Mixed Grill/Question of Temperature

L.O.M. caught sight of M.R. two or three times on the journey, and M.R. made more than one effort to obtain completer details by inspection of the blue card label on L.O.M.'s bag. A certain coolness on M.R.'s side marked their first meeting, but this was the fault of the English Channel; it certainly looked like a practical joke, not quite in good taste, when a sudden lurch of the steamer sent him against her on the upper deck; despite his apologies, there was about the incident a suggestion of Holloway Road on Sunday evenings. M.R. told her married sister that she considered him a bounder; the married sister replied that this description could be applied to men in general, with one single exception.

“Be very careful, Margaret,” she added, “how you make acquaintances. We shall run up against all sorts.”

“All sorts,” complained the girl, “seem to be running up against me.”

At the Paris Station of the Lyons railway, L.O.M. appeared in a more favourable light, rescuing the married sister's coat which had been taken from a peg in the buffet by a Frenchwoman who was either short-sighted or deficient in honesty. At Vallorbes, it was he who came to the window of their compartment—the hour being five a.m., and snow on the ground—and gave the welcome news that their registered luggage was not amongst the packages selected for examination at the Swiss frontier.

“Do you think I might get you some coffee?” he asked.

“Certainly not!” answered the married sister promptly.

The incident constituted a subject for discussion, the younger girl contending that the obliging male should never be curtly repulsed; the other arguing that a difficulty would have been found in persuading the youth to accept cash for refreshments supplied, and, consequent on this, the trouble in preventing him from becoming intrusive could scarcely be measured. At Lausanne, where passengers took breakfast, he very properly kept his distance. At Bex, in the tram-cars, which were to make the climb with the aid of motive power at the back, he gave up his place to the elder of the two and sat side by side with the girl in the crowded luggage van.

“Yes,” she replied, “I skate, and I should like to learn to ski. Do you?”

“Moderately good at it,” replied L.O.M. “Did some in Norway.”

“Then, perhaps”

“You will find an instructor up there,” he said.

She turned away huffily.

It was not, however, easy to avoid joining in the general conversation. Everybody had projects for the filling up of the winter holiday; the conductor, as the car went slowly up the hill, was appealed to for information concerning weather, and being a man of cheerful temperament, gave exactly the particulars that were hoped and desired, without allowing truth to mar the effect. Thus an atmosphere of hopefulness pervaded the luggage van, and even retiring military men perched upon trunks became vivacious, talking of desperate deeds already accomplished in other places on toboggans, and speaking with relish of the appetite that came after these exercises. The two were soon again in conversation, and the girl mentioned that her sister's maiden name was Rodgers, a fact which enabled him to perceive acutely that this must be also the girl's name. Turning the label on his valise, he introduced himself.

“Masterson,” he said.

“I like names of three syllables,” she remarked.

The hour and a half occupied by the journey was lessened by all this, and by the increasingly snowy aspect of the mountains on either side of the track; the conductor derided this as trifling, and endeavoured to give some idea of the downfall that had taken place up near the summit. At Gryon the steep part finished, and the cars went on with the assistance of overhead wires.

“You play and sing, I suppose?”

“I perform no parlour tricks of any description,” said Miss Rodgers definitely. “I leave these accomplishments to others.”

“Really?” Rather taken back, and the movement of his forehead slightly lifting his cap. “I had an idea—I'd got the notion that every girl did. My sisters”

“I am the exception,” with pride. “Outdoor sports constitute my strong point. I could live for ever in the open air.”

“What about the bad weather?” inquired Masterson.

“How can you talk of bad weather at a time like this? Look back and see that dear, white, delightful little village. Tell me, do you think there will be a carnival on the ice rink? I've brought the sweetest fancy dress you ever saw. You won't find me staying indoors, excepting for meals.”

When the cars reached the destination, the two alone out of the whole party exhibited scarcely any signs of the twenty-five hours' journey from Charing Cross and London; the married sister compensated by showing every symptom of collapse, and he very courteously assisted her up the wooden steps and over the bridge to the hotel. There the flurried manager checked names as they entered; assigned the double room on the first floor to Mr. Masterson, and the single room on the third floor to Miss Rodgers and her exhausted sister; they united forces in protesting against this, and became more friendly in the presence of a common grievance. Despite the warmth of arguments used by visitors, the thermometer near the pile of brushes and toboggans registered four degrees of frost.

Lunch was served at once, and immediately after the meal the married sister, discovering that she had eaten veal under the impression it was mutton, announced her intention of resting indoors during the afternoon. The other two came down in jerseys and white caps, and the married sister gave Masterson gracious permission to escort Miss Rodgers to the rink.

“Mind you bring her back safely,” she commanded.

“I'll do my best,” he said.

“Quite capable of taking care of myself,” remarked the girl. “Just lace up my boots for me, please.” They left the lady in the vestibule perusing a Cardiff journal bearing date of a Tuesday in the previous month.

One could see on their return that the afternoon on the rink had reached highest expectations; their animation caused some compression of the eyebrows on the part of sedater folk taking tea. Everything had happened as the flushed, excited girl wanted it to happen. Her ability had excited favourable comment from other skaters; one of the professionals gave a compliment; the band played delightfully, and she—not caring for indoor dancing—completely and thoroughly enjoyed a waltz. Sun shining all the time.

