Later the same day Claudia awakened to the sound of snortings and snufflings. Exasperated puffings sounded in her ear. For an instant she dreamed that she was being pursued down a long road by an angry motor-car bent on her destruction. It came nearer and nearer—now it was quite close—she put out her hand in vague dreamlike fashion to push it away. The motor-car retreated somewhere at her touch, but returned in a few seconds to make a fresh onslaught. Then something soft and velvety—obviously not a motor-car—rubbed up against her cheek. Claudia came back from the world of Nowhere in Particular to her own room in Grosvenor Square.
To whom could those snortings and snufflings belong save Billie, her beloved dachshund!
Claudia yawned lazily. Billie gave another tug to the brown plait on her pillow. That was always Billie’s way of engaging her attention in the morning. Extraordinary, how long these superior mortals took to awake in the morning when they were always so bright and fond of pulling his ears at night!
The outline of the map of the world was still blurred for his mistress when she vaguely remembered that something very pleasant had happened to her. Whatwas it that made her open her eyes that sense ofbien être?
“Oh!... Oh! Billie!” She turned on her elbow and kissed Billie’s silky brown coat with unusual fervour. He was the most delightful thing in dachshunds, with a coat like sealskin, only softer and warmer, and the most pathetic and companionable eyes in the world. He was exclusively devoted to Claudia, who, in return, gave him a big corner of her heart. To the rest of the family he was a little elusive and aloof, rather bored with their desultory attentions, occasionally very busy with his own thoughts and affairs. Only Claudia’s hand gave him real joy. Sometimes out of politeness he allowed Pat to think he liked her petting, but that was because she was only a young thing and Claudia was fond of her.
“Billie,” she said, with a rippling laugh of sheer happiness, “you don’t know it, but I’m different from what I was yesterday morning. I’m engaged!”
Billie regarded her seriously. He seemed to be digesting the news and wondering what difference it would make to him.
“Yes,” continued his mistress, giving him a hug. “I’m engaged. I’ve promised to marry someone very, very nice. Congratulate me, Billie.”
Billie rose to the situation and barked joyously.
“Thank you, sir. I am sure they were most sincere congratulations. Heigh ho! we shall have to tell mother.... What do you say to breakfast, eh?”
She put her hand on the bell, and Billie blinked happily. He always waited to take his breakfast with Claudia, and really she was very late during the season.
“Billie, don’t rootle about in the bed like that. Be more respectful, because I’m much more important to-day than I was yesterday.” Then she lay back among the pillows and thought happily of Gilbert. She longed to see him or hear from him. She hoped he would telephone orperhaps send her some flowers on his way to his chambers. She was certain he must be thinking of her just as she was thinking of him.
She had a curious and not unpleasant feeling that last night she had settled her whole life. She was like someone who had been standing at the cross-roads awaiting an indication which turning to take. Last night she had taken what she was sure was the right turning. Now the road of her life seemed to stretch before her like a glorious golden riband.
Yet, oddly enough, at the back of her mind was a sense of loss. She had lost the right of making her choice, she had lost a certain excited feeling that life was a great adventure. The adventure had taken definite shape now like a fluid that has been poured into a mould. Some of the delightful indecision, one of the biggest “perhapses” of life had gone. She had always taken it for granted that she would marry without making it her business to do so. She had looked with soft, speculative eyes at the men she met. Perhaps it will be this one—perhaps I shall sit next to him at dinner to-night—perhaps he will be one of my partners at the dance to-morrow! A girl who knows that she is attractive to men always has this feeling consciously or unconsciously. Now this feeling had merged into something else, the happy glow of knowledge. Love had come.
It seemed to Claudia that it had come rather suddenly, although she had known Gilbert for many years. It was only the last month he had seemed a “possible.” She remembered the exact moment that the label had fixed itself upon him. She had been at a big dinner-party, given by the wife of the Home Secretary, and the man who took her in had talked all through the fish and the entrée about him. That was before the Driver case, when he had definitely proved his metal, but her dinner companion had been brought into contact withhim over some business and been greatly impressed with his ability. Claudia had heard vaguely of Gilbert’s distinguished career at Oxford, but the thumb-nail sketch which her companion drew of him in his chambers arrested her attention. Then later that very evening she had met him at a reception which her aunt, Lady Pitsea, gave.
Claudia had an almost Greek appreciation and love for physical fitness, and had Gilbert not been a most personable man, her interest in his mental achievements might have evaporated. But because he was strong and came of healthy stock, the night-oil that he had burned had so far left no mark upon him. There was no doubt that he had personality, that he would never be overlooked wherever he went. Claudia could never have married a handsome man without brains, but it is doubtful if she could have loved anything lacking in physical fitness. She demanded a certain amount of beauty and colour in her life, just as she demanded a certain amount of fresh air and food.
Until the reception they had not met for a couple of years, and he showed unmistakably that he admired her. After that he seemed to dwarf the other men with whom she ate and danced and talked. That she did not meet him often at social gatherings—he was too busy to go—whetted her appetite for his company. Sometimes he would come in to some gathering with a little line of fatigue between his brows. It had been an agreeable pastime to smooth it out by her conversation and gaiety.
She realized this morning, as she stirred her coffee, that actually they had talked very little. Not that he was a silent companion, but they had always talked in crowded places of other people and current events. Necessarily their talk had been largely on the surface—a large surface, but yet only the surface of the things that matter. She had never, since childhood’s days, beenwith him for many consecutive hours. She had never, since those days, been alone with him in the country, tramping side by side, or sitting for long, lazy hours under the green trees. Claudia knew that such times bare the man or woman of mannerisms and conventionalities, and expose the real ego. Two or three times before she had thought she liked men, but always on further and closer knowledge she had found them disappointing. Then she had been annoyed with herself for even that faint stirring of interest. In some unaccountable way she had felt humiliated when her brain failed to approve of them. But Gilbert could not disappoint her. How could such an admittedly clever man disappoint any woman? She was glad he was going to have a career, she saw herself helping him, entering into his thoughts and aims, working and loving side by side. She was glad she had not fallen in love with a nonentity or an idle, rich man.
