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"And have you been entertaining him?" asked Deleglise. "Oh, yes, I entertained him," she replied. Her voice was singularly like her father's, with just the same suggestion of ever a laugh behind it. "We entertained each other," I said. "That's all right," said old Deleglise. "Stop and lunch with us. We will make ourselves a curry."
But let us hope you are wrong, Paul. Let us hope, for her sake, you are wrong." It was at one of Deleglise's Sunday suppers that I first met Urban Vane. The position, nor even the character, I fear it must be confessed, of his guests was never enquired into by old Deleglise.
But stirred into dangerous ambition at the call of an occasional tea or supper party, lured out of his depths by the example of old Deleglise, our landlord a man who for twenty years had made cooking his hobby Dan would at intervals venture upon experiment. Pastry, it became evident, was a thing he should never have touched: his hand was heavy and his temperament too serious.
They've put me in as caretaker an excellent arrangement: avoids all argument about rent." "Afraid it will soon come to an end, that excellent arrangement;" remarked old Deleglise, drily. "Why? Why should it?" "A house in Gower Street oughtn't to remain vacant long." "This one will." "You might tell me," asked old Deleglise, with a grim smile; "how do you manage it?
I mean it." "Leave the room!" she commanded, pointing with her angular arm towards the door. I did not wish to remain. I was about to retire with as much dignity as circumstances permitted. "Boy!" she added. At that I turned. "Now I won't go!" I replied. "See if I do." We stood glaring at each other. "What right have you in here?" she demanded. "I came to see Mr. Deleglise," I answered.
It is because you are a boy you are rude. Men are much nicer." "Oh, are they?" "Yes. You will be, when you are a man." The sound of voices rose suddenly in the hall. "Tom!" cried Miss Deleglise; and collecting her skirt in both hands, bolted down the corkscrew staircase leading to the kitchen, leaving me standing in the centre of the studio.
Their last tenant was a Polish Revolutionary, who, three months ago, poor fellow, was foolish enough to venture back to Russia, and who is now living rent free. The landlord of the house is an original old fellow, Deleglise the engraver. He occupies the rest of the house himself.
They who sat there talking in whispers until such time as old Deleglise turned towards them again, radiant with consciousness of success, the savoury triumph steaming between his hands, when, like the sudden swell of the Moonlight Sonata, the talk would rush once more into a roar, were men whose names were then and some are still more or less household words throughout the English-speaking world.
But in questions of art his temper was short. Pre-Raphaelism had gone out of fashion for the time being; the tendency of the new age was towards impressionism, and in disgust old Deleglise had broken his palette across his knee, and swore never to paint again. Artistic work of some sort being necessary to his temperament, he contented himself now with engraving.
One Sunday evening our poet, warmed by old Deleglise's Burgundy, forgetful whose recommendation had secured him the lowly but timely appointment, himself revealed the secret. "Most convenient place I've got," so he told old Deleglise. "Whole house to myself. I wander about; it just suits me." "I'm glad to hear that," murmured old Deleglise.
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