“After tea,” she explained, “we are going out to do some ski-ing.”

“Who is meant, pray,” asked her sister carefully, “by the word 'we'?”

“Mr. Masterson and myself, of course!”

“Oh!” commented her sister, giving an inflection which the printed word cannot convey.

“What's your objection, Ellen?”

“It would be useless for me to offer any. I shall stay in and write. Does he know that you neither play nor sing?”

“I've told him,” snapped the girl.

Folk at the hotel attended meals with regularity, but their impatience towards the finish was something not easily concealed. A tall woman seated opposite at dinner, and possessing a complexion which looked almost natural, hinted that she was arranging some amateur theatricals, and Mr. Masterson gave to the announcement an interest which Miss Rodgers considered so excessive that she turned from him and listened with attention intended to be equally extravagant to her sister's talk concerning Henry. The lady with the complexion had been searching the hotels for some one who could sing and act; up to the present, she had found three able to sing, but not greatly desirous of doing so; they were more definite in their replies to her invitation in regard to acting. Also, she required some one who could play the pianoforte readily.

“Please help me if you can,” she begged, passing the French mustard across to Mr. Masterson, and assuming an ingratiating smile. “I shall be so grateful.”

“There's a good deal to do out-of-doors,” he mentioned.

“Then,” said the lady, with resolution, “I must pray for mild weather!”

The concierge announced in the vestibule, as folk returned who had been out for moonlight tobogganing after dinner, that the frost was hard, the thermometer promising well; bridge players ordered him to close the doors, and keep them closed, but Masterson and Miss Rodgers coming in, flushed with exercise on the snow run, congratulated each other on the good news, and in the corridor, before saying good-night, made full and complete plans for the following day.

Masterson slept the sleep of a well-tired man until six o'clock, when the bell rang to arouse servants. He heard a drip, drip, drip from the roofs, and turning over dreamt of an amazing leap on skis from the top of Mont Blanc to the Dent du Midi, an exploit that created in his mind, not surprise, but genuine satisfaction. When he awoke again, it was to find the hour late, and in dressing hastily, to avoid the fifty centimes fine inflicted on those who took breakfast after ten, he shared the blame between himself and the heating apparatus which kept the room at a too comfortable temperature.

“Really very sorry,” he cried, entering the dining-room. Severe faces looked up from the tables; young Miss Rodgers helped her sister to honey and sighed. “You can't think how full of regret I am.”

“It is a pity,” she said.

“I was awake early, mind you,” he went on eagerly. “Wide awake as I am now. And then I dozed off, and when I”

The waiting maid brought his coffee and he poured it into the cup with the air of a man not deserving refreshment.

“You have been out alone, I suppose?” he remarked.

“Apparently,” interposed the married sister, “you are not aware that there has been a most wonderful thaw during the night, and that there is now a thick mist.”

The weather was not the only thing affected by the change. After breakfast, folk stood about in the corridor examining the notices there with a doleful expression. “Rink Closed” stood out in definite capital letters, and eyes turned from the stern announcement to gain some comfort from the slips which recorded loss of decorative articles. A few proclaimed intention of devoting the morning to sending postcards, and to the clearing off of arrears in correspondence, and stalked resolutely up to the drawing-room; others went to see if they could induce the concierge to make a cheerful prophecy concerning the weather, returning with the news that the official, discouraged by failure, refused to hold out anything that looked like hope. One or two inspected time tables and talked of going back to Lausanne.

“Why don't you suggest something, Mr. Masterson?”

“Wish I had the necessary intelligence, Miss Rodgers. Is there anything we can arrange indoors, I wonder, to make the time go quickly whilst the weather is sorting itself? Think of something that you're good at!”

“If you possessed a memory,” retorted the girl warmly, “you would recollect that I distinctly told you”

The lady with the very fresh complexion interposed, with an apology. Would Mr. Masterson give her three minutes of his time in a corner of the vestibule? Masterson looked at the girl for directions, but she turned away, and he followed the other obediently.

Great mystery surrounded the ball-room, and especially the stage of the ball-room, that day, with janitors at doors, asking those who arrived: “Excuse me, but are you taking part?” and when a negative answer was given, adding: “Then will you kindly stay outside, please?” The pianoforte could be heard being played with the soft pedal down, and a sound came of choruses; occasionally, the voice of the made-up lady crying: “Oh, that's not a bit like it!” and “We must try the first act all over again!” and “Do take up your cues smartly, please!”

At lunch she escorted Masterson into the dining-room, conveying him past the chairs occupied by Miss Rodgers and the married sister, and induced him to sit beside her during the meal. The doyen of the guests rapped three times on the table between the veal and the chicken course, and made an announcement. Volunteers were required to sing in the church choir. A bracelet had been found on the billiard table. To-morrow evening there would be a theatrical entertainment in the ball-room under the joint superintendence of Miss Ellicott and Mr. Masterson. Ladies willing to sing in the chorus were requested to communicate immediately with Mr. Masterson. The doyen sat down; the buzz of conversation recommenced.

