# Ainslee's Magazine/The Professional Prince/Chapter 8

pp. 27–28.

### CHAPTER VIII.

While the prince and the Earl of Bastable had been discussing the question of Agatha Stuart's coming to stay at Half Moon Street, a taxi had carried her to her lodgings in Bickmore Street, and already she had begun to pack. Her belongings, chiefly garments, were easily contained in two trunks of moderate size. But she did not pack them quickly, for she folded each frock carefully, so that it should be as little as possible crushed. She did not, therefore, reach the house in Half Moon Street till a quarter past five.
She found herself attaching undue importance to the fact that Henry Cleveland, the footman, and not James Bletsoe, received her and carried her trunks to her bedroom, from which every trace of her brother's occupation had already been removed.
When he had set the trunks on the floor, he blushed and said:
“I will bring the tea to the drawing-room, miss. Mr. Bletsoe says that you might as well use it, since Mr. Stuart never does. Shall I bring it at once?”
“In about five minutes, thank you,” she said.
When he had shut the door, she turned eagerly to an examination of the room and surveyed it with a long-drawn sigh of pleasure. After the commonplace ugliness, sometimes sordidness, of theatrical lodgings—she had not yet risen to the possession of a flat of her own—it seemed to her the last word in prettiness; though she was a trifle troubled by the carelessness with which the shepherdesses in the pictures empaneled in the walls had fastened their draperies.
Then she went to the drawing-room to tea.
She was a little disappointed that Henry Cleveland brought in the tray; she would have preferred that James Bletsoe should have brought it. The delicacy of the cakes and the beauty of the old Sèvres service did not quite make up for his not doing so.
James Bletsoe timed his entry to the moment. She had taken out her cigarette case when he entered the drawing-room, bringing with him a box of the prince's cigarettes.
He opened it, handed it to her, and said:
“I think you will prefer one of these, madam.”
She took one and thanked him, looking rather earnestly at his expressionless, impassive face. She felt that the prince had probably been right when he had said that it was a face that might have adorned a Greek coin. The gray eyes seemed to look through her without seeing her. This interested, but did not please, her. The eyes of most men looked at her—hard. She gave herself a little, irritated shake. What on earth did it matter? A butler!
He turned, went to the door, opened it, and was going through it, when she called sharply:
“Mr. Bletsoe.”
He turned and again, looked through her, waiting.
“I suppose this house doesn't belong to my brother? He's taken it furnished?” she asked.
“No, madam. Neither the house nor the furniture belong to him.”
“I thought not. He could never have furnished it like this,” she said in a tone of relief. “How long has he taken it for?”
“I don't know, madam.” He spoke with utter indifference.
She felt that it was quite the right tone in which to speak of John. But it did not please her. After all, whatever John might be himself, he had her for a sister.
She frowned at Bletsoe, but as he was still looking calmly through her, she could not think that he saw it.
Then he said:
“Perhaps it would interest you to go over the house, madam? There are many beautiful things in it.”
Had his voice expressed the faintest desire to show them to her she would have refused coldly. As it was, she said:
“Yes. I should like to see it.”
He took her from room to room, showing her the few pictures, the few pieces of jade and lacquer, the few old Chinese ivories, all of them admirable. But he showed them to her with so warm an enthusiasm, almost a passion, for their beauty, that for the while he lent her untrained eye sight, her neglected spirit understanding. His face was no longer impassive, or his voice toneless, or his eyes cold. No longer did they look through her. They looked into her eyes and saw them.
Once he ran his fingers lovingly down a line of a translucent jade figure of Kwanyin, and she observed that he had beautiful hands.
“What a lot you know!” she exclaimed almost enviously, as they came back to the drawing-room.
“I like these things,” he said quietly. “And I have always made a point of being in the house of people with taste. They are the nicest to live with.”
“I see,” she said thoughtfully, and then, on a note of wonder: “But John? John doesn't understand these things. He—he wouldn't care for them.”
He hesitated, gazing at her, then he said:
“Very likely not, madam. But I go with the house.”
She looked at him oddly.
“Yes.” she said softly, “you do go with the house.”
He left her, and for a little while her mind was full of the beautiful things she had seen. Then Bletsoe's face alone filled it.