She reflected that she would have hated to feel apologetic for her husband. And yet she had seen girls of her own age, whom she knew to be clever and even brilliant, marry men, and not for money or position, who seemed to be absolutely devoid of the grey matter we call brain. She had heard them rave rapturously over commonplace males that bored her in twenty minutes, and she knew that Love is a freakish thing. Fate might have played a joke on her. “I wonder what it is exactly—this sex attraction?” she murmured to the sleeping dachshund, and pigeonholed the question for future investigation, when her mind was quite clear and at rest, for Gilbert had urged a speedy marriage.
Gilbert’s love-making had been almost inarticulate. She wished he had said something memorable, something she could enshrine in her heart and when she was an old woman bring forth with a happy smile—“Do you remember you said——” But Gilbert had hardly evensaid the conventionalIch liebe dich. Ah! but his heart, beating violently against her own, had said it. Claudia did not know that in the crucial moment love and passion are indistinguishable, so she had no doubt that his soul had spoken to hers.
Billie raised his head from the eiderdown and looked questioningly at the door. Someone was approaching. A rap with something sharp and hard followed.
“Can I come in, Claudia? Johnson said you were having your breakfast.”
Claudia called out permission to enter, and a fair young Amazon, riding-crop in hand, stalked into the room. It was Patricia Iverson, generally called Pat, the youngest of the three children of Circe. Pat was unusually tall, and in her long riding-habit she looked even taller than usual. She was flushed with exertion, her fine, fair skin showed almost startlingly against the black of her hat and habit.
“Bill, where are your manners? Why don’t you wag your tail? All right, I shall wag it for you! What’s the good of being a dog with a usable tail, if you don’t wave it when a lady enters the room? Oh! it was spiffing in the Park this morning.”
“I am sure it was. I feel ashamed to be in bed, but I was so late again this morning. Past four. Aren’t we fools to dance the night away and spend the mornings in bed?”
“Yes,” said Patricia, disposing her long limbs in an easy chair. “But I shall do it when I get the chance.”
“You ache to be dissipated?”
“Rather, because after dissipation you can appreciate virtue and—a rest. Claudia, why are you smiling like a Cheshire cat this morning? I hate people to smile like that unless they tell me the reason. It’s like hearing the music of a dance you can’t go to.”
Claudia wondered if she would break the news to Pat.It was strange, but there was nobody to whom she feltcompelledto impart her news. There was no one would quite understand and be glad with her in her gladness. Pat was so young, and then you never knew how she would take things. Sometimes she was as hard as nails, and Claudia naturally felt she would like a sympathetic ear.
“I’ve been riding with Mr. Paton,” continued Patricia, pulling Billie’s ear, a proceeding which he bore with the patience of an early Christian martyr. “We had such a jolly gallop. He’s awfully nice, isn’t he?”
“Very nice,” agreed Claudia heartily. She felt that the whole world of men and women were nice this morning, but she could honestly give Paton an emphatic adjective. “He’s a great friend of—of Gilbert Currey’s.”
“He says such quaint things sometimes, and he isn’t a bit like most men you meet. Do you know what we were talking about this morning? We were discussing animals, and how far they feel human emotion, and how much brain they’ve got. He’d been reading some German book on the subject. He’s fond of animals. Oh! he sent you a message.”
“Yes?” Claudia was wondering what the bond of sympathy was between the two men.
“He told me to tell you that he’s ordered that book you wanted from the publisher. And I am to convey an invitation for us both to have tea with him to-day in Kensington Gardens. We don’t need Jujubes.”
Jujubes was a disrespectful name applied to Miss Morrow who had once been with them as governess, and had slid into position of amiable General Utility. She could be used as a chaperon, walking-stick, or sedative. Hence Pat’s nickname for her.
“I promised to go to some theatricals at Stretton House,” said Claudia, grabbing her diary, “and, let me see—yes, I ought to go with Aunt Carrie to call on some people.”
But her words were regretful. She would have loved to sit in the Park and have tea under the trees, where the birds come hopping round your chairs for crumbs, and everything around is green and fragrant. It would have accorded so much better with her mood than paying formal calls on people to whom she couldn’t tell the great and important thing that had happened to her.
“Don’t be a pig, Claudia. I’m not allowed to do much, and you might say yes. Mr. Paton won’t want me without you.”
“Oh, yes, he would. Take Jujubes.”
“Pooh! he looks upon me as a flapper. Wait till mother gives me some proper dresses and I begin to fill out. I look like the Bones of the Holy Innocents now, but you wait till I get some curves. They are beginning to come.”
She nodded her head knowingly, as she looked down at herself.
Claudia suddenly decided she would throw over Aunt Carrie. This was a special day in her life, and she felt she ought to do just what she wanted most. If only Gilbert could tea with them! She thought of telephoning, and then some instinct warned her that Gilbert would think it trivial. Gilbert not being available, Claudia found the idea of a quiet sunny afternoon with Colin Paton quite pleasing. One never had to be politely talkative and interested in him. One talked or one didn’t talk, just as one pleased. Sometimes one found oneself talking particularly well, helped by the right word or the appreciative smile. Claudia thought of him in a sort of revolving roundabout with Gilbert, as she took her bath, and tried to find the right word to express him. The best she could get was “companionable,” although she felt that was a little tepid.
When she was dressed she sent a message to her mother. She must tell her the news. Sometimes Claudiadid not see her for days together, and they were in no sense mother and daughter, but Claudia felt it was the proper thing to inform her at once. It had always seemed to her friends that Mrs. Iverson was a mother merely for the three weeks she had to remain an invalid. After that she shook off her maternity.
The maid came back with the answer that Mrs. Iverson was having her face massaged, but that Claudia could come to her.
