Kitabı oku: «Lady Maude's Mania», sayfa 7
Chapter Eleven.
The Exile
That morning Monsieur Hector Launay was happy. He had been to Portland Place, acted as executioner to the mole upon her ladyship’s chin, buried it beneath the court plaster, been paid his bill, and in going out squeezed Justine’s hand, and —Ah, oui mes amis– she had squeezed it again.
“Yes, yes,” he had cried, joyously, as he returned, with the recollection of Justine’s bright eyes making his own sparkle, “encore a little more of this isle of fogs and rheums and spleen, encore a little more of the hard cash to be made here, encore a little too much more wait, and then cette chère Justine and la France – la France – Tralla-la – Tralla-la – Tralla-la.”
From this it will be seen that Monsieur Hector Launay was joyous. It was his nature to be joyous, but he suppressed it beneath a solemn mask as of wax. He was as immovable as a rule as his own gentleman; that is to say, the waxen image of his craft which looked down Upper Gimp Street from the shop window – the gentleman who was married to the handsome lady with the graceful turn to her neck, who always looked up Upper Gimp Street from morning till night, saving at such times as Monsieur Hector Launay hung old copies of the Figaro or Petit Journal before them, lest the heat of the summer sun should visit their cheeks too roughly. In fact, a neglect of this on one occasion had resulted in the wax “giving” a little, and the lady having a slight attack of mumps.
These dwellers in a happy atmosphere behind glass were the acmé of perfection in the dressing of their hair, the lady’s being the longest and the gentleman’s the shortest possible to conceive. So short was the latter’s, in fact, that it might have been used to brush that of the former; and so occupied were they in gazing up and down the street that they might have been the spies who furnished Monsieur Hector Launay with the abundant information he possessed respecting the élite who lived in a wide circle round his dwelling in that most strange of London regions – mysterious Marylebone.
He was a slim, genteel, sallow gentleman, polite in the extreme, always the perfection of cleanliness, and, as Lord Barmouth said, smelling as if made of scented soap. His eyes were of the darkest, so was his hair, which was cut to the pattern in the window. He had a carefully-waxed and pointed moustache, but shaved the rest of his face as religiously as he did that of Lord Barmouth, every morning, passing his hand over the skin and seeming to be always hunting for one particular bristle, which evaded him.
It has been said that he might be supposed to have gained his information about the various people around by means of his two wax figures, who afterwards communicated their knowledge to him in some occult way, though the theory might hold water that the thoughts of people’s brains radiated to the ends of their hairs which were often cut off and remained in the possession of the barber for distillation, sale, or the fire.
Monsieur Hector Launay, it must be owned, was, though a lover of his country, not patriotic from a Communist, Imperialist, Royalist, or Republican point of view. Friends and compatriots often wanted him to join in this or that conspiracy.
“No,” he would say, “it is ignoble, nor is it pleasant to live here, and shave and cut and dress, but it is safe. Ma foi, no,” he would say, “I should not like to be guillotined and find myself a head short some morning; neither should I like to be sent to New Caledonia, to be cooked by the cannibals of that happy land.”
Certainly he had periodic longings sometimes, but they took the form of eau sucrée or a little cup of coffee with Justine at Versailles, on the Bois de Boulogne: so he waited, stored up knowledge, sang chansons, and invented wonderful washes for the skin or hair.
“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “I know what is immense. Ladies place themselves in my hands, and would I betray their confidence? Never, never. A coiffeur in a good district is the repository of the grandest secrets of life. I could write a book, but, ma foi, no, I never betray. I am a man of trust.”
Charley Melton came into his shop that morning for a periodical cut and shampoo, after sending Joby on his regular mission, and Monsieur Hector smiled softly to himself as he played with the young man’s hair.
“That good dog, monsieur, will he find his way-back?”
“What do you mean?” said Melton sharply.
“Pardon, monsieur, a mere nothing; but I should not trust a dog. They suspect yonder.”
Melton turned and gazed at him angrily.
“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “it is a tender subject, but I go so much that I come to know nearly all.”
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“Monsieur forgets that I dress Lady Barmouth’s hair; that the Miladi Maude often goes to the opera with her beautiful fair tresses arranged in designs of my invention. But, monsieur, they talk about the dog.”
