Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
you didn’t,” said Pip. “I brought you. And it wasn’t just for supper, Mr American.” She slipped her arms round his neck and pulled his face down to hers, parting her lips and flickering her tongue at him. “You don’t get off that lightly.” She kissed him, slowly at first, then very deeply and lingeringly before drawing her lips away. “Are you looking at my damned squint again?”
A rather dazed Mr Franklin shook his head. “Good,” murmured Pip, “now you’d really better go and bolt the door, so we won’t have any distractions. I want to enjoy myself.”
Which she did, so far as Mr Franklin could judge, for the next twenty minutes, at the end of which time she lay very still, panting moistly into the pillow until she had recovered her breath, when she observed that that was better than working, or standing in the rain.
“Aren’t you glad you bought that bunch of flowers, then?” she added, and Mr Franklin admitted, huskily, that it had been a most fortunate chance. She nodded happily, running her fingers idly up and down his naked back while she studied her reflection overhead.
“I’m losing weight … I think. Here, any more of that champagne left? Oh, good, I need it, I can tell you! Talk about the Wild Bunch – you’re a bit wild yourself, aren’t you, though? Hey – you’re not getting dressed! The idea!”
In fact, it was after two o’clock in the morning before Pip sighed regretfully that she supposed they had better call it a night, because Renzo would be wanting to get to bed, and a relieved but contented Mr Franklin agreed. He was, to tell the truth, rather shaken, and not a little puzzled by the events of the evening, as appeared when they were preparing to leave the supper-room, and Pip was making final, invisible adjustments to a coiffure which had miraculously remained undisturbed through all the hectic activity in the alcove. Mr Franklin in the background, was contemplating his hat and gloves thoughtfully; Pip observed him in her hand-mirror.
“Don’t reach for your note-case, or I might get offended,” she said and as his head came up she turned, smiling, and shook her head at him. “You were going to, weren’t you?”
Mr Franklin cleared his throat. “I wasn’t certain.”
“You don’t give money to actresses,” said Pip, gravely, and kissed him on the nose, giggling at his perplexity. “Don’t you understand, darling? – I do it ’cos I like doing it. With the right one. Girls enjoy it, too, you know, spite of what you hear. You didn’t stand a chance, from the minute I saw you outside the stage door, you poor silly! No, you’re not, either – you’re a nice American, and it’s been a beautiful evening, and I just wish it could have gone on and on.”
“So do I,” said Mr Franklin. “Perhaps another –”
“Careful,” said Pip. “It might get to be a habit.” She frowned, and dropped her voice: “You don’t have to, you know,” and they both laughed. Then she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him again, stretching up on tip-toe before subsiding breathlessly. “That’s enough of that – Renzo’s got to get to bed sometime.”
They went down to the street through the restaurant, where the lights had been turned down, and Pip called “‘Night, Renzo” to the darkened dining-room. Mr Franklin hailed a growler, and they clopped slowly down to Chelsea, where Pip had a room. “Next rise I get, it’ll be Belgravia, and chance it,” she confided. “Mind you, many more dinners like tonight, and I’ll get so tubby I’ll be bloody lucky if I can afford Poplar.”
Mr Franklin thought for a moment, and asked: “Aren’t there lots of dinners like tonight’s?” She turned to look at him in the dimness of the cab, and he heard her chuckle.
“Lots of dinners,” she said. “All the time. But not many like tonight. So you needn’t be jealous.”
He handed her out on the corner. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he was beginning. “I mean, I wish I could express my appreciation …”
“Oh, you know,” she shrugged. “Diamond bracelet to the stage door – couple of emerald earrings. Any little trinket your lordship happens to have lying around spare.” She giggled again and pecked his cheek. “Don’t be so soft. Tell you what – pay your money at the box-office some night and watch my solo. Then you’ll have done your bit.” Her gloved hand touched his cheek. “’Night, Mr American.”
Her heels clicked on the pavement, the white figure faded into the gloom, humming happily:
Boiled beef an’ carrots,
Boiled beef an’ carrots!
That’s the stuff for your derby kell …
Mr Franklin sighed, climbed into the growler, and was driven back to the Waldorf.
He left London on the following morning. A four-wheeler was engaged to remove from the hotel the two handsome Eureka trunks containing the clothing purchased the previous day, as well as the battered old case with which Mr Franklin had arrived, and his valise; these were despatched to St Pancras, while the gentleman himself took a cab by way of Bond Street.
Here, at the exclusive jewellers which he had patronized the previous day, Mr Franklin stated his requirements; the manager, who had seen him coming, smoothly set aside the assistant dealing with him – he personally would see to it that nothing too inexpensive was laid before a customer who paid cash for pearl and platinum watch-chains.
“A bracelet, perhaps, sir. For the wrist?”
“I had thought a necklace,” ventured Mr Franklin. “For the … chest. That is – the neck, of course.”
“Of course, sir. Diamond, emerald – ruby perhaps. May I ask, sir, if the recipient is dark or fair?”
“Oh, fair. Very fair – quite blonde.”
“The sapphires, perhaps. It is a matter of personal taste. Diamonds, of course –” the manager smiled “ – complexion is immaterial.”
“How about pearls? You know, a strand – a substantial strand. These collars one sees …”
The manager was too well-trained ever to lick his lips, but his smile became a positive beam.
“The perfect compromise, sir. Pearls – with a diamond cluster and clasp.” He snapped his fingers, and presently Mr Franklin found himself blinking at a triple collar of magnificent pearls, gripped in their centre with a heart-shaped design of twinkling stones; he visualized it round Pip’s neck, beneath the beautiful dimpled chin, imagining her squeals of delight when she tried it on.
“That’ll do,” he said without hesitation, “I’ll take it,” and two fashionable ladies examining rings at a nearby counter paused in stricken silence at the sight of the lean, brown-faced man weighing the brilliant trinket before dropping it on its velvet cushion. Speculative whispers were exchanged, a lorgnette was raised, and Mr Franklin was carefully examined, while he produced his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, remembered where he was, and returned it to its place. The manager made amiably deprecating noises, and asked:
“I trust the case gives satisfaction, sir?”
“What – oh, yes.” Mr Franklin restored it to his pocket. “Haven’t lost a cigarette yet.”
In this atmosphere of good will the pearl necklace was bestowed in its velvet case, wrapped, and tied, and the manager inquired if the account should be forwarded to Mr Franklin’s address; the attentive ladies, busily examining their rings again, were disappointed when he replied: “No, I’ll pay now.”
The manager bowed, a slip of paper was presented, and Mr Franklin gripped the counter firmly and coughed, once. He should, he realized, have inquired about prices first – but his hesitation was only momentary. He could not recall an evening in his life that he