Her mother’s bedroom and dressing-room suggested a hothouse with a quantity of mirrors. Circe had always been something of an exotic, and lately she had grown more so, or what Pat called “stuffier.” There was an insidious Eastern perfume that always trailed after Sybil Iverson, and the room Claudia entered was heavy with it. The hangings and huge divan were Oriental in colouring and material. The sun was excluded from the room by pink curtains closely shrouding the windows, and electric lamps with becoming shades were burning. Her mother was in the dressing-room, prostrate under the hands of the masseur, who had a great reputation among women, especially those who were on the borderland of youth and middle age. He was ridiculously expensive, but his hands were magical.
Mrs. Iverson lazily opened her closed eyelids and regarded Claudia. Her eyes were still very beautiful. “You wanted to see me dear?”
Claudia hesitated. “Yes, but——” If it had been Pat she would have said cryptically “P and P”—private and particular.
“Well, Jules has nearly finished.” Mrs. Iverson was still beautiful, but with a great effort. In her youth when the famous portrait had been painted, she had been almost as fair as Patricia, but now her hair was tinted auburn and her complexion was enamelled to match. Her eyes—still marvellous—were of a deep shade ofblue, like a violet under the rays of the midday sun. Her mouth was much fuller than Patricia’s; and told its own tale. Mrs. Iverson had always been unutterably bored with her children, but she seemed to like or rather dislike Claudia the least. Patricia annoyed her, because she was reminded of her own lost freshness, and Jack she found stupid. She really rather liked to talk to Claudia for a quarter of an hour or so. Claudia was neithergauchenor ignorant. And her brown eyes, with their purposeful gaze—well, some memories are pleasanter than others, even to a Circe.
Claudia picked up theOccult Review, and tried to be interested in it till her mother should be free.
At length Jules departed. Mrs. Iverson inspected the result in the hand-mirror.
“He’s a marvel. I hope he’ll still be alive when you want him.... I like the cut of your skirt, Claudia. Who made it? Ah! I thought so. She can cut skirts. Don’t you find her ruinous?”
It was a polite interrogation, as though to a stranger.
“Yes, I thought her more of a robber than usual,” continued her mother. “I’m glad you haven’t got such long legs as Patricia. When she comes toward me with her arm waving she reminds me of a sign-post on a country road. It’s a pity. Men don’t like too long women. You and I are just the right height. I think this modern girl by the yard is a mistake. None of the famous women such as Jeanne du Barry and Ninon de Lenclos were very tall. Patricia will make most men look ridiculous.”
“Perhaps Pat doesn’t want to be a Ninon de Lenclos,” suggested Claudia, with a twinkle.
“Nonsense, every woman wants to be a Ninon de Lenclos, if she could have the chance. Don’t be taken in by this talk of ‘I wouldn’t.’ It’s a case of ‘I couldn’t.’ Most women have to be virtuous, because they can’t beanything else, and they make the best of it. What’s that American saying, ‘Virtue must be its own reward—any other would be a tip.’ Do you know what Ninon said herself, ‘Love is a passion, not a virtue: and a passion does not turn into a virtue because it happens to last—it merely becomes a longer passion.’ ... But what did you want to see me about?”
It should have been a propitious opening, this discussion of love, but somehow it was not.
“I think—I think I ought to tell you something.”
“Don’t unless you want to,” said her mother quickly. “I don’t think yououghtto tell me anything. If you think it will interest me—tell me, but don’t use me as a mother, please.”
“Would it interest you to know that I am engaged?” It was out. Claudia breathed more freely. Then she blushed as her mother looked at her with unusual attention.
“Yes, that quite interests me. I have wondered once or twice what sort of a man you would choose. Who is it?”
“Gilbert Currey, mother.”
“Gilbert C——yes, the M.P.’s son. Does something, doesn’t he? A barrister? I remember his mother Marian Darby. She never liked me, and I returned the compliment; but we were once great friends. What made you choose her son?”
“Mother! I—I fell in love with him. Why do people marry?”
Circe smiled at her young daughter, who met her eyes quite squarely but was obviously uncomfortable.
“For hundreds of reasons, my dear. You’ll find out some of them later on. Of course, one must marry”—she retouched an eyebrow with a little brush—“just as one must have a birth certificate and a license for the motor.... I don’t think I’ve noticed him since he was a boy. I remember him at Wynnstay. I used to seehim in a canoe on the river, deep in his books. Is he still strenuous and booky?”
“People say he is going to have a big career.” It was difficult to talk to her mother.
“Really? And you want to be part of that career? Well, I daresay it is all right. Better tell your father. I should think you might have done better from a worldly point of view, though the Curreys are rich, and Gilbert will succeed to the baronetcy.... You’ve really made up your mind? Your aunt was telling me the other day that you are considered one of the most attractive girls in Society to-day. She mentioned a Russian prince of great renown—I forget his name——”
“He is fifty and has been married twice already.”
“Men grow more appreciative, not less so, as they get older. And Russians are sometimes fascinating. I remember one—Russians can be very wild and romantic.”
“I don’t want a wild and romantic husband.” Claudia laughed outright.
“No?—perhaps you are right. There is plenty of time, and I daresay a Russian would not make a comfortable husband. Well, child, I am glad if you are glad. I must meet my future son-in-law.” She made a little grimace. “It adds at least five years to my age, but I suppose I can’t ask you to consider me. I think he had better come to dinner one night. Look in my engagement book and find a night. Thursday—yes, that will do. Write down your name and Gilbert’s, and then I shall remember all about it. One or two of the family might be asked.” She gave her daughter a smile of dismissal. It was very sweet, if a trifle automatic, and it showed to advantage her perfect and natural teeth. Mrs. Iverson never kissed her children, but then she thought kissing between women ridiculous. The only thing she ever kissed of the female sex was a little toy terrier.
When Claudia went downstairs, relieved that the news had been broken, she found the book had arrived that Colin Paton had promised to obtain for her. She cut the string and dipped into it. It was a volume of essays that he had mentioned to her and that she had expressed a desire to read. Colin Paton never forgot things.
She looked from the book to the telephone and wished that Gilbert had found time to ring her up and just say, “Hallo! Here am I and there are you!” It would have seemed to make last night more real, more sure. Like a puff of wind it crossed her mind that the sender of the book would have somehow got in touch with the woman he had asked to be his wife the night before. Pat liked him. Perhaps he would marry Pat, she thought idly.