Something very like an imprecation came from the young man’s lips, but he restrained it.
“Monsieur may trust me,” said the hairdresser. “Mademoiselle Justine is a great friend of mine. Have you not remarked her likeness to my lady of wax? She is exact. It is she – encore.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Melton, drily.
“Yes, monsieur; some day we shall return to la France together, to pass our days in simple happy joys.”
“Look here,” said Melton, bluntly, “I am an Englishman, and always speak plainly. You know all about me – about the house in Portland Place?”
“Everything, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, with a smile and a bow. “Mademoiselle Justine is désolée about the course that affairs have taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is old, bête, he is not at all a man. We discourse of you, monsieur – we lovers – and we talk of your love. We agree ourselves that it is foolish to trust a dog.”
“How the devil did you know that I trusted a dog?” said Melton furiously.
“Ma foi, monsieur is angry. Why so, with one who would serve him? Justine loves you – I then love you. How do I know?” – a shrug here – “monsieur is indiscrét. Justine could not fail to see.”
“Confusion!” ejaculated Melton.
“And yet it is so easy, monsieur – a note – a cake of soap – a packet of bloom – a bottle of scent – it is wrapped up – for Miladi Maude with my printed card outside —Voilà! who could suspect?”
“Look here,” said Melton, turning sharply round.
“Pardon, monsieur, I use the scissor; there is a little fresh growth here.”
“What do you expect to be paid for this, if I trust you? – and perhaps I shall not, for it is confoundedly dirty work.”
“Pardon, monsieur,” cried the Frenchman, laying his hand upon his breast, “I am a gentleman. Pay? Noting. Have I not told you that Justine, whom I have the honour to love, adores her young mistress. She adores monsieur, and would serve him. I in my turn adore Mademoiselle Justine. I am her slave – I am yours.”
“Let’s see – Justine? That is her ladyship’s maid?”
“True, monsieur. But this morning she say to me – ‘Hector, mon enfant, I’m désolée on the subject of those two children. Help them, mon garçon, and I will be benefactor.’”
“It is good, I say to her, and I place myself at monsieur’s disposition.”
Charles Melton frowned, and Monsieur Hector went on with his shampooing, till the head between his hands was dried, polished, and finished, when the hairdresser took up a little ivory brush, and anointed it with some fragrant preparation to be applied in its turn to the patient’s beard, till the fair hair glistened like gold, and Monsieur Hector fell back and looked at him in admiration.
“But monsieur is fit now for the arms of a goddess,” he exclaimed. “Does he accept my assistance?”
Melton looked at him for a moment, as he paid the fee usual upon such occasions, and then said bluntly —
“Monsieur Launay, I am obliged to you, and you mean well. Doubtless Mademoiselle Justine means well, and she has my thanks, but I cannot accept your assistance. Good mom – Ah, Joby, old fellow.”
He drew back into the little room as the dog came hastily in, and placed his head against his master’s leg.
“Why, Joby,” exclaimed Melton, in a low excited tone, “where is your collar? Blood too! You have been fighting. Good heavens! what shall I do! – If that note is found! – Oh, my poor darling!” he muttered, and he hurried from the place.
Chapter Twelve.
La Belle Alliance
“It’s enough to drive a man to do anything,” exclaimed Melton, as he dashed down the fashionable newspaper he had been reading, where in a short paragraph he had found that which he told himself would make him wretched for life. The paragraph was as follows —
“We understand that an alliance is on the tapis between Sir Grantley Wilters, of Morley Hall, Shropshire, and Eaton Place, and Lady Maude Diphoos, daughter of the Earl of Barmouth.”
“I seem to be crushed,” exclaimed the young man, rising and walking hastily up and down the room. “Everything goes wrong with me, and I believe I am going mad. Perhaps it is fate,” he said, gloomily, “and how to save that poor girl from wretchedness! Heigho! Joby, old fellow, I wish I could forget the unpleasant things, and then perhaps there would be some comfort in life.
“Now, what’s to be done?” he cried, as his eyes fell again upon the newspaper. “I cannot bear this. Here’s a whole month since I have heard from or seen poor little Maude, for I haven’t the heart to try any more of those clandestine tricks.”
