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Updated: May 15, 2025
He had a marvellous belief in this woman and in her power of attracting. "You are not a woman's man, Matravers, or you would know that her beauty is not a matter of curves and colouring! You cannot judge her as a piece of statuary. All your remarks you would retract if you talked with her for five minutes.
He's a queer sort, anyway. Comes here every blessed night, and in the same place. Never misses. Once he came sixpence short, and there was a rare fuss. They wouldn't let him in, and he wouldn't go away. I lent it him at last." "Did he pay you back?" Matravers asked. "The very next night; never had to ask him, either. There goes the bell, sir. Curtain up in two minutes."
That's what makes it so odd, your doing all this for me. I can't understand it, I'm damned if I can!" Matravers stood over him, a silent, unresponsive figure, seeking only to make his escape. With difficulty he broke in upon the torrent of words. "Will you do me the favour, Mr. Drage," he begged earnestly, "of saying no more about it. Any man of leisure would have done for you what I have done.
Then he drew a deep sigh, and there were tears in his eyes. He did not say a word. Matravers continued. "It will be a great pleasure for me," he said quietly. "What I propose is to invest a thousand pounds for that purpose in Freddy's name. In fact, I have taken the liberty of already doing it. The papers are here." Matravers laid an envelope on the little table between them. Then he rose up.
Matravers, one of the first to hear it, was one of the most interested perhaps because his sensitive ears had recognized in it that peculiar inflection, the true ring of earnestness. For it was essentially a human cry, a cry of sorrow, a strange note charged in its very hoarseness and spontaneity with an unutterable pathos.
At her door an hour later Berenice saw the outline of a figure now become very familiar to her, and Matravers, who had been leaving a box of roses, whose creamy pink-and-white blossoms, mingled together in a neighbouring flower-shop, had pleased his fancy, heard his name called softly across the pavement. He turned, and saw Berenice stepping from her carriage.
I am not sure," he continued, "that I dare not warrant you to retract them before this evening is over. At least, I ask you to stay. I will run my risk of your pulverization." The curtain rang up again, the play proceeded. But not the same play at least, so it seemed to Matravers not the same play, surely not the same woman!
I want him to see me. Hullo! Jack," he shouted, leaning out of the cab, "I've been run over, right over, face all buggy. Look at it! Hands too," spreading them out. "He's a nice boy," Freddy continued as the cab turned a corner, "but he can't run near so fast as me, and he's lots older. Hullo! here we are!" kicking vigorously at the apron. Matravers looked up in surprise.
"Matravers is an odd sort," he remarked. "I suppose it is one of the penalties of genius to be compelled to do eccentric things. I must have my supper alone." "Or with us," she said. "You know Mr. Thorndyke, don't you? There is plenty of room here." Matravers stood at an open window, reading a note by the grey dawn light.
Ellison touched him upon the elbow. "You must come with me and be presented to Berenice," he said. Matravers shook his head. "Please excuse me," he said; "I would really rather not." Ellison held out a crumpled half-sheet of notepaper. "This has just been brought in to me," he said. Matravers read the single line, hastily written, and in pencil: "Bring your friend to me.
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