She was too keenly, too tinglingly alive for delicate essays that morning. Later on she would enjoy them. She put them down and picked up an illustrated paper.
The first thing that met her gaze was a portrait of Gilbert and a paragraph recording his right to such a distinction.
There was no one in the library, and she raised it impulsively to her lips. It was not a satisfactory kiss, for the paper smelt of something nasty and oily. Still the portrait seemed to bring Gilbert into the room with her. And this man was hers, this man at whom all the Bar was looking, was hers, hers, hers!
Because she was only twenty-one, thoroughly healthy and full of life, she danced round the room holding the paper to her breast. Her eyes were alight with happiness; her soft lips were curved with the joy of love and life.
Then having danced her little Te Deum to the music of her heart, she waltzed out of the door with a cheery shout for Billie. She would take him for a walk and give him joy, too.
Lady Currey was not at all pleased with her son’s engagement, and she said so. She came to town for this purpose, and made Gilbert give her lunch while she strongly disapproved, from thehors d’œuvresto the coffee. She had the soulless good looks which Time, as if contemptuous, neglects to touch. And because she could afford to do so, she purposely dressed in a middle-aged, sober fashion which she considered dignified. She had a great sense of her own importance, and the modern grandmother of fifty in ninon and picture-hats was to her extreme anathema. She and Circe were much the same age. Sybil Daunton-Pole had flashed into society like a brilliant comet, a trail of admirers behind her, when Gilbert’s mother, the amiable daughter of the then Home Secretary, had been one of the small and unremarked stars that dot the social firmament.
Lady Currey had brought her husband a considerable sum of money, but the only thing for which she needed money was to gratify her craze for old china. If she had any heart or soul it was given to her specimens of priceless Ming and old Chelsea. She spent hours every day dusting her cabinets. Her only idea of travel was the opportunity it gave her for visiting museums and picking up bargains in rare porcelain.
For Gilbert she had a pleasant feeling of proprietorship—muchthe same as she felt for the wonderfulfamille rose-jar of the Kien-Lung period which she had herself unearthed in a visit to the East. Gilbert was an only child, and he had been little or no trouble. This was the first time he had disappointed her. When other mothers complained of their sons, of escapades at Eton and Oxford, or premature and undesirable love affairs, of monumental debts and lack of family pride, Lady Currey’s lips always took on an added shade of complacency as she thought of Gilbert and the even and admirable tenour of his way. It was entirely becoming that Gilbert should be so satisfactory and in some way reflected well on herself, just as did the discovery of thefamille rose-jar. Lady Currey liked everything around her to becomme il faut, not the elasticcomme il fautof fashion, but rather the correctness of the copybook and the ten commandments. Curiously enough, engrossed in herself and her china, she had never until quite recently speculated, as do most mothers, on her son’s probable choice of a wife. When she had thought of it, she had dismissed the idea with the assurance that Gilbert would choose wisely and soberly and to his advantage. It was not in her to feel any jealousy of the woman Gilbert should love.
“I am grieved,” she said, sitting very upright—she rarely used the back of a chair—“I am grieved to think that you intend to marry into the Iverson family. The Iversons are not a family of which I—or any right-thinking people—approve.”
“But, mother,” said Gilbert, rather taken aback, for he had become used to her invariable approval, “I am not marrying the family. I am marrying Claudia.”
“Ah! that’s what you think—the usual reply. For Geoffrey Iverson I have no particular dislike—he has been the cat’s-paw of a clever and unscrupulous woman. His family is a very good one. She would have spoiltany man who had the misfortune to be married to her. Why, Sybil Iverson is notorious!”
“Claudia is quite unlike her in every way. Why, she is not even like her in appearance.”
Lady Currey lifted her thin, fair eyebrows. It was unbecoming that she should tell him the scandalous rumours that floated about respecting Claudia’s parentage: Such things could only be told by a father to a son. She vehemently disapproved of any plain speaking between the sexes. Such a crime could never be laid to her charge; not even in the marital chamber had she ever discussed any such thing.
“She is the daughter of her mother, Gilbert, and the mother—I say it deliberately—is a bad woman, a woman who has trailed the glory and purity of the flower of womanhood in the dust.” Lady Currey occasionally indulged in such flights of rhetoric. She had rehearsed this in the train.
“I don’t think the two women see much of one another.” Gilbert was a little nettled. “Claudia told me herself that she hardly knew her mother at all in her young days. She was left entirely to her governesses. She can hardly have imbibed any—any idea from her mother.”
The pathos of such an admission did not strike Lady Currey, it only helped to justify her present attitude.
“It is, of course, very painful for me to have to mention such matters to you, but why has she seen so little of her mother? Because Sybil was—I blush to say it—so surrounded by lovers that she neglected her maternal duties. I say again, she is notorious for her lax life and morals. Don’t you believe in heredity, Gilbert? Think of the blood that runs in that girl’s veins.”
Gilbert frowned. “Heredity is a curious thing. Not worth worrying over, I think. I don’t profess to understand it.”
“I have studied the question.” She had read one book that was quite out of date. “I firmly believe in heredity. The vices or the virtues of the father and mother are surely transmitted to the children.” It was pleasing to think that only virtues could be transmitted to Gilbert, but it was all the more annoying that those inherited virtues should be linked with the vices of Sybil Iverson’s child.
Gilbert was becoming annoyed, and made no reply. After all, his mother was only a woman, and women never could argue. It jarred on his manhood that she should take him to task, and his voice was a little cold as he inquired what she would take to drink.
“You know I always takeoneglass of claret.” The tone somehow implied that a woman like Sybil Iverson might reprehensibly vary her drink with lunch, but she had regular habits. Then she returned to the attack.
“Claudia is not the woman that we—your dear father and I—would have chosen for you.”
“Doesn’t every mother say that about her son’s choice?”
His mother sighed and waited while Gilbert ordered the wine. “What sort of bringing-up has she had? What sort of a wife and mother will such a girl make? Her mother’s only god was pleasure, her only commandment ‘Enjoy the fleeting hour.’ Do you mean to tell me that the daughter of such a woman has proper ideas about life? Would you care to be the complaisant husband of a Circe?”