He sat down and thought over the past month and its incidents, taking out and re-reading a note with Lady Barmouth’s crest upon it, in which her ladyship very curtly requested that Mr Melton would refrain from calling in Portland Place, for after what had occurred she could only look upon his visits as an insult. She wrote this at the request of Lord Barmouth.
“That is a monstrous fib,” said Charley Melton, angrily, “for the amiable little old man was always most friendly. But what shall I do? I must see her; I must hear from her. They are forcing this on with the poor girl, and it is like blasting her young life.
“Tom!” he ejaculated, after a pause. “No; he has not answered either of my last letters. There is something wrong there.”
He sat thinking again.
“Confound it all! It is so contemptible. I hate it, but what can I do? I must send a note through that Frenchman. Pah! how I loathe this backstairs work, but what can I do? I am debarred the front stairs, which are open to that confounded roué Wilters.”
He stamped up and down the room again till there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he cried, and a groom entered.
“Please, sir, master’s compliments, and – and – I beg your pardon, sir, he’d be much obliged if you wouldn’t stamp up and down the room so. He’s got a bad headache, and you’re just over him.”
“Was that the message your master sent?” exclaimed Melton, for the groom was the servant of an acquaintance who had chambers on the floor below.
“Well, sir – no, sir – not exactly, sir,” said the man, suppressing an inclination to smile.
“What did he say then?”
“Please, sir, he said, ‘Run up and ask Mr Melton if he’s going mad,’ and he shied one of his boots at me.”
“Tell him yes, raving mad,” said Melton savagely; and the man went down.
“It’s fate, I suppose,” he said at last: “and it seems as if I am to give her up.”
For from that fatal day when the toy terrier had been slain Joby had stood in the same category as his master – Lady Maude was not at home to the canine caller, and after many efforts to obtain access to his mistress, Charley Melton was nearly in despair.
He had tried the post, and his letters had been returned. He had tried the servants and mutual friends, but given up both in disgust for Maude’s sake, being unwilling to cause her fresh anxieties and pain.
“It is so confoundedly undignified,” he said to himself. “I can’t think of a plan that is safe. But never mind, patience – and something will turn up. We must wait. I can get a look at my darling now and then, and that must do till better days arrive.”
But human nature has its bounds of endurance, and after seeing Maude one day in the Park in company with washed-out, overdressed Sir Grantley Wilters, Charley Melton could bear it no more.
“What’s the good of living in this confounded England,” he exclaimed, “where a man cannot wring his rival’s neck or knock out his enemy’s brains without there being a row. I must do it, there is no other means that I can see but I’ll have one more try first.”
He went off straight to Portland Place, and as he came within sight of the house, to his great delight he caught sight of Maude in the large covered space with its huge pots of evergreens over the portico. She was leaning on the railing and gazing pensively down, and as Charley Melton drew nearer he found that she was listening to the music of a loud-toned organ played by a tall, broad-shouldered, swarthy Italian, who waved his hand and raised his hat, and smiled and bowed till the lady dropped something white into his extended felt broad brim, in response to which he kissed his hand, and the lady still looked down.
Charley Melton thought little of it at the moment as he crossed the road, when just as he was half-way across the broad way Maude raised her head, saw him, and fled quickly into the house.
“She needn’t have been in such a precious hurry,” said Melton to himself; “but never mind, I’ll make a big effort to see her this time, at all events.”
He went boldly across the pavement to reach the front door and ring, and as he did so Luigi Malsano followed him, turning his handle the while.
“Ah, signore!” he whined, as he smiled and showed his white teeth, “povero Italiano.”
“Yes, you handsome scoundrel,” said Charley Melton to himself, “I should like your poverty. Allowed to come here, and rewarded by her in her gentle love and kindliness. What is the scoundrel glaring at?”
For Luigi’s eyes seemed to him to emit a peculiarly sinister or baleful glare that was not pleasant.
“No, no, go away!” said Melton impatiently.
Just then the door opened, and Robbins the pompous appeared.
“Not at home, sir,” he said, before he was asked.
“Take my card, Robbins, and ask Lord Barmouth to see me.”
“I dursen’t, sir; I dursen’t indeed,” said the butler in a whisper. “It’s more than my place is worth, sir, and his lordship couldn’t see you, he couldn’t indeed.”
“Why not?”
