# The Shining Pyramid (collection)/A Wonderful Woman
### A WONDERFUL WOMAN

On an isle of refuge, a Patmos mercifully set in the midst of an ever-roaring torrent of hansoms going from the north to the south of London and vice versa, two men, who had not seen each other for many years, met face to face one sultry after noon in early autumn. They recognized each other simultaneously, and shook hands.
"My dear Villiers," said the elder of the two, a grizzled man of forty, "it must be seven or eight years since we have seen anything of each other. I am glad to meet you—extremely glad to meet you again."
"You are very kind, Richardson. As you say we managed to lose sight of each other. One does in London, I think, almost without knowing it. And how are you getting on?"
"Thank you, moderately well, I am happy to say. As you know, I am in the India trade and of late years I have managed to increase my connection to a great extent. At present we are doing, I think I may say, respectably. Have you entered any business?"
Villiers laughed; merrily, like a boy. "No, Richardson. I have no time for business; I have definitely chosen a great subject, the study of which will occupy me for the rest of my life."
"Indeed; a scientific subject I presume?"
"Yes, the fact is I am a student of London; I survey mankind from Cricklewood to Tooting, from Turnham Green to the Isle of Dogs. Can you speak the French of Soho? Do you understand Yiddish?"
"Certainly not. Mr. Jones, our corresponding clerk, is a good linguist, but I do not remember his speaking of the dialects you mention. I am afraid, Villiers, you are still rather an idler; I had hoped that when your poor father died you would have entered the China trade."
"No, I sold my interest in the business. In one sense my interest in it was very small indeed, but from a practical point of view it yields me a good income. Have you still got your rooms at Clement's Inn?"
Mr. Richardson blushed. He was rather a grim-looking man, with a straight mouth and a forbidding whisker. He was thoroughly good natured but dry and devoid of humour. But he blushed and a queer sly smile played about his lips.
"No, Villiers, I don't live in Clement's Inn now. I am married."
"You, Richardson! You married! You really astonish me. I thought you were the typical bachelor. I must congratulate you. When did the event take place?"
"We were married three months ago. My wife and I met quite by accident; in fact, I was enabled to render her some assistance in a dispute with an insolent cabdriver; and the acquaintance ripened into affection. I am a very happy man, Villiers."
"You deserve to be, Richardson, you are a good fellow. I should like to meet your wife."
"So you shall. Are you free to-morrow? Good; then come down and dine with us at six. Here is my card."
The two friends parted; each darting through a momentary gap in the race of cabs. Villiers looked at the card; it referred him to "The Limes, Angelina Terrace, Clapham." He wondered exceedingly what manner of wife this good-hearted, dry, city man had found for himself; and his wonder sharpened the sauces at his little dinner at the Italian Restaurant in Regent Street and gave additional zest to the Falerno. He was still wondering as he walked out of Clapham station the next day.
Villiers was some time in finding Angelina Terrace. The neighbourhood was a very new one; two or three old mansions, with their pleasant lawns and cedars, had been "developed"; the result was a maze of brand new streets and terraces, street like to street, and terrace to terrace, and every house built after the same pattern in blinding white brick, with red facings and green Venetian blinds. The inhabitants thought it a cheerful neighbourhood, artists swore at it, and Villiers accepted it as a fresh chapter in his great study. He found the desired terrace at last and was shown into the drawing room at the Limes. He had barely time to notice that the most prominent work on the polished round table was a "Memoir of the Rev. Alex. Macaw, of Dunblather," when Richardson came in, beaming with pleasure.
"That's right," he said, "you have broken the ice, and I hope we shall often see you. Nice cheerful place, isn't it; better than the dingy old red brick inn, eh? Here's my wife. This is my old friend, Villiers, my dear; I was just saying that I hoped he would come down often."
Villiers had started as if he had received an electric shock, as the pretty, though demure-looking woman entered the room. He managed to join pretty well in the indifferent conversation which Richardson kept up during the dinner. Mrs. Richardson was silent; indeed her manner to Villiers was markedly cold. Her husband addressed himself to her now and again, calling her "my dear Agnes," but Villiers was thinking all the while of one Mary Reynolds; of certain merry dinners at this or that restaurant; of little trips to Hampton and Richmond; of the scent of patchouli, and the green-room at the Gaiety. He seemed to hear the popping of champagne corks (Mrs. Richardson drank a little water in a wine-glass) and certain strains of French songs of a fin de siècle character; Richardson's quiet stream of talk sounded idly in his ears, like a brook murmuring far away. Villiers looked furtively at the grave lady at the head of the table; she was wearing a diamond brooch he himself had given to Mary Reynolds. He gasped for breath. "Yes," Richardson was saying, "my wife has some really beautiful jewellery, which she inherited from a distant cousin: Sir Lawrence Buller of Beaulieu Park, in Norfolk. That brooch, which I perceive you are admiring, is by no means the finest piece. After dinner, my dear, you must show Villiers your jewellery; those pearl necklaces are truly magnificent."
"I don't think Mr. Villiers takes much interest in such matters."
The tone was hard and threatening. Villiers bowed and smiled in a dazed sort of way; the champagne, foaming bright in the glasses, danced before his eyes, and his ears were ringing with the daring chanson. What a strong smell of patchouli there was in the room; he felt stifled.
"You don't seem quite the thing to-night, Villiers," said Mr. Richardson, as he showed his guest out, "Take care of the steps."
"Thanks, I'm all right now; I think the heat has been too much for me. Trying weather, isn't it? Good night, Richardson."
Villiers went home in a kind of stupor; he felt sure he had not not been misled by a chance likeness. He remembered the brooch too well. A few days later an irresistible impulse made him find out Mr. Richardson's city address and call upon him there. The worthy man seemed constrained in his manner; he was kind, but looked anxious, like a man charged with some unpleasant duty. The climax came when Villiers proposed to accompany him home and take "pot-luck."
"My dear Villiers, you know I always liked you much; your poor father was very kind to me; it's a great pity. But, to tell the truth, Agnes is very particular; she evidently heard some stories about you (I am afraid, Villiers, you have never lived a very strict life), and she says that as a married woman, she would not care to meet you again. It grieves me, I assure you, to have to say this; but after all, one would not wish one's wife . . ."
Villiers had been staring in stupid astonishment, but at this point he burst into a wild peal of laughter, which echoed above the clamour of Cornhill. He roared and roared again, till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"My dear Richardson," he said at last, "I congratulate you again; you have married a wonderful woman. Good-bye."
Villiers went on his way, and as he disappeared into a hansom he was still bubbling over with unconquerable mirth.