Tristram of Blent | Page 5

perhaps--I have heard complaints of--er--effluvium from the river--I'm anxious to give you perfect satisfaction, madame. It wouldn't pay me not to. I want you to come back, madame, another summer. I play for the break, if I may so put it--I beg your pardon! Yes, Birdcup is really a palatial residence--Hants, yes--a beautiful county. But between ourselves, madame, his lordship is a little hard to deal with. Dilapidations I refer to, yes--his lordship is exacting as to dilapidations. On the whole, I should prefer to recommend Winterhurst--near Maidstone--a pleasant town, Maidstone, and the clergy, I'm informed, extremely active and sympathetic."
"It's a very ugly house," remarked Madame Zabriska, throwing away the photograph of Winterhurst with a gesture of decided refusal.
Mr Sloyd stroked his sleek hair and smiled deprecatingly.
"With residences as with--er--ladies, beauty is only skin deep," said he. "A thoroughly modern residence, madame--hot and cold--south aspect." He stopped suddenly, perceiving that the queer dark little woman in the big chair was laughing at him. "I don't intend to convey," he resumed with dignity, "that the mansion is hot and cold, but the bath-rooms----"
"Oh, I know," she interrupted, her great black eyes still deriding him, while her thin face was screwed up into seriousness, as she regarded Mr Sloyd's blameless garments of springtime gray, his black-and-white tie, his hair so very sleek, his drooping mustache, and his pink cheeks. She had taken his measure as perfectly as the tailor himself, and was enjoying the counterfeit presentment of a real London dandy who came to her in the shape of a house-agent. "I don't want a big place," she explained in English, with a foreign touch about it. "There's only myself and my uncle, Major Duplay--he'll be in directly, I expect--and we've no more money than we want, Mr Sloyd."
Sloyd's eyes wandered round the large and handsome sitting-room in Berridge's Hotel, where he found his client established.
"Oh, it doesn't matter for a few days," she added, detecting his idea and smiling again.
This explanation of her position had the effect of making Sloyd's manner rather less florid and his language less flowery.
"Among second-class but eminently genteel residences," he began, "I could confidently recommend----"
"Where's this?" she interrupted, picking up another photograph, and regarding it with apparent liking. Looking at the foot, she read aloud, "Merrion Lodge, property of the Right Honorable Baroness Tristram of Blent." She looked up sharply at Sloyd.
"Ye-es, ye-es," said Sloyd, without much enthusiasm. "A very pretty neighborhood--a few miles from Blentmouth--rising place, Blentmouth. And it's a cheap house--small, you see, and old-fashioned."
"Not hot and cold?" she asked with apparent innocence.
Sloyd smiled uncomfortably. "I could ascertain all that for you, madame."
He waited for her to speak again, but she had turned thoughtful as she sat fingering the photograph. Presently she smiled again and said, "Yes, find out about Merrion Lodge for me, Mr Sloyd."
He began to gather up his pictures and papers.
"Is Baron Tristram alive?" she asked suddenly.
Sloyd recovered his air of superiority.
"Her ladyship is a peeress in her own right," he explained.
"She's not married then?"
"A widow, madame."
"And wasn't her husband Baron Tristram?"
"Her husband would not have been Lord--excuse me, madame, we say Lord--Tristram of Blent. Her son will succeed to the title, of course. The family reside at Blent Hall, only a few hundred yards from Merrion Lodge, a picturesque mansion in the valley. The Lodge, you perceive, stands high."
"I don't understand the family arrangements," remarked Madame Zabriska, "but I daresay I shall learn it all if I go."
"If you had a 'Peerage,' madame----" he suggested, being himself rather vague about the mysteries of a barony by writ.
"I'll get one from the waiter presently. Good-morning, Mr Sloyd."
Sloyd was making his bow when the door opened and a man came in. He was tall, erect, and good-looking. Both air and manner were youthful, although perhaps with a trace of artifice; he would pass for thirty-five on a casual glance, but not after a longer one.
"My uncle, Major Duplay," said the little woman. "This is Mr Sloyd, who's come about the house, uncle."
Duplay greeted the house-agent with grave courtesy, and entered into conversation with him, while Madame Zabriska, relapsed again into an alert silence, watched the pair.
The last thing that Madame Zabriska--the style sat oddly on her child-like face and figure, but Mina Zabriska at the age of twenty-eight had been a widow three years--desired to do was harm; the thing she best loved to make was mischief. The essence of mischief lay for her--perhaps for everybody--in curiosity; it was to put people in the situations in which they least expected to find themselves, and to observe how they comported themselves therein. As for hurting their interests or even their feelings--no; she was certain that she did not want that; was she not always terribly sorry when that happened, as it sometimes, and