Robbins “made a face” which was quite expressive enough, for Charley Melton read it to mean “the dragon wouldn’t let him,” and with a feeling of bitterness and rage which nearly tempted him to kick the organ-grinder into the gutter, he turned and walked away, to go straight from thence to Upper Gimp Street, where he found the handsome hairdresser rearranging the costume of his waxen lady dummy.
“Ah, m’sieu; yes, I am quite at liberty. Entrez, m’sieu.”
Charley Melton confounded his “Ah, monsieur” with the Italian’s “Ah, signore,” and he walked into the saloon, and stood for a few minutes in silence thinking, while Monsieur Hector suggested hair-cutting, shampooing, scent, singeing, and other matters connected with his profession.
“Look here, Mr Launay,” he said at last.
“M’sieu, s’il vous plait, m’sieu, it is the only pleasant reminder of my own clime.”
“Monsieur Launay then – ”
“I am at your service, m’sieu.”
“Some time back, when I was here, you were good enough to make me the offer of your services.”
“Certainement, m’sieu.”
“Monsieur Launay, what you have said is a profound secret between us? As a French gentleman, I trust to your honour.”
“Sare, I am the repository of the secrets of the aristocratic classes.”
“Then perhaps I shall trust you.”
“And monsieur accepts the offer of my services?”
“I cannot say yet – I will call again.”
Charley Melton left the place and went along the street, for he could get no farther that day. He felt degraded, and the words choked him; but Monsieur Launay snatched a copy of Le Petit Journal from over the head of his gentleman, whose fixed eyes followed the young man as he went slowly along the pavement with Joby close at his heels.
“C’est fait?” exclaimed Monsieur Launay. “Justine, mon ange, I shall obey you and save Monsieur Melton —Ma foi! what a name! They will be happy, and then I – Ah, la France – la bel-le,” he sang, “at last I shall return to you a rich man. Oh, but it was quite plain: he had sent a note by the dogue, and the boule-dogue had lost it and his collar. But what it is to be ingenious – to have of the spirit! If I rase and cut hair, I starve myself, but if I make myself of great use to all around, I grow rich. Live the secrets! Justine, you will be mine at last.
“Aha! – it is good,” he continued, “I have another secret to keep… This is the bureau aux secrets. He had not remarked the likeness to my adorable. It is beautiful, and she was jalouse when I say I love my lady of wax. Cette chérie. But, ma foi! I must be busy over my other affairs; there is the coiffure of the Grande Barmouth to prepare. Aha, Milady La Grande, you will call ma chérie bête, chouette, stupide, and trouble her poor sweet soul. Now I shall have my revenge, and be on ze best of terms as you say all ze time. La – la – la – la – la – la. Par-tir pour la guer-re – la guer-re. Ces braves soldats.”
He sang on in a low tone, and began to comb some of Lady Barmouth’s falsities, and while he combed he smiled, and when Monsieur Hector smiled he was making plans.
“Vive les conspirateurs!” he cried; and then prepared for his primitive repast.
Being a bachelor at present, he cooked for himself behind a little screen over a gas-stove; sometimes it was food, sometimes strange cosmetiques and chemical preparations for beautifying his clients. This day it was food preparation, and, manipulated by Monsieur Hector, one kidney became a wonderful dish, swimming in gravy. Tiny bits of meat reappeared brown and appetising: and he was great upon soup, which he made with half a pint of water, some vegetables, and a disc cut off what seemed to be so much glue in a sausage skin.
But he lived well upon a small income, and partook of grand salads, water souchées made of one herring, biftek-aux-pommes, café, eau sucrée, and cigarette.
One gas-burner cooked, boiled, and stewed, and his cleanliness and saving ways enabled him to afford his game at billiards; and to pass for a Parisian of the first water under a political cloud.
“Ah!” he said, as he smoked his one cigarette, “when will he return with a letter for his beloafed? Soon. But stop – what is a letter to a meeting? Ha, ha! I have a plan. Wait till he come once more, and then – ha, ha! how la Justine will laugh! Vive l’amour.
“Yes, the ruse, one that your foggy head, ros-bif Anglais could never devise, but which I, Hector of the sunny France, threw off at once. Oorai, as we say in thees deesmal country. Vive l’amour. One – two – three days; when will he come? Any veek, and then —vive l’amour.”