But here Gilbert put his foot down. His mother must be made to see that he knew quite well what he was about, that he had not run haphazard into this engagement. Not on any account would he let her see that curious mixture of surprise and annoyance at the back of his mind when he thought of the proposal scene. He had an undefined feeling that he had been hurriedinto it, though how he had been hurried, by whom or by what, he did not seek to explain even to himself. To Gilbert’s cast of mind vague feelings were best ignored as symptoms of a weak and illogical brain, much the same as vague symptoms may denote an illness of the body. Still the feeling was there, behind many stacks of docketed and pigeonholed pieces of information. Yet he had almost made up his mind to propose to Claudia—oh! yes—only—that particular night?
“Mother, I cannot hear you say such ridiculous things about Claudia. You do not know her. You might as well say that the children of murderers will all grow up murderers.”
“You might commit murder in a sudden fit of passion, but such a warped, degraded nature as Sybil Iverson’s is another story. Besides—the sons of a murderer have probably seen him hanged or punished—the law steps in; but who punishes a woman like Sybil Iverson? Society, nowadays, is too lax to such creatures, and virtuous women have to mix with them and take them by the hand, or else be dubbed ridiculous or old-fashioned. Well,” with a sudden little gust of passion like a disturbance in a tea-cup, “thank God, I am old-fashioned and absurd. I can say my prayers every night and lie down in peace.... No, Gilbert, you know I only takeoneglass of claret.”
“They say Mrs. Iverson has given up her wicked, siren-like ways and gone in for spiritualism.” He wished his mother realized that she was keeping him from his work and would hurry up with her lunch. The leisurely ways of the country were not those of town. But Lady Currey was doing her duty.
“Such women never give up their wicked ways, they take them to the grave with them.” Both Gilbert and his mother had very little sense of humour, with the distinction that Gilbert knew when things were ridiculous. “I know Sybil’s mother died of a broken heart.” Thiswas quite untrue, she had died of fatty degeneration of the liver. “But there, the Psalms say that the wicked flourish like green bay-trees, and if they did in King David’s time there is no doubt they do now. But their punishment awaits them, Gilbert; always remember that.”
Gilbert nodded absently. Life after death was one of the vague things, like psychology, that he did not consider as practical politics. But he did not tell his mother this. If she liked to imagine him striving for a golden harp with humility of soul, she might.
“I confess I am disappointed in you, Gilbert. I had looked forward to your choosing some nice girl I could take to my heart, someone like Maud Curtice, for example.”
Maud Curtice was a colourless girl who agreed with Lady Currey in being shocked at the modern scanty fashion of dressing—she was painfully thin and had ungainly hands and feet—and who devoted herself to the mothers of eligible sons. She also had a large income.
“Wait till you know Claudia, mother. You are sure to like her.”
“I have heard she is very handsome and a great favourite in Society,” returned his mother gloomily. “It is a bad report to my way of thinking. That’s how her mother started.”
Just then, to his great relief, Gilbert caught sight of Colin Paton wending his way out of the restaurant. He hailed him with joy, and Paton came to a standstill beside their table.
Lady Currey approved of Colin Paton. His manners were respectful and he showed an intelligent interest in china. She never noticed the quizzical gravity with which he received her views on life, nor the humorous twinkle in his eyes at her criticisms. She thought him “a very nice young man.”
“Colin, old man, come and have some coffee with us.”
“Just had some. I hope you are quite well, Lady Currey?”
Gilbert made a business of looking at his watch and starting with alarm. “By jove, I didn’t know it was so late. I must just swallow my coffee and run. May I leave the mater with you to finish her coffee at her leisure?”
Colin caught the appeal in Gilbert’s eyes and guessed the cause.
“Certainly, if Lady Currey will accept me as a poor substitute for you.”
Lady Currey smiled a gracious assent. “I hope your dear mother is better, Mr. Paton?”
“Yes, thank you.... Busy as usual, Gilbert? I hear the proverbial busy bee is quite out of it.”
“Well, I am tearingly busy. Don’t get a minute to myself.”
Paton slipped into his chair. “And yet you’ve found time to get engaged, I hear? I wrote my congratulation this morning.”
“Thanks, old chap. Oh! getting engaged doesn’t take very long.” Gilbert laughed pleasantly and displayed his firm white teeth.
“Doesn’t it?” returned Paton, smiling. “I think it would take me no end of a time. But there, we shall soon be born in the morning, married at midday, and buried in the evening!” He saw Lady Currey looking at him rather doubtfully. “A man like your son, Lady Currey, takes a woman and the world by storm.Veni, vidi, viciis not for me. Women have to know me quite a long time before they remember me.”
“I am sure you have a great many friends,” she said encouragingly.
“Yes, that’s why I expect I shall never get a wife.... Really must go, Gilbert? I had tea with Claudia andthe long-legged Patricia yesterday. We wished you could have been with us.”
“Teas are not in my line. I suppose I shall see you again soon?”
“Well, I’m going away, you know.”
Gilbert turned back in surprise.
“What, at the beginning of the season!” exclaimed Lady Currey.
“Going out to the Argentine for a while. A friend of mine is going out on a political mission and wants an assistant. I’ve decided to accompany him. Never been there, and it must be an interesting country.”
Gilbert raised his eyebrows. Why on earth didn’t Paton stop in one place and make a name for himself? He had often advised him to do so.
“Sudden isn’t it? I thought you said the other night that you were remaining in town until the end of July.”
Paton nodded. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I want a change. I shall only be away six months or so, perhaps a year.”
Gilbert’s thoughts had raced ahead. “Then if we’re married at the end of July, as is probable, you’ll be away? That’s too bad. I had relied on you for being best man.”
“You’ll be married so soon? No, I am afraid I can’t assist to give you away.”
Gilbert again expressed his regrets, which were quite genuine, and left his mother with Paton. Colin did not make the mistake of rushing in where angels fear to tread, but waited for Lady Currey’s comments.
