CHAPTER VI "I was the Flail of the Lord"

LordJohnRoxtonandIturneddownVigoStreettogetherandthroughthedingyportalsofthefamousaristocraticrookery.Attheendofalongdrabpassagemynewacquaintancepushedopenadoorandturnedonanelectricswitch.Anumberoflampsshiningthroughtintedshadesbathedthewholegreatroombeforeusinaruddyradiance.Standinginthedoorwayandglancingroundme,Ihadageneralimpressionofextraordinarycomfortandelegancecombinedwithanatmosphereofmasculinevirility.Everywherethereweremingledtheluxuryofthewealthymanoftasteandthecarelessuntidinessofthebachelor.RichfursandstrangeiridescentmatsfromsomeOrientalbazaarwerescattereduponthefloor.Picturesandprintswhichevenmyunpractisedeyescouldrecognizeasbeingofgreatpriceandrarityhungthickuponthewalls.Sketchesofboxers,ofballet-girls,andofracehorsesalternatedwithasensuousFragonard,amartialGirardet,andadreamyTurner.ButamidthesevariedornamentstherewerescatteredthetrophieswhichbroughtbackstronglytomyrecollectionthefactthatLordJohnRoxtonwasoneofthegreatall-roundsportsmenandathletesofhisday.Adark-blueoarcrossedwithacherry-pinkoneabovehismantel-piecespokeoftheoldOxonianandLeanderman,whilethefoilsandboxing-glovesaboveandbelowthemwerethetoolsofamanwhohadwonsupremacywitheach.Likeadadoroundtheroomwasthejuttinglineofsplendidheavygame-heads,thebestoftheirsortfromeveryquarteroftheworld,withtherarewhiterhinocerosoftheLadoEnclavedroopingitssuperciliouslipabovethemall. InthecenteroftherichredcarpetwasablackandgoldLouisQuinzetable,alovelyantique,nowsacrilegiouslydesecratedwithmarksofglassesandthescarsofcigar-stumps.Onitstoodasilvertrayofsmokablesandaburnishedspirit-stand,fromwhichandanadjacentsiphonmysilenthostproceededtochargetwohighglasses.Havingindicatedanarm-chairtomeandplacedmyrefreshmentnearit,hehandedmealong,smoothHavana.Then,seatinghimselfoppositetome,helookedatmelongandfixedlywithhisstrange,twinkling,recklesseyes—eyesofacoldlightblue,thecolorofaglacierlake. Throughthethinhazeofmycigar-smokeInotedthedetailsofafacewhichwasalreadyfamiliartomefrommanyphotographs—thestrongly-curvednose,thehollow,worncheeks,thedark,ruddyhair,thinatthetop,thecrisp,virilemoustaches,thesmall,aggressivetuftuponhisprojectingchin.SomethingtherewasofNapoleonIII.,somethingofDonQuixote,andyetagainsomethingwhichwastheessenceoftheEnglishcountrygentleman,thekeen,alert,open-airloverofdogsandofhorses.Hisskinwasofarichflower-potredfromsunandwind.Hiseyebrowsweretuftedandoverhanging,whichgavethosenaturallycoldeyesanalmostferociousaspect,animpressionwhichwasincreasedbyhisstrongandfurrowedbrow.Infigurehewasspare,butverystronglybuilt—indeed,hehadoftenprovedthattherewerefewmeninEnglandcapableofsuchsustainedexertions.Hisheightwasalittleoversixfeet,butheseemedshorteronaccountofapeculiarroundingoftheshoulders.SuchwasthefamousLordJohnRoxtonashesatoppositetome,bitingharduponhiscigarandwatchingmesteadilyinalongandembarrassingsilence. "Well,"saidhe,atlast,"we'vegoneanddoneit,youngfellahmylad."(Thiscuriousphrasehepronouncedasifitwerealloneword—"young-fellah-me-lad.")"Yes,we'vetakenajump,youan'me.Isuppose,now,whenyouwentintothatroomtherewasnosuchnotioninyourhead—what?"