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The next number but one was the Gorla Mustelford debut, and the house settled itself down to yawn and fidget and chatter for ten or twelve minutes while a troupe of talented Japanese jugglers performed some artistic and quite uninteresting marvels with fans and butterflies and lacquer boxes.
Lady Shalem, sitting well in the front of her box, lowered her observant eyes to her programme and her massive bangles. The evidence of her triumph did not need staring at. To the uninitiated or unappreciative the dancing of Gorla Mustelford did not seem widely different from much that had been exhibited aforetime by exponents of the posturing school.
"I don't see what other point of view they could possibly take," said Yeovil sharply; "if Gorla thinks that the necessities of art, or her own inclinations, demand that she should dance in public, why can't she do it in Paris or even Vienna? Anywhere would be better, one would think, than in London under present conditions."
"Thank you," he said again in a cheerful affirmative, as the question of hock in a tall ice-cold goblet was propounded to him. "I've come to tell you the latest about the Gorla Mustelford evening," he continued. "Old Laurent is putting his back into it, and it's really going to be rather a big affair. She's going to out-Russian the Russians.
"It would be rather fun," she said, running over in her mind the possibilities of the suggested supper-party. "It would be jolly useful," put in Ronnie eagerly; "you could get all sorts of interesting people together, and it would be an excellent advertisement for Gorla."
So if in time to come you need a friend, wish for me, and I will not fail you. As before, the cows were standing in the spot where he had left them, ready to set out. All that day they walked, on and on, and on, Covan son of Gorla walking behind them, till night fell while they were on the banks of a river. 'We can go no further, spake Covan to the cows.
However, that is probably the fault of my imagination I've either got too much or too little. Anyhow it is an understood thing that she is to take London by storm." "When I last saw Gorla Mustelford," observed Yeovil, "she was a rather serious flapper who thought the world was in urgent need of regeneration and was not certain whether she would regenerate it or take up miniature painting.
The highly imaginative titles that she had bestowed on her dances, the "Life of a fern," the "Soul-dream of a topaz," and so forth, at least gave her audience and her critics something to talk about. In themselves they meant absolutely nothing, but they induced discussion, and that to Gorla meant a great deal.
This time it was easy for the young man to carry his prize, and after giving thanks to the raven for his aid, he went on to the river. In the deep dark pool of which the old man had spoken the silver-sided salmon was lying under a rock. 'Surely I, good fisher as I am, can catch him, said Covan son of Gorla. And cutting a slender pole from a bush, he fastened a line to the end of it.
I'll give it at a restaurant, that's all. I can see Murrey's point of view, and sympathise with it, but I'm not going to throw Gorla over." There was another pause of uncomfortably protracted duration. "I say, this is a top-hole omelette," said Ronnie. It was his only contribution to the conversation, but it was a valuable one.
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