“What do you think of this engagement, Mr. Paton? I know I can speak to you quite frankly. I think it is a great mistake. Weren’t you surprised?”
“Yes,” returned Paton truthfully, “I was very surprised. Gilbert did not confide his hopes in me. I didn’t see any wooing going on, and he never talked about herto me. He must have made the running quickly.” Then he added, half to himself, “He can’t have seen a great deal of her.”
“Of course not, or he wouldn’t have done it. Gilbert, for once in his life, has lost his head over a pretty woman. Why, you are much more of a friend than Gilbert.”
A slight shadow crossed her companion’s face and he dropped his eyelids. “Well, I thought I was. But then friend—oh! it’s theveni, vidi, vicitrick. She’s a charming girl, Lady Currey, with all sorts of possibilities.”
Lady Currey pursed up her thin lips that had never bestowed or received a kiss of passion. “She is handsome, certainly. But is she the wife for Gilbert? I have lived long enough to know that looks are a poor foundation for matrimony.”
“She has quite a good deal of character,” said her companion quietly, without any annoying enthusiasm. “I am sure she will develop into a splendid woman with the man she loves. She isn’t the usual pretty society doll, you know.”
“Does it strike you that Gilbert wants a woman of character?” asked his mother with unexpected acuteness. “Clever men are usually better mated to stupid wives. Look at Carlyle and Jane Welsh! Much too clever for one another.” Then irrelevantly, “There are too many clever girls nowadays. I don’t believe they make any the better wives and mothers for being so clever. I am sure I never wanted such a daughter-in-law.”
Paton found himself at a loss for conversation. He knew he could do Claudia no good by praising her warmly to her future mother-in-law, he might even make matters worse. Yet to hear Claudia belittled made something leap within him into fierce flame. It seemed disloyal to listen to Lady Currey’s sneers. Yet he knew that Claudia must storm the citadel of Lady Currey’sheart herself. As an advance agent his labours would be wasted. But Paton, looking across the table into the light, offended eyes of the woman, was sorry for the girl. It was rather odd. His mother, a confirmed invalid, and Lady Currey had been close friends in their youth. Yet his mother had warmly liked Claudia when she had once met her for a few minutes. He was startled to find that his current of thought had communicated itself to Lady Currey.
“Your mother always did like pretty things—I know she admires Claudia—but she was always unduly swayed by good looks, even at school. I know how deceptive they are. A man told me the other day that his wife had left him and been through the Divorce Court, and he attributed it entirely to her good looks. ‘A very pretty woman is difficult to live with,’ he said; ‘she gets a great deal of adulation and flattery in Society, and naturally the husband at home falls rather flat.’ There is a lot of truth in that, Mr. Paton.”
“Perhaps he was the typical English husband who, as soon as he has won a wife, forgets to be her lover,” replied Paton. “You are very careful and precious of your rare china, Lady Currey.”
Hisvis-à-visstared. She wondered that Paton, who was usually so smooth in conversation, should make such a sudden jump. But it served to divert her mind from Claudia.
“I had such luck last week. I was walking along the High Street in Moulton and I caught sight of a pair of vases. I thought that powder blue could be nothing less than Chinese. They had blue and white reserves on them.Youknow what that means. I got them for a mere song, and they’re beauties. Since I last saw you I have bought....”
Still talking china, Paton saw her into a taxi.
He strolled away from the restaurant. It was warmand sunny, and the pedestrians seemed all in a good humour. Paton often wandered for hours through the streets of London, finding in that wonderful panorama food for eyes and brain and heart. He loved the feeling that he was part of the crowd, and his mind was stored with many observations and memories. The romance of the streets was no idle journalistic phrase to him. He felt it around him on all sides, plucking at him with alluring fingers leading him into the land of dreams. Often at night he would give himself wholly up to its enchantment, wandering along mile after mile through quaint byways and on misty commons, through silent Suburbia and the noisy, restless East-end slums. London was to him a book of unending pages with countless illustrations.
This afternoon he mingled with the crowd, but he did not heed it, so that he did not see a woman in a motor energetically waving her hand to him and directing the chauffeur to stop.
“Mr. Paton—oh! Mr. Paton, what a day-dream!”
It was Claudia herself, looking altogether charming in light summer attire. There were waving, greeny-blue ostrich feathers in her Leghorn hat and around her neck. The softness of the feathers and the peculiar shade of blue accentuated the creamy tint of her skin and the brightness of her eyes. Her happiness shone through the envelope of the flesh like a flame through clear glass. A heavy-eyed woman of the lower classes who was passing marked her and muttered, “She has a good time, I’ll be bound,” then, wrapped in her own bad one, passed on.
Paton went up to the car and held out his hand.
“Mr. Paton, you’re just the man I want. Do come and see some pictures with me. Jujubes hates pictures, don’t you, Jujubes?” She turned to the faded, amiable woman beside her in the car.
“I don’t hate them, but they all look so alike,” saidJujubes mildly. “When you’ve seen one, it seems to me you’ve seen the lot.”
“There, listen to this awful heathen who rejoices in her darkness! Leave me not to her tender mercies. Jujubes can do some shopping for me.” She looked entreatingly at him with her fresh young mouth smiling at herself, Jujubes, Paton and the whole world.
He hesitated for the fraction of a second. Then he said cheerily: “Of course I’ll come, if only out of kindness to Miss Jujubes. And I shan’t be seeing any more English pictures for a long time, I suppose.” Then he told her of his intended visit to the Argentine.
“Oh!” said Claudia blankly. “Oh! I wish you weren’t going away. I shall miss you so much—we shall all miss you.” She said it quite naturally as the thought came to her mind. One could always do that with Colin Paton.
“Thank you,” he said smilingly, as he helped Jujubes to alight. “It’s very good of you to say so.” He seated himself beside Claudia.
“Don’t. You needn’t be formal and polite. Why are you going? Is it thewanderlustagain? Or is it to help you in your career?”
Gilbert had taught her to think of careers.
