A selection having finally been agreed upon, the orchestra struck up “My Little Grey Home in the West,” and no attempt was made to compete with it. When the last lingering strains had died away and the violinist-leader, having straightened out the kinks in his person which the rendition of the melody never failed to produce, had bowed for the last time, a clear, musical voice spoke from the other side of the pillar.
“Jimmy Crocker is a WORM!”
Jimmy spilled his cocktail. It might have been the voice of Conscience.
“I despise him more than any one on earth. I hate to think that he’s an American.”
Jimmy drank the few drops that remained in his glass, partly to make sure of them, partly as a restorative. It is an unnerving thing to be despised by a red-haired girl whose life you have just saved. To Jimmy it was not only unnerving; it was uncanny. This girl had not known him when they met on the street a few moments before. How then was she able to display such intimate acquaintance with his character now as to describe him–justly enough–as a worm? Mingled with the mystery of the thing was its pathos. The thought that a girl could be as pretty as this one and yet dislike him so much was one of the saddest things Jimmy had ever come across. It was like one of those Things Which Make Me Weep In This Great City so dear to the hearts of the sob-writers of his late newspaper.
A waiter bustled up with a high-ball. Jimmy thanked him with his eyes. He needed it. He raised it to his lips.
“He’s always drinking–”
He set it down hurriedly.
“–and making a disgraceful exhibition of himself in public! I always think Jimmy Crocker–”
Jimmy began to wish that somebody would stop this girl. Why couldn’t the little man change the subject to the weather, or that stout child start prattling about some general topic? Surely a boy of that age, newly arrived in London, must have all sorts of things to prattle about? But the little man was dealing strenuously with a breaded cutlet, while the stout boy, grimly silent, surrounded fish-pie in the forthright manner of a starving python. As for the elder woman, she seemed to be wrestling with unpleasant thoughts, beyond speech.
“–I always think that Jimmy Crocker is the worst case I know of the kind of American young man who spends all his time in Europe and tries to become an imitation Englishman. Most of them are the sort any country would be glad to get rid of, but he used to work once, so you can’t excuse him on the ground that he hasn’t the sense to know what he’s doing. He’s deliberately chosen to loaf about London and make a pest of himself. He went to pieces with his eyes open. He’s a perfect, utter, hopeless WORM!”
Jimmy had never been very fond of the orchestra at the Regent Grill, holding the view that it interfered with conversation and made for an unhygienic rapidity of mastication; but he was profoundly grateful to it now for bursting suddenly into -La Boheme-, the loudest item in its repertory. Under cover of that protective din he was able to toy with a steaming dish which his waiter had brought. Probably that girl was saying all sorts of things about him still but he could not hear them.
The music died away. For a moment the tortured air quivered in comparative silence; then the girl’s voice spoke again. She had, however, selected another topic of conversation.
“I’ve seen all I want to of England,” she said, “I’ve seen Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament and His Majesty’s Theatre and the Savoy and the Cheshire Cheese, and I’ve developed a frightful home-sickness. Why shouldn’t we go back to-morrow?”
For the first time in the proceedings the elder woman spoke. She cast aside her mantle of gloom long enough to say “Yes,” then wrapped it round her again. The little man, who had apparently been waiting for her vote before giving his own, said that the sooner he was on board a New York-bound boat the better he would be pleased. The stout boy said nothing. He had finished his fish-pie, and was now attacking jam roll with a sort of morose resolution.