Chapter Thirteen.
Sir Grantley is Agitated
Lady Barmouth was in great trouble, and resembled more strongly than ever the heaving billows. She had been so agitated several times lately that she had found it necessary to take medicinally red lavender drops, or else eau de Cologne, the latter by preference for its fragrance.
She was terribly troubled, for matters had not gone so satisfactorily as she could wish. There had been a death in Sir Grantley Wilters’ family, and that gentleman had been unwell too, thanks to a fresh medicine man he had tried.
“And really,” said her ladyship, “that ungrateful child Maude does not show the slightest sympathy.”
“Fool if she did,” said Tom, who was in the drawing-room. “What’s that fellow Bellman been here for again?”
“To see Tryphie, of course,” said her ladyship.
Tom was about to make some angry reply, when Maude came in with Lord Barmouth leaning upon her arm, fresh from a walk, and Sir Grantley Wilters, most carefully got up in deep mourning, following behind with Tryphie.
“Now I appeal to your ladyship,” said Sir Grantley, as soon as the door was closed.
“There, there, there,” said Lord Barmouth, “let me tell it to her ladyship. It was all nothing, damme, it was all nothing, and – and – and,” he continued, sitting down to have a rub at his leg, “I won’t have my little girl here troubled about it.”
“For Heaven’s sake, behave like a gentleman if you can,” whispered her ladyship.
“Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I will, I will,” said his lordship, while, evidently greatly agitated, Maude moved towards the door.
“No, ’pon honour, I must beg of you to stop, Lady Maude,” said Sir Grantley. “It concerns you so much, don’t you know. Fact is, Lady Barmouth,” he continued, as Maude stood looking very pale before them – “fact is, we were in the Square walking, when that demmed dog came slowly up and snatched Lady Maude’s handkerchief, and made off before he could be stopped.”
“Well, suppose a dog did,” said Tom coming to his sister’s rescue; “I suppose he was a very decent dog, who preferred cleanliness to honesty, so he stole a pocket handkerchief to wipe his nose.”
“He, he, he!” chuckled his lordship; “that’s not bad, Tom;” while her ladyship looked daggers.
“Doosed good – very doosed good,” said Sir Grantley, ramming his glass tightly in his eye, and standing, holding his hat behind him, to keep up the balance as he bent forward and stared at Tom. “If it had been another dog, it wouldn’t have mattered, but it was – er – er – er – a very particular dog.”
“Just as I said – over his nose,” said Tom.
“It – it – it was Charley Melton’s dog,” said Lord Barmouth, and Maude’s face became crimson.
“Yes, and that’s the dayvle of it,” said Sir Grantley, angrily. “I don’t choose for that fler’s dog to come and take such a liberty. He was – er – hanging about for some time, and smelling at his lordship’s pocket, here, don’t you know, and then he presumed to steal that handkerchief. Lady Barmouth, I feel as if I could poison that dog, I do – damme!”
Just before this Lord Barmouth, who had looked terribly guilty at the mention of the dog smelling his pocket, drew out his handkerchief to hide his confusion, and brought forth with it a very brown and sticky Bath bun, one that his little niece Tryphie had purchased for him. This bun fell with a dab upon a little marqueterie table, behind where Sir Grantley was balancing himself, and, knowing that her ladyship must see it at the next turn of her head, the old man looked piteously across at Tryphie, who was nearest, for he dared not go across to pick it up.
Tryphie saw the direction of his gaze, caught sight of the bun and coloured, when Tom, who was always jealously watching her every look, followed her eyes, saw the bun sticking to the table, and divined at once whence it had come. So nonchalantly crossing the room while Sir Grantley was delivering his speech, he deftly lifted the bun and let it glide down softly into the hat the baronet was balancing behind, he being too excited to notice the difference in weight.
“Really, Sir Grantley, it was very tiresome,” said her ladyship.
“He, he, he!” laughed his lordship, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and bending down in his chair to laugh with all the enjoyment of a schoolboy at Tom’s monkeyish trick.
“My dear!” exclaimed her ladyship.
“I – I – I was laughing at the con – con – confounded impudence of that dog,” said his lordship, mendaciously; and her ladyship mentally promised him one of her lectures.
