I dined to-night at a little place in Soho. My waiter was Italian, and
on him I amused myself with the Italian in Ten Lessons of which I am
foolishly proud. We talked of Fiesole, where he had lived. Once I rode
from Fiesole down the hill to Florence in the moonlight. I remember
endless walls on which hung roses, fresh and blooming. I remember a
gaunt nunnery and two-gray-robed sisters clanging shut the gates.
I remember the searchlight from the military encampment, playing
constantly over the Arno and the roofs--the eye of Mars that, here in
Europe, never closes. And always the flowers nodding above me, stooping
now and then to brush my face. I came to think that at the end Paradise,
and not a second-rate hotel, was waiting. One may still take that ride,
I fancy. Some day--some day-I dined in Soho. I came back to Adelphi Terrace in the hot, reeking
August dusk, reflecting that the mystery in which I was involved was,
after a fashion, standing still. In front of our house I noticed a taxi
waiting. I thought nothing of it as I entered the murky hallway and
climbed the familiar stairs.
My door stood open. It was dark in my study, save for the reflection of
the lights of London outside. As I crossed the threshold there came to
my nostrils the faint sweet perfume of lilacs. There are no lilacs in
our garden, and if there were it is not the season. No, this perfume had
been brought there by a woman--a woman who sat at my desk and raised her
head as I entered.
"You will pardon this intrusion," she said in the correct careful
English of one who has learned the speech from a book. "I have come for
a brief word with you--then I shall go."
I could think of nothing to say. I stood gaping like a schoolboy.
"My word," the woman went on, "is in the nature of advice. We do not
always like those who give us advice. None the less, I trust that you
will listen."
I found my tongue then.
"I am listening," I said stupidly. "But first--a light--" And I moved
toward the matches on the mantelpiece.
Quickly the woman rose and faced me. I saw then that she wore a
veil--not a heavy veil, but a fluffy, attractive thing that was yet
sufficient to screen her features from me.
"I beg of you," she cried, "no light!" And as I paused, undecided, she
added, in a tone which suggested lips that pout: "It is such a little
thing to ask--surely you will not refuse."