Masterson, note-book in hand, stood at the doorway when the meal was over, taking names. As Miss Rodgers and her sister came near, he looked up inquiringly, but the girl stared at him in a distant manner, and went past, ignoring the half-completed question which he put to her; Masterson gazed after them with the abashed look of one who has discovered that he does not fully understand women, and to the next offer replied, rather brusquely, that the list was now complete. He proceeded to the ball-room and gave up the afternoon to rehearsal, interspersed with gusty arguments with the leading lady. Outside, the rain came down in a quiet, orderly manner, as though it were doing exactly what was required, and the concierge went about assuring visitors that the fault was not his.

Young Miss Rodgers, wearing defiance as a cloak to nervousness, knocked at the door of the ball-room and asked to see Mr. Masterson. The amateur door-keeper replied that the gentleman was busy. Miss Rodgers, with a smile that would have persuaded even a professional, induced the door-keeper to go and make further inquiries, and immediately that he had started on this errand, not only slipped inside the room, but at once slipped up on the polished floor. Now, she was a sure-footed girl, not accustomed to tumble, and it was fortunate, in view of her record, that no one happened to witness the incident. She had resumed an upright position when the doorkeeper returned.

“You go across to the drawing-room,” he whispered importantly, “and in about ten minutes he'll see you! Quarter of an hour at the outside.”

The entire strength of the company was on the stage, and as she walked up and down the carpeted room, snatches of the dialogue came to her ears. The leading lady, and Masterson were about to go through once again the scene which had startled the girl on entering the ball-room; the lady suggested improvements. “When I rush into your arms,” she said, “how would it be for you to catch me like this” here evidently followed an illustration—“and I'll lean my hand on your shoulder like this”—another illustration—“and then we can start the duet.” Masterman's voice said he was ready to try this plan. “That's better,” remarked the lady presently, “but I think we may as well do it again. Give me the word, somebody.”

The girl peered through the cracks of the set scenery on the stage, and, her hand at her throat, watched and listened. That's about right. Now for the duet. Play the symphony, please, Miss Jenner.” After this, “Thank you. Just once more.”

Masterson's voice, a strong baritone, started:

Miss Rodgers, fearful of being discovered and unable to endure contemplation of the scene any longer, crept away to the other end of the drawing-room, where, regarding herself in the mirror, she found an extremely cross-looking face with a line or two on the forehead. As the lady's reply rang out, the girl took up an illustrated journal from the table and endeavoured to divert her thoughts by concentrating on fashion, only to find that she could not be quite sure whether she was inspecting a page of drawings or a page of letterpress.

The chorus, standing around with a strange want of delicacy during this affectionate argument, now threw off all restraint, and acknowledged the interest they had taken in the proceedings by singing confidentially to each other:

“Hullo!” cried Masterson, astonished, coming off, “you here?”

The question seemed to be one of those not requiring a reply, and Miss Rodgers ignored it.

“I wanted to know whether there was a chance of being able to help,” she said.

“Rather!” he declared readily. “We'll soon see about that. I'll go and arrange.”

He went at a good rate; returned with leaden footsteps.

“I'm sorry!” she said, receiving his message.

“If you had only offered earlier,” he remarked apologetically. “You see, I'm not in charge of the affair, or else I'd manage it like a shot. And I thought you said”

“It occurred to me,” explained Miss Rodgers, her voice faltering slightly, “that I'd like to try. But it doesn't really matter in the least.”

Her sister was in a convalescent state, ready to talk of subjects other than Henry, and when the girl burst into the room which they jointly occupied, and throwing herself on the red couch, gave way to tears, comfort was close at hand. The sister wisely refrained at first from putting questions, allowed the girl to have her cry out, and only said soothingly, “It's all right, dearie. Don't worry more than you can help.” When composure returned, the solace of the confessional was utilised and the married sister listened, interjecting now and again, “Yes, I understand,” and “I quite see what you mean.”

“You don't mind, I hope, if I point out,” she remarked, when the last word had been said, “that mother and I have always been persuading you to take up music or singing or some accomplishment of the kind.”

“I know,” admitted the girl penitently.

“And you have always said there were plenty of girls who could do these things, and that you were not going to bother about them. Now you see how important it is that you should keep them level with others. You must make hay whilst the sun shines,” quoted the married sister.

“I shall have to make a start.”

“And when we get back to London, you are going to set to work at once and learn some of these useful accomplishments?”

“I promise,” declared Miss Rodgers resolutely. “And I think, too, I should like to take up cooking. One never knows when it may come in handy.”

The performance went well, and nothing could have exceeded the graciousness of young Miss Rodgers towards the leading lady; few of the later compliments exceeded hers. Indeed, when, on the following day, the frost returned succeeded by a pleasant sprinkling of snow, she offered to take the leading lady out on the rink and charge herself with the responsibility of teaching the art of skating.

“No, dear,” replied the other. “Thank you very much, but no. As a matter of fact, although I try my best not to look it, I'm too old. Look after Mr. Masterson, instead. He admires you, and you mustn't lose any chance of persuading him to continue to do so, indoors or out. I know what men are!”