“It was an accident that cannot possibly occur again,” continued her ladyship. “Maude, my darling, pray go and take off your things. Sir Grantley, you will stay lunch?”
“Thanks, no,” said the baronet, changing his position, giving his hat a turn, and flourishing out the Bath bun, which fell upon the carpet before him.
Her ladyship put up her eye-glass and stared at the bun; Sir Grantley gave his an extra twist and also stared at the bun, poking at it with his stick; and Maude and Tryphie escaped from the room.
“Didn’t know you were so fond of buns, Wilters,” said Tom. “You should have them put in a paper bag. They make your hat lining sticky.”
“That’s doosed funny, Diphoos,” said Sir Grantley. “Very fond of a joke. By the way, the amateurs are going to get up a pantomime next season. Won’t you join them? I’ll put in a word for you. Make a doosed good clown, don’t you know. – I think I had him there,” said the baronet to himself.
“I will, if you’ll play pantaloon,” said Tom sharply. “You’d look the part to perfection.”
“Yas, doosed good,” said Sir Grantley. “Day, Lady Barmouth; must go. Day, Lord Barmouth;” and with a short nod at Tom, he left the house.
“Tom,” exclaimed her ladyship, “if you insult Sir Grantley any more like that you shall suffer for it. If you behave like that, you will be the means of breaking off a most brilliant match.”
“Thanks,” said Tom, quietly, as her ladyship was sailing out of the room. “You can’t make things worse for me.”
“Tom, my boy,” said his lordship, “you are – are – are – a regular lion, that you are. I don’t know what I should do without you.”
“Fight for yourself, father, I hope,” said the viscount, smiling, “I’m afraid I do more harm than good.”
Meanwhile, Sir Grantley Wilters, who had not the slightest thought of breaking off the match, let Diphoos behave as he would, went to keep a particular engagement that he had with Monsieur Hector Launay, who was singing away to himself about “La – Fran-ce – et – la – guer-re,” and standing before a glass with a pair of scissors cutting his black hair close to his skull.
He was ready on the instant, though, as Sir Grantley entered, showed him into his private room, and upon the baronet stating his case, to wit, his uneasiness about his hair, which he said was getting thin on the crown, gave the most earnest attention to the subject.
“I shouldn’t mind so much,” said Sir Grantley; “but I’m – er – going to be mar’d shortly, and I want to look my best.”
Monsieur Hector took a magnifying glass from a drawer, and gravely inspected the crown before him, ending by assuring the baronet that by the use of certain washes prepared by himself from peculiar and unique receipts he could restore the hairs that made him slightly thin upon the crown.
Sir Grantley, in full faith, resigned himself to the coiffeur’s hands, and was sponged and rubbed and scented during a space of about an hour, when he rose and paid a liberal fee, which made Monsieur Hector smile and bow.
Then he turned to go, but stopped short at the door and came back.
“Oh, Monsieur Launay, I’m told that you are a great friend of Mademoiselle Justine, Lady Barmouth’s maid.”
“I have that honour, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, bowing low.
“Ah, yes,” said Sir Grantley, hesitating. “By the way, I am Sir Grantley Wilters.”
“I have heard mademoiselle mention Sir Vilter,” said the hairdresser, bowing.
“Yes, of course,” said the baronet. “Look here, don’t you know, I’m engaged to Lady Maude Diphoos, and I want to save her from pain. No spying —moucharder– but I should be glad to hear of anything that you think might interest me. Mademoiselle Justine will tell you better what I mean. Good-day.”
“Bah! – Phit! – Pst! Big John Bull, fool!” cried Monsieur Hector as soon as he was alone; and he indulged in a peculiar saltatory exercise, indicative of kicking his client in the chest, and making derisive gestures with pointed fingers. “You think I tell you what I know. Pst! Grand bête. Big thin beast. Cochon. Peeg! Come and be shampooed, and I had you by the nose and tell you noting. Aha! Be your spy? No. Justine tells me all, and I know so much that my head is full. But wait you. Aha! Sir Vilter! wait you. Vive l’amour.”
He folded the cloth that had been spread over Sir Grantley’s shoulders with a jerk, and was in the act of putting it away, when something touched his leg, and looking down, it was to see Joby, and directly after Charley Melton entered the room.
