“I shall pay my call on Mrs. Howexden,”
murmured Appleplex.
The suburban evening was grey and yellow on Sunday;
the gardens of the small houses to left and right
were rank with ivy and tall grass and lilac bushes;
the tropical South London verdure was dusty above and
mouldy below; the tepid air swarmed with flies.
Eeldrop, at the window, welcomed the smoky smell
of lilac, the gramaphones, the choir of the Baptist
chapel, and the sight of three small girls playing
cards on the steps of the police station.
“On such a night as this,” said Eeldrop,
“I often think of Scheherazade, and wonder what
has become of her.”
Appleplex rose without speaking and turned to the
files which contained the documents for his “Survey
of Contemporary Society.” He removed the
file marked London from between the files Barcelona
and Boston where it had been misplaced, and turned
over the papers rapidly. “The lady you
mention,” he rejoined at last, “whom I
have listed not under S. but as Edith, alias Scheherazade,
has left but few evidences in my possession.
Here is an old laundry account which she left for
you to pay, a cheque drawn by her and marked ‘R/D,’
a letter from her mother in Honolulu (on ruled paper),
a poem written on a restaurant bill—’To
Atthis’—and a letter by herself, on
Lady Equistep’s best notepaper, containing some
damaging but entertaining information about Lady Equistep.
Then there are my own few observations on two sheets
of foolscap.”
“Edith,” murmured Eeldrop, who had not
been attending to this catalogue, “I wonder
what has become of her. ’Not pleasure,
but fulness of life. . . to burn ever with a hard
gem-like flame,’ those were her words.
What curiosity and passion for experience! Perhaps
that flame has burnt itself out by now.”
“You ought to inform yourself better,”
said Appleplex severely, “Edith dines sometimes
with Mrs. Howexden, who tells me that her passion for
experience has taken her to a Russian pianist in Bayswater.
She is also said to be present often at the Anarchist
Tea Rooms, and can usually be found in the evening
at the Cafe de l’Orangerie.”
“Well,” replied Eeldrop, “I confess
that I prefer to wonder what has become of her.
I do not like to think of her future. Scheherazade
grown old! I see her grown very plump, full-bosomed,
with blond hair, living in a small flat with a maid,
walking in the Park with a Pekinese, motoring with
a Jewish stock-broker. With a fierce appetite
for food and drink, when all other appetite is gone,
all other appetite gone except the insatiable increasing
appetite of vanity; rolling on two wide legs, rolling
in motorcars, rolling toward a diabetic end in a seaside
watering place.”