“Oh! I shall never have a career,” said Paton lightly, aware of the soft, dark eyes on his face questioning him. But he did not meet them. Somehow they held a look in them to-day that he could not bear. “I don’t concentrate, you know. I’m just ‘a blooming amateur.’ Gilbert was reading me a solemn lecture the other day, but—I go on the same old way. I’m glad, however, that Gilbert is getting on so well. But then, he does concentrate.”
“He works very hard,” said Claudia thoughtfully, “I had no idea how hard. He does too much, I think.” Then she looked at the rather fine lines of the face besideher. “But I don’t believe you are afraid of hard work. I remember how hard you worked when you were on that Hospital Committee.”
“No, I don’t think it’s that,” said Paton quietly. “Let’s say it’s lack of ambition and driving power.”
Was there something in his tone that sent a vague shadow of distrust over Claudia’s expression, or was it the echo of some secret misgiving in herself?
“Does that mean you think ambition—the ordinary get-to-the-top-of-the-tree ambition—rather commonplace?”
“Not a bit,” he said heartily. “After all, we live on a commonplace earth. Gilbert is right and I am wrong, and when Gilbert is Lord Chief Justice and I’m an obscure old bore of a bachelor, I shall, no doubt, fully realize my wrongness. But do ask me to dinner sometimes.”
“But you mustn’t remain a bachelor,” said Claudia, with all the enthusiasm of the newly-engaged woman, “because your life will be incomplete. That sounds like sex conceit, but you said it yourself to me, and then I began to believe it. And now——” she completed the sentence with a charming blush.
“Can you imagine any modern woman wanting a man without worldly ambition, a man she will never be proud of, a man who is nothing and does nothing?” The tone was light enough, and the girl, engrossed in her own happiness, did not detect an unusual note of bitterness. For Colin Paton was never bitter. He could be sarcastic and even scathing when roused, but he never indulged in the refuge of cowardly souls.
Claudia took him quite seriously, for happiness, just as sorrow, may temporarily obscure a sense of humour. “I forbid you to say such things of yourself,” she said, with an engaging air of motherliness. “You’re awfully clever—awfullyclever. Why, you are one of the best-readand best-informed men in London.” Suddenly she realized how often she had turned to him for information or advice. And she could never remember an occasion on which he had failed her, or an opinion that her critical faculty on reflection deemed unsound.
“No market value, dear lady.”
She paused a moment thoughtfully. “Is that true?” she said slowly. “Gilbert said that the other day when I asked him if he had read something. He says he has no time for books, it’s as much as he can do to read the newspapers.... Somehow it seems all wrong.” She looked away with a puzzled expression at the trees of the Park.
He cast a quick glance at her profile and the beautiful lines of her throat. He seemed about to say something with unusual impetuosity, and then he resolutely locked his lips. He allowed her to go on speaking.
“Ambition gets in the way of—of a lot of other things, doesn’t it? It seems a voracious dragon, swallowing up everything: friends, books, pictures—all the beautiful, graceful things of life. Isn’t it a pity?”
“I think so; but then I’m in the minority.”
“And that’s why you are not ambitious,” she flashed out with sudden insight. “Yes, I see. I wonder if you are right.” Her voice was a little wistful.
“No,” he said, with resolute reassurance. “No. I’m wrong, and Gilbert is right. Wife of the Lord Chief Justice—what greater honour could you wish?”
“Now you are making fun of me,” she replied, with a tiny frown, “and I was quite serious. It’s difficult to explain. But—well, I hate the usual sort of man who does nothing except wear his clothes well, don’t you? Look at Jack. He sets off his uniform beautifully, but he just footles his life away. There doesn’t seem anything between that and great strenuosity—except you. I can’t place you. Somehow you always make me seethings in a different perspective from anyone else. I wonder why it is. Sometimes you make things seem better and sometimes you make them seem worse.”
He drew in his breath a little and his hand in its thin suède covering clenched itself on his knee. “Claudia, you mustn’t let me make things seem worse or any different from—what they are. I’d be content if my mission in life were to make things better, not worse, for you. Not that you want that now,” he added hastily, pulling himself in. “I know, from things you have left unsaid, that your home life hasn’t been all you wanted and ought to have had, but now—now you are going to be very happy. Gilbert is a splendid fellow.”
She turned to him, her face glowing, her eyes deep and dark with emotion.
“Yes, I think I am going to be very happy. Somehow you have always understood. I have never had to tell you things. You see, nobody ever wanted me very much, and I—I wanted somebody to want me and to rely on me and care for my companionship. It is so wonderful to think that our interests are one, that what interests me interests him, that I can tell him my good news and bad news and be always sure that I don’t bore him. I’ve always had to bottle up things. I’ve had one or two girl friends, but it isn’t the same. And even then they get engaged and married and you fall in the background. But when I’ve got a husband of my own it will be different, won’t it?”
He hesitated the fraction of a second. “Yes, Claudia, it will be different. You know how glad I am that you have found happiness, don’t you? I wanted that so much for my—friend.”
“And isn’t it nice that I am marryingyourfriend?” she exclaimed joyfully. “Because you might not have liked my husband, or my husband might not have liked you. Oh, I know,” sagely. “I have heard from myfriends who got married, that it is sometimes very difficult. But you and Gilbert are friends, and you and I are friends. It’s quite ideal, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said cryptically, “quite ideal. The ideal is always the unattainable.”
“But you must marry too,” she persisted, “because I am sure I should like your wife. There are some men that one knows and likes that one feels doubtful about their choice of a wife, and there are others—like you—one is sure it will be all right.” She laughed gaily. “Won’t you get married to please me?”
No one could have guessed there was any effort in his laughing reply. “I know. You are planning to get rid of some obnoxious wedding-present on me, something especially hideous in the way of rose-bowls or tea-services. No, I absolutely refuse to accommodate you.”
“Well, at least promise me to come back soon,” she smiled as the motor stopped before the entrance to the galleries. “I shall want to discuss a thousand things with you long before you’ve got to the Argentine. I think I shall keep a little book and call it ‘The Paton Diary.’ In it I shall enter all sorts of queries and the names of books and pictures and music that I want to discuss with you.”
