At Genoa he wandered about in the hot streets, bought a cheap suit-case and some underclothes, and then went down to the port in search of a little hotel he remembered there. An hour later he was sitting in the coffee-room, smoking and glancing vacantly over the papers while he waited for dinner, when he became aware of being timidly but intently examined by a small round-faced gentleman with eyeglasses who sat alone at the adjoining table.
“Hullo–Buttles!” Lansing exclaimed, recognising with surprise the recalcitrant secretary who had resisted Miss Hicks’s endeavour to convert him to Tiepolo.
Mr. Buttles, blushing to the roots of his scant hair, half rose and bowed ceremoniously.
Nick Lansing’s first feeling was of annoyance at being disturbed in his solitary broodings; his next, of relief at having to postpone them even to converse with Mr. Buttles.
“No idea you were here: is the yacht in harbour?” he asked, remembering that the Ibis must be just about to spread her wings.
Mr. Buttles, at salute behind his chair, signed a mute negation: for the moment he seemed too embarrassed to speak.
“Ah–you’re here as an advance guard? I remember now–I saw Miss Hicks in Venice the day before yesterday,” Lansing continued, dazed at the thought that hardly forty-eight hours had passed since his encounter with Coral in the Scalzi.
Mr. Buttles, instead of speaking, had tentatively approached his table. “May I take this seat for a moment, Mr. Lansing? Thank you. No, I am not here as an advance guard–though I believe the Ibis is due some time to-morrow.” He cleared his throat, wiped his eyeglasses on a silk handkerchief, replaced them on his nose, and went on solemnly: “Perhaps, to clear up any possible misunderstanding, I ought to say that I am no longer in the employ of Mr. Hicks.”
Lansing glanced at him sympathetically. It was clear that he suffered horribly in imparting this information, though his compact face did not lend itself to any dramatic display of emotion.
“Really,” Nick smiled, and then ventured: “I hope it’s not owing to conscientious objections to Tiepolo?”
Mr. Buttles’s blush became a smouldering agony. “Ah, Miss Hicks mentioned to you … told you …? No, Mr. Lansing. I am principled against the effete art of Tiepolo, and of all his contemporaries, I confess; but if Miss Hicks chooses to surrender herself momentarily to the unwholesome spell of the Italian decadence it is not for me to protest or to criticize. Her intellectual and aesthetic range so far exceeds my humble capacity that it would be ridiculous, unbecoming ….”
He broke off, and once more wiped a faint moisture from his eyeglasses. It was evident that he was suffering from a distress which he longed and yet dreaded to communicate. But Nick made no farther effort to bridge the gulf of his own preoccupations; and Mr. Buttles, after an expectant pause, went on: “If you see me here to-day it is only because, after a somewhat abrupt departure, I find myself unable to take leave of our friends without a last look at the Ibis–the scene of so many stimulating hours. But I must beg you,” he added earnestly, “should you see Miss Hicks–or any other member of the party–to make no allusion to my presence in Genoa. I wish,” said Mr. Buttles with simplicity, “to preserve the strictest incognito.”
Lansing glanced at him kindly. “Oh, but–isn’t that a little unfriendly?”
“No other course is possible, Mr. Lansing,” said the ex- secretary, “and I commit myself to your discretion. The truth is, if I am here it is not to look once more at the Ibis, but at Miss Hicks: once only. You will understand me, and appreciate what I am suffering.”
He bowed again, and trotted away on his small, tightly-booted feet; pausing on the threshold to say: “From the first it was hopeless,” before he disappeared through the glass doors.
A gleam of commiseration flashed through Nick’s mind: there was something quaintly poignant in the sight of the brisk and efficient Mr. Buttles reduced to a limp image of unrequited passion. And what a painful surprise to the Hickses to be thus suddenly deprived of the secretary who possessed “the foreign languages”! Mr. Beck kept the accounts and settled with the hotel-keepers; but it was Mr. Buttles’s loftier task to entertain in their own tongues the unknown geniuses who flocked about the Hickses, and Nick could imagine how disconcerting his departure must be on the eve of their Grecian cruise which Mrs. Hicks would certainly call an Odyssey.