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CHAPTER XXX

PLOVERS' EGGS

UDD was well over twenty before he met magnificence. He had lunched now and then with Luard at his club or a Strand restaurant in a style far beyond his own habits; but Luard was merely a Londoner who did himself fairly well. He was not the real thing.

"I have heard of an opportunity for you," wrote a friend. "A Mr. Bloor, an American, is in London, at Sirridge's Hotel. He has come to Europe as commissioner for an international art exhibition to be held in New York, and he wants a secretary. It will mean travel, and, I should say, some interesting experience. He is a rich man apart from his work, which is largely a hobby. If the idea appeals to you, call on him with the enclosed card any morning before twelve; or call anyway."

This letter finding Rudd in an adventurous mood, he presented himself the next day at the portals of Sirridge's Hotel, the name of which was known to him as the names of ruling princes are known-as something gorgeous and rarefied and remote. A field

marshal met him at the door, and two contemptuous gentlemen in knee-breeches and floured hair made the entrance into the hall several degrees more embarrassing than it would otherwise have been.

A lift soared upwards so swiftly that Rudd's stomach fell to his boots, and in a moment he was in the lobby of Mr. Bloor's suite, and his gnarled and slightly greasy ground-ash stick and far too comfortable hat were being taken firmly from him by Mr. Bloor's discreet valet. Rudd was then shown into Mr. Bloor's sitting room and requested to wait.

A number of the newest books and all the more cultured reviews and papers were scattered about. It was the first time, Rudd realized, that he had ever met with a private individual who bought the Quarterly and Edinburgh; and the rumour that Mr. Bloor was wealthy, which the hotel and the valet had done their best to corroborate, now became a fact.

Rudd was looking at a novel when Mr. Bloor entered and wished him good morning with an engaging cordiality.

Mr. Bloor was about forty-eight, tall and slender, with blue eyes, a greyish moustache, greyish hair and glittering pince-nez that seemed to adhere to his face by supernatural means, for no machinery was visible. He was perfectly dressed. Everything was of the most exquisite quality, and everything, although newlooking, was so well made as to suggest the finest blend of ease and fit.

Rudd at once noticed Mr. Bloor's hands, which were

strong and reposeful, and his nails, which tapered and blushed. The impression which he conveyed, however, was not that of the dandy, but of a man of the world who believed in the best of everything: a Bond Street and Rue de la Paix cosmopolitan.

Mr. Bloor, speaking with a strong American accent, but without any American harshness, offered Rudd a cigarette from a cedar-wood box, and began to talk.

With infinite detail and some circumlocution he made Rudd acquainted with the fact that he was in Europe to persuade picture collectors to lend masterpieces for the greatest art exhibition ever projected, to be held in New York, and that he was in need of a travelling secretary to assist him.

"Are you interested in pictures?" he asked.

Rudd said that, without expert knowledge, he was. "That's bully," said Mr. Bloor, who went on to demonstrate how necessary it was that in such a delicate matter as this the negotiator, or as he might almost say, the ambassador, should have tact, should be in a position to return hospitality, and so forth. Many a man could have been found, Mr. Bloor admitted, whose knowledge of art exceeded his; but there had been difficulty in finding anyone as familiar as himself with the capitals of Europe, or as ready to undertake a mission involving so much time and expense. He had also a further qualification, although far be it from him to define it, even if it could be defined: some curious je-ne-sais-quoi, some.

Anyhow, there it was! He laughed gaily and showed his fine teeth.

In England already he had been surprisingly successful. Lord Brighton had promised his Velazquez, Lord Croydon his Titian, the Marquis of Wessex a couple of Reynolds', the Duke of Canterbury his finest Rembrandt, and so forth. Nothing could exceed their courtesy and friendliness. But in each case it had been a personal success.

Mr. Bloor then began a detailed analysis of his own character in order to prove to Rudd that although there might not appear to be enough work for two in this campaign, yet as a matter of fact there was. For what Mr. Bloor needed was that his mind should be totally freed from every kind of minor detail, such as the remembering of appointments, the writing of letters, the changing of money, and so forth, or otherwise there was a serious danger of some of the more delicate moves in the game being coarsened.

Because Mr. Bloor was probably more unlike anyone else than anyone had ever been before him: differentiated from them not only by temperament but by mentality.

And as Mr. Bloor went on and on, and his chest swelled under his lovely black tie and his dove's breast grey waistcoat, and his mysterious eyeglasses gleamed brighter and brighter, Rudd felt an hypnotic frisson creep over him. He knew all that Mr. Bloor was going to say, and yet he would not have stopped him for anything.

Mr. Bloor concluded, for the time being, by telling Rudd that he liked him more than he had liked anyone on so short an acquaintance-and he was not one naturally quick to take a fancy to people; rather, in fact, the reverse-and he would be mighty glad if Rudd would join him in his great work. Rudd must think it over.

"And now, Mr. Sergison," he added, "we'll have some breakfast."

Breakfast? thought Rudd. He had had his hours ago. Still, he was under a spell; his natural tendency to decline invitations left him; for the moment he was prepared to do whatever this splendid creature suggested. And it was one o'clock, an hour at which the memory of the best breakfast begins to fade.

On Rudd admitting that he would like to wash his hands, the valet was summoned to show him into an adjoining marble palace of ablution. Here bath, basin, mirrors and taps effulgently beckoned. A new and odoriferous cake of soap from a Parisian box and a clean towel of softest linen were placed before him, and all the hot and cold water that could be desired were at his service the hot one the tepid rillet to which his landlady had accustomed him, but a gushing boiling torrent.

Having washed and made pathetic efforts to bring his nails to something approaching the radiancy of Mr. Bloor's, Rudd was invited to brush his hair in Mr. Bloor's own apartment, where every facility for beautifying the exterior of man, mounted in gold,