“Heavens! I shall never come back!” Her hand rested in his as he helped her to alight, and she gave him a mischievous squeeze.
“No, but really.”
“Really, I will come back as—soon as I can, and I shall be grateful if the ‘Paton Diary’ will keep my memory green.... I hear there is a wonderful Giorgione here. You remember those two we saw here last year....”
“Our respected mother has what you would call a tarnished reputation.” Pat said it in a mild and thoughtful manner, as she and Claudia exercised Billie in the Park to try and keep his figure within reasonable bounds.
“Pat!” exclaimed Claudia, abruptly recalled from her own thoughts. “You have no right to say such things.” Sisters who are not yet out and three years one’s junior must be kept in order.
“Why not? It’s true, I suppose. I was sitting here among a lot of people yesterday and mother drove by. The two women at the back began to talk. At first, I didn’t know they were discussing mother, till they mentioned you. When they said ‘Her daughter Claudia has just got engaged to Gilbert Currey, it’s to be hoped she won’t follow in her mother’s footsteps,’ I twigged.”
“You shouldn’t have listened,” rebuked Claudia indignantly.
“Well, I was hedged in, and I should have had to plough my way over such a lot of feet to get away, and I couldn’t turn round and say ‘Excuse me, you’re discussing my mother and sister,’ could I?”
“I should have got up, feet or no feet,” returned her sister.
“Mother seems to have had a pretty good time, according to these two women. They rattled off mother’s amours with great gusto. They were alternately shocked and envious—the combination was funny.”
“Nasty-minded gossips!”
“I should have liked to turn round and say ‘Sour grapes.’ I suppose motherhasgone the pace. She’s been a sort of Helen of Troy, hasn’t she? Notorious for her temperament and beauty.”
“Women like that always invent a lot of scandal.” Claudia shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a sort of convention with them to think that all women in society live immoral lives.... Billie, no, you mustn’t bite little boys’ legs. I know it’s only in play, but they don’t like it.”
“Mother must have been stunning when she was young, in the days of the portrait,” continued Pat reflectively. “If I had been a man I should have fallen in love with her. Nothing mild and namby-pamby for me, thank you. I’ve a good deal of sympathy with her, for father is a bore. Only I can’t see how she could have been in love with so many men. Most men are so deadly uninspiring. I expect falling in love became a habit with mother.”
“Really, Pat, I don’t think we ought to discuss her.”
“Why? Because she is our mother? But she doesn’t feel like our mother—she told me so the other day—and she wouldn’t mind our discussing her a bit, just as though she were next-door neighbour.” Claudia could not contradict this, for Mrs. Iverson had never tried or wanted to be a mother to her children. The children had “happened” and been promptly relegated to the nursery. As soon as she was well she forgot them just as she forgot an annoying attack of influenza.
“Claudia, do you feel you could fall in love with a lot of men?”
“Pat! what awful questions you ask. I should think that——” She stopped herself. She was going to add, “No nice woman could fall in love with a lot of men,” but this would reflect on her mother, and out of loyalty and decency she could not say it, rather for what her mother might have been to her than what she was. So she said instead, “I haven’t thought about it, and if I were you, I shouldn’t. You’re too young to worry about sex problems. The little I have thought about them has only confused me; it seems such an enormous subject. One would have to be a Methuselah to have time enough to study it. I am sure threescore years and ten is too little.”
“I suppose it is all a question of experience,” said Pat slowly. “If only mother would tell us all she had learned! That would be better than all the silly morals and maxims that surround you like a barbed wire fence.”
Claudia stole a glance at Pat as she strode along, her skin flushed by the warmth of the sun, her corn-coloured hair glowing under her big white hat. How much did Pat know of the things she discussed so lightly? How much did she herself know, for that matter. And yet, quietly and earnestly, she had been watching men and women since herdébuta year since. She had seen the fair surface and some of the dark undercurrent, she had kept her ears and her eyes open and her mind as far as possible unbiased, but what was the harvest? How much did she reallyknow? She did not make the mistake of thinking men angels or devils, she tried, on Paton’s advice, not to generalize—the temptation of youth—she knew that, on the whole, she liked the masculine sex better than her own, but what did she know that she could impart to a younger sister? As she looked at Pat, she wondered if she ought to try andfind out where Pat stood. Ought she to try and influence her sister in any way? Pat was such a queer mixture. Sometimes she talked like an overgrown, slangy schoolgirl, and the next minute she would speak with the callous knowledge of a woman of forty; sometimes she showed signs of deep affection and strong emotions, which again would give place to a curious aloofness and independence.
Lady Currey was coming to lunch that day with the Iversons, an event which Claudia dreaded. Mrs. Iverson had lazily decided that, under the circumstances, she ought to offer her some hospitality, and Lady Currey had felt it only right and fitting to accept. Her husband was confined to their house in the country with an attack of gout. Gilbert had pleaded that he was too busy to accompany her.
Punctually at half-past one—the clock was striking—Lady Currey arrived. Mrs. Iverson was not down yet, but she was never punctual, except when her clock was fast. Claudia had to receive Gilbert’s mother.
She wanted to like her, but her heart sank a little at Lady Currey’s formal greeting. Sometimes she had hoped—before she had considered Gilbert in the light of a possible husband—that when she married, her husband’s mother might be someone to whom she could, and would be allowed to, feel daughterly. She knew it was rare, but she would meet a nice mother-in-law more than half way, for there was no holy of holies occupied by a real mother. One could ask Mrs. Iverson’s advice on dress—not too often, because it bored her to give advice on any subject—but Claudia felt she had room in her heart for a nice cosy elderly woman, who might be a guide, philosopher and friend.
“Mother will be down directly,” said Claudia, with a heightened colour. “Will you not take this chair? It is more comfortable than that one.”
“Thank you, but I do not care for those low, padded chairs. They induce habits of indulgence. I was brought up to sit on hard, straight-backed chairs, so I never acquired the habit of lolling.”
She looked critically round the drawing-room, which was full of graceful and beautiful things. At one