The Ghost | Page 2

of the two menials motionless behind the glass of its
portals, when a tandem equipage drew up in front of the pile, and the
menials darted out, in their white gloves, to prove that they were alive
and to justify their existence.
It was an amazingly complete turnout, and it well deserved all the
attention it attracted, which was considerable. The horses were
capricious, highly polished grays, perhaps a trifle undersized, but with
such an action as is not to be bought for less than twenty-five guineas a
hoof; the harness was silver-mounted; the dog-cart itself a creation of
beauty and nice poise; the groom a pink and priceless perfection. But
the crown and summit of the work was the driver--a youngish
gentleman who, from the gloss of his peculiarly shaped collar to the
buttons of his diminutive boots, exuded an atmosphere of expense. His
gloves, his scarf-pin, his watch-chain, his mustache, his eye-glass, the
crease in his nether garments, the cut of his coat-tails, the curves of his
hat--all uttered with one accord the final word of fashion, left nothing

else to be said. The correctness of Keith Prowse's clerk was as naught
to his correctness. He looked as if he had emerged immaculate from the
outfitter's boudoir, an achievement the pride of Bond Street.
As this marvellous creature stood up and prepared to alight from the
vehicle, he chanced to turn his eye-glass in my direction. He scanned
me carelessly, glanced away, and scanned me again with a less
detached stare. And I, on my part, felt the awakening of a memory.
"That's my cousin Sullivan," I said to myself. "I wonder if he wants to
be friends."
Our eyes coquetted. I put one foot into the roadway, withdrew it,
restored it to the roadway, and then crossed the street.
It was indeed the celebrated Sullivan Smith, composer of those so
successful musical comedies, "The Japanese Cat," "The Arabian Girl,"
and "My Queen." And he condescended to recognize me! His gestures
indicated, in fact, a warm desire to be cousinly. I reached him. The
moment was historic. While the groom held the wheeler's head, and the
twin menials assisted with dignified inactivity, we shook hands.
"How long is it?" he said.
"Fifteen years--about," I answered, feeling deliciously old.
"Remember I punched your head?"
"Rather!" (Somehow I was proud that he had punched my head.)
"No credit to me," he added magnanimously, "seeing I was years older
than you and a foot or so taller. By the way, Carl, how old did you say
you were?"
He regarded me as a sixth-form boy might regard a fourth-form boy.
"I didn't say I was any age," I replied. "But I'm twenty-three."
"Well, then, you're quite old enough to have a drink. Come into the

club and partake of a gin-and-angostura, old man. I'll clear all this
away."
He pointed to the equipage, the horses, and the groom, and with an
apparently magic word whispered into the groom's ear he did in fact
clear them away. They rattled and jingled off in the direction of
Leicester Square, while Sullivan muttered observations on the groom's
driving.
"Don't imagine I make a practice of tooling tandems down to my club,"
said Sullivan. "I don't. I brought the thing along to-day because I've
sold it complete to Lottie Cass. You know her, of course?"
"I don't."
"Well, anyhow," he went on after this check, "I've sold her the entire
bag of tricks. What do you think I'm going to buy?"
"What?"
"A motor-car, old man!"
In those days the person who bought a motor-car was deemed a fearless
adventurer of romantic tendencies. And Sullivan so deemed himself.
The very word "motor-car" then had a strange and thrilling romantic
sound with it.
"The deuce you are!" I exclaimed.
"I am," said he, happy in having impressed me. He took my arm as
though we had been intimate for a thousand years, and led me
fearlessly past the swelling menials within the gate to the club
smoking-room, and put me into a grandfather's chair of pale heliotrope
plush in front of an onyx table, and put himself into another
grandfather's chair of heliotrope plush. And in the cushioned quietude
of the smoking-room, where light-shod acolytes served
gin-and-angostura as if serving gin-and-angostura had been a religious
rite, Sullivan went through an extraordinary process of unchaining

himself. His form seemed to be crossed and re-crossed with
chains--gold chains. At the end of one gold chain was a gold
cigarette-case, from which he produced gold-tipped cigarettes. At the
end of another was a gold matchbox. At the end of another, which he
may or may not have drawn out by mistake, were all sorts of
things--knives, keys, mirrors, and pencils. A singular ceremony! But I
was now in the world of gold.