THE EXPLORER
As the evening wore on--and one young man after another asked JocelynMontrevor if she were going to Ascot, what? or to Henley, what? orwhat?--she wondered more and more if this were all that life would everhold for her. Would she never meet a man, a real man who had _done_something? These boys around her were very pleasant, she admitted toherself; very useful indeed, she added, as one approached her with somerefreshment; but they were only boys.
"Here you are," said Freddy, handing her an ice in three colours. "I'vehad it made specially cold for you. They only had the green, pink, andyellow jerseys left; I hope you don't mind. The green part is arsenic, Ibelieve. If you don't want the wafer I'll take it home and put itbetween the sashes of my bedroom window. The rattling kept me awake alllast night. That's why I'm looking so ill, by the way."
Jocelyn smiled kindly and went on with her ice.
"That reminds me," Freddy went on, "we've got a nut here to-night. Thegenuine thing. None of your society Barcelonas or suburban Filberts. Oneof the real Cob family; the driving-from-the-sixth-tee,inset-on-the-right, and New-Year's-message-to-the-country touch. Inshort, a celebrity."
"Who?" asked Jocelyn eagerly. Perhaps here was a man.
"Worrall Brice, the explorer. Don't say you haven't heard of him or AuntAlice will cry."
Heard of him? Of course she had heard of him. Who hadn't?
Worrall Brice's adventures in distant parts of the empire would havefilled a book--had, in fact, already filled three. A glance at his flatin St. James's Street gave you some idea of the adventures he had beenthrough. Here were the polished spurs of his companion in the famousride through Australia from south to north--all that had been left bythe cannibals of the Wogga-Wogga River after their banquet. Here was thepoisoned arrow which, by the merciful intervention of Providence, justmissed Worrall and pierced the heart of one of his black attendants, thepost-mortem happily revealing the presence of a new and interestingpoison. Here, again, was the rope with which he was hanged by mistake asa spy in South America--a mistake which would certainly have had fatalresults if he had not had the presence of mind to hold his breath duringthe performance. In yet another corner you might see his favouritemascot--a tooth of the shark which bit him off the coast of China.Spears, knives, and guns lined the walls; every inch of the floor wascovered by skins. His flat was typical of the man--a man who had _done_things.
"Introduce him to me," commanded Jocelyn. "Where is he?"
She looked up suddenly and saw him entering the ball-room. He was ofcommanding height and his face was the face of a man who has beenexposed to the forces of Nature. The wind, the waves, the sun, themosquito had set their mark upon him. Down one side of his cheek was anewly healed scar, a scratch from a hippopotamus in its lastdeath-struggle. A legacy from a bison seared his brow.
He walked with the soft easy tread of the python, or the Pathan, or someanimal with a "pth" in it. Probably I mean the panther. He bore himselfconfidently, and his mouth was a trap from which no superfluous wordescaped. He was the strong silent man of Jocelyn's dreams.
"Mr. Worrall Brice, Miss Montrevor," said Freddy, and left them.
Worrall Brice bowed and stood beside her with folded arms, his gazefixed above her head.
"I shall not expect you to dance," said Jocelyn, with a confidentialsmile which implied that he and she were above such frivolities. As amatter of fact, he could have taught her the Wogga-Wogga one-step, theBimbo, the Kiyi, the Ju-bu, the Head-hunter's Hug, and many othercannibalistic steps which, later on, were to become the rage of Londonand the basis of a _revue_.
"I have often imagined you, as you kept watch over your camp," she wenton, "and I have seemed myself to hear the savages and lions roaringoutside the circle of fire, what time in the swamps the crocodiles werebarking."
"Yes," he said.
"It must be a wonderful life."
"Yes."
"If I were a man I should want to lead such a life; to get away from allthis," and she waved her hand round the room, "back to Nature. To knowthat I could not eat until I had first killed my dinner; that I couldnot live unless I slew the enemy! That must be fine!"
"Yes," said Worrall.
"I cannot get Freddy to see it. He is quite content to have shot a fewgrouse ... and once to have wounded a beater. There must be more in lifethan that."
"Yes."
"I suppose I am elemental. Beneath the veneer of civilization I am asavage. To wake up with the war-cry of the enemy in my ears, to sleepwith the--er--barking of the crocodile in my dreams, that is life!"
Worrall Brice tugged at his moustache and gazed into space over herhead. Then he spoke.
"Crocodiles don't bark," he said.
Jocelyn looked at him in astonishment. "But in your book, _ThroughTrackless Paths_!" she cried. "I know it almost by heart. It was you whotaught me. What are the beautiful words? 'On the banks of the sleepyriver two great crocodiles were barking.'"
"Not 'barking,'" said Worrall. "'Basking.' It was a misprint."
"Oh!" said Jocelyn. She had a moment's awful memory of all the occasionswhen she had insisted that crocodiles barked. There had been aparticularly fierce argument with Meta Richards, who had refused toweigh even the printed word of Worrall Brice against the silence of theReptile House on her last visit to the Zoo.
"Well," smiled Jocelyn, "you must teach me about these things. Will youcome and see me?"
"Yes," said Worrall. He rather liked to stand and gaze into the distancewhile pretty women talked to him. And Jocelyn was very pretty.
"We live in South Kensington. Come on Sunday, won't you? 99 PeeleCrescent."
"Yes," said Worrall.
. . . . .
On Sunday Jocelyn waited eagerly for him in the drawing-room of PeeleCrescent. Her father was asleep in the library, her mother was dead; soshe would have the great man to herself for an afternoon. Later shewould have him for always, for she meant to marry him. And when theywere married she was not so sure that they would live with the noise ofthe crocodile barking or coughing, or whatever it did, in their ears.She saw herself in that little house in Green Street with the noise ofmotor-horns and taxi-whistles to soothe her to sleep.
Yet what a man he was! What had he said to her? She went over all hiswords.... They were not many.
At six o'clock she was still waiting in the drawing-room at PeeleCrescent....
At six-thirty Worrall Brice had got as far as Peele Place....
At six-forty-five he found himself in Radcliffe Square again....
At seven o'clock, just as he was giving himself up for lost, he met ataxi and returned to St. James's Street. He was a great traveller, butSouth Kensington had been too much for him.
Next week he went back unmarried to the jungle. It was the narrowestescape he had had.