The Man in the Brown Suit Read Free Page B

of Papa’s work. He was a tall, spare man with a thin face and grey hair. He rose to meet me as I entered the room and taking both my hands in his, patted them affectionately.
    â€œMy poor child,” he said. “My poor, poor child.”
    Without conscious hypocrisy, I found myself assuming the demeanour of a bereaved orphan. He hypnotized me into it. He was benignant, kind and fatherly—and without the least doubt he regarded me as a perfect fool of a girl left adrift to face an unkind world. From the first I felt that it was quite useless to try to convince him of the contrary. As things turned out, perhaps it was just as well I didn’t.
    â€œMy dear child, do you think you can listen to me whilst I try to make a few things clear to you?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œYour father, as you know, was a very great man. Posterity will appreciate him. But he was not a good man of business.”
    I knew that quite as well, if not better than Mr. Flemming, but I restrained myself from saying so. He continued: “I do not suppose you understand much of these matters. I will try to explain as clearly as I can.”
    He explained at unnecessary length. The upshot seemed to be that I was left to face life with the sum of £87 17 s . 4 d . It seemed a strangely unsatisfying amount. I waited in some trepidation for what was coming next. I feared that Mr. Flemming would be sure to have an aunt in Scotland who was in want of a bright young companion. Apparently, however, he hadn’t.
    â€œThe question is,” he went on, “the future. I understand you have no living relatives?”
    â€œI’m alone in the world,” I said, and was struck anew by my likeness to a film heroine.
    â€œYou have friends?”
    â€œEveryone has been very kind to me,” I said gratefully.
    â€œWho would not be kind to one so young and charming?” said Mr. Flemming gallantly. “Well, well, my dear, we must see what can be done.” He hesitated a minute, and then said: “Supposing—how would it be if you came to us for a time?”
    I jumped at the chance. London! The place for things to happen.
    â€œIt’s awfully kind of you,” I said. “Might I really? Just while I’m looking around. I must start out to earn my living, you know?”
    â€œYes, yes, my dear child. I quite understand. We will look round for something—suitable.”
    I felt instictively that Mr. Flemming’s ideas of “something suitable” and mine were likely to be widely divergent, but it was certainly not the moment to air my views.
    â€œThat is settled then. Why not return with me today?”
    â€œOh, thank you, but will Mrs. Flemming—”
    â€œMy wife will be delighted to welcome you.”
    I wonder if husbands know as much about their wives as they think they do. If I had a husband, I should hate him to bring home orphans without consulting me first.
    â€œWe will send her a wire from the station,” continued the lawyer.
    My few personal belongings were soon packed. I contemplated my hat sadly before putting it on. It had originally been what I call a “Mary” hat, meaning by that the kind of hat a housemaid ought to wear on her day out—but doesn’t! A limp thing of black straw with a suitably depressed brim. With the inspiration of genius, I had kicked it once, punched it twice, dented in the crown and affixed to it a thing like a cubist’s dream of a jazz carrot. The result had been distinctly chic. The carrot I had already removed, of course, and now I proceeded to undo the rest of my handiwork. The “Mary” hat resumed its former status with an additional battered appearance which made it even more depressing than formerly. I might as well look as much like the popular conception of an orphan as possible. I was just a shade nervous of Mrs. Flemming’s reception, but hoped my appearance might have a sufficiently disarming