Page:The Collector by May Sinclair.djvu/1

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HAVE known many collectors of celebrities, but none of them have been a patch on Mrs. Folyat-Raikes.

She was an old friend of my mother's; that was how I came to know her. I may have made it a little too apparent that it was filial piety that brought me to Cadogan Gardens, for she put me in my place at once by assuring me that I should always be welcome there for my dear mother's sake. If I had any illusions as to my footing, she destroyed them by the little air of mournful affection that explained my obscure presence, mid condoned it. That was one of the ways by which she maintained her unspeakable prestige.

Yet I happened to know that she had inquired into my activities sufficiently to assure herself that I might ultimately have value. She was an infallible appraiser of values; she had the instinct of the auction-room, and I do not think that in a lifetime of collecting she had ever wasted as much as one "At Home" card.

She had been at the game for years when I first met her, so I can't tell you much about her beginnings, except that she was a daughter of Lord Braintree, and the widow of a man who had distinguished himself in the diplomatic service, which may have helped her.

Her success began in the early eighties, when going straight, with her flair, for the rarest, she secured Ford Lankester. He never could resist a woman if she was young, well born, and handsome, and when the daughter of Lord Braintree held out the laurels, he stooped his bead and played very prettily at being crowned. After that, collecting became easy. She had only to write on her card, "To meet Mr. Ford Lankester," and she filled her big drawing-room in Cadogan Gardens. At one time she was said to have the finest collection in London. Only ten years ago everybody who was somebody was sure to be seen in it; not to be seen argued that you were nobody. Thus you were fairly terrorized into being seen. Even now, when most celebrities are smaller and the few big ones are getting shy, by dint of playing off one against the other she continues to collect.

But she is not so young as she was, nor yet so handsome, and other hostesses are in the business; she knows that one or two of the younger men—Grevill Burton, for instance—will not be seen inside her house, and she is getting nervous.

That is why her last adventure, the hunting of Watt Gunn, became the violent, disastrous, yet exciting spectacle it was. LXXXVII—II