysterious air which some of the members assumed when
directly questioned as to its object, suggested much. Might it not be a
revolutionary party engaged in a grave intrigue--a branch of some
foreign body whose purpose was so dangerous that ordinary disguises
were not considered sufficiently secure 1 Might they not have adopted
the jargon and pretended to the opinions of scientific faddists as a cloak
for designs more sinister and sincere? The experiment I witnessed
might be almost a miracle or merely a trick. Thinking it over thus, I
could come to no final opinion, and when I asked myself aloud, "What
are you afraid of?" I could not answer my own question. But I thought I
would defer joining the Society pending further information.
A few minutes before eleven, I walked towards the bridge over the
Serpentine. No ladies ap-* peared to be on it. There were only a couple
of smartly dressed youths there, one smoking a cigarette. I sauntered
about until one of the lads, the one who was not smoking, looked up
and beckoned to me. I approached leisurely, for it struck me that the
boy would have shown better breeding if he had come toward me,
considering my seniority.
"I am sorry I did not notice you sooner. Why did you not come on
when you saw us?" the smallest and slimmest youth called to me.
"In the name of--Miss--Miss--" I stammered.
"Brande; you haven't forgotten my name, I hope," Natalie Brande said
coolly. "This is my friend, Edith Metford. Metford, this is Arthur
Marcel."
"How do you do, Marcel? I am glad to meet you; I have heard

'favourable mention' of you from the Brandes," the second figure in
knickerbockers said pleasantly.
"How do you do, sir--madam--I mean--Miss--" I blundered, and then in
despair I asked Miss Brande, "Is this a tableau vivant? What is the
meaning of these disguises?" My embarrassment was so great that my
discourteous question may be pardoned.
"Our dress! Surely you have seen women rationally dressed before!"
Miss Brande answered complacently, while the other girl watched my
astonishment with evident amusement.
This second girl, Edith Metford, was a frank, handsome young woman,
but unlike the spirituelle beauty of Natalie Brande. She was perceptibly
taller than her friend, and of fuller figure. In consequence, she looked,
in my opinion, to even less advantage in her eccentric costume, or
rational dress, than did Miss Brande.
"Rationally dressed! Oh, yes. I know the divided skirt, but--"
Miss Metford interrupted me. "Do you call the divided skirt atrocity
rational dress?" she asked pointedly.
"Upon my honour I do not," I answered.
These girls were too advanced in their ideas of dress for me. Nor did I
feel at all at my ease during this conversation, which did not, however,
appear to embarrass them. I proposed hastily to get a cab, but they
demurred. It was such a lovely day, they preferred to walk, part of the
way at least. I pointed out that there might be drawbacks to this
amendment of my proposal. "What drawbacks?" Miss Metford asked.
"For instance, isn't it probable we shall all be arrested by the police?" I
replied.
"Rubbish! We are not in Russia," both exclaimed.
"Which is lucky for you," I reflected, as we commenced what was to

me a most disagreeable walk. I got them into a cab sooner than they
wished. At the railway station I did not offer to procure their tickets. To
do so, I felt, would only give offence. Critical glances followed us as
we went to our carriage. Londoners are becoming accustomed to
varieties, if not vagaries, in ladies' costumes, but the dress of my
friends was evidently a little out of the common even for them. Miss
Metford was just turning the handle of a carriage door, when I
interposed, saying, "This is a smoking compartment."
"So I see. I am going to smoke--if you don't object?"
"I don't suppose it would make any difference if I did," I said, with
unconscious asperity, for indeed this excess of free manners was jarring
upon me. The line dividing it