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Updated: June 10, 2025
"Rod, then," continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the two girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden. "No, you don't! Fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has a fly rod in his hand! You come along!"
He enjoyed it immensely, only it seemed to him at moments that flirtation went further in France than in Millbrook, Connecticut, and he thought that Cecile might be a little less enthusiastic about Clifford, that perhaps it would be quite as well if Jacqueline sat further away from Rowden, and that possibly Colette could have, for a moment at least, taken her eyes from Elliott's face.
"But I say you're not married, you know," said the Englishman. "Hush," sighed Clifford, "I I married the daughter of an African duke. She was brought to the States by a slave trader in infancy." "Black?" gasped Mr Rowden. "Very black, but beautiful. I could not keep her. She left me, and is singing with Haverley's Minstrels now."
The name of the lady at the head of this establishment was Rowden; she had kept a school for several years in Hans Place, London, and among her former pupils had had the charge of Miss Mary Russell Mitford, and that clever but most eccentric personage, Lady Caroline Lamb.
She laughed hatefully, but preserved her pretense of calm, walked to the door, and as she reached it swung round and made an insulting gesture to Gethryn. "You! I will remember you!" The door slammed and a key rattled in the next box. Clinging to Gethryn, Yvonne passed down the long corridor to the vestibule, while Elliott and Rowden silently gathered up the masks and opera glasses.
After a while he muttered something about its being time for Rex's supper and got up and fussed about with a spirit lamp and broths and jellies, more like Rex's mother than a rough young bachelor. In the midst of his work there came a shower of blows on the studio door and Clifford, Rowden and Elliott trooped in without more ado.
He took his lunch at a small restaurant where he saw city clerks and others of that type going in, and afterwards, strolling up a dull little street which ended in a cul de sac, he spied a dingy archway, offering itself as an approach to a flight of equally dingy stairs. Here a brass plate, winking at the passer-by, stated that "Rowden and Owlett, Solicitors," would be found on the first floor.
"What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly, "Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton " "Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barree." The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner.
"Do you know it is snowing?" he said presently, peering out of the window as the cab rattled across the Pont Neuf. "Tant mieux!" cried the girl; "I shall make a snowball a " she opened her blue eyes impressively, "a very, very large one, and " "And?" "Drop it on the head of Mr Rowden," she announced, with cheerful decision.
Clifford gazed at him in meek reproof and then made a flank movement upon the champagne, but was again neatly foiled by Rowden. Yvonne looked serious, but presently leaned over and filled one of the long-stemmed goblets. "Only one, Mr Clifford; one for you to drink my health, but you must promise me truthfully not to take any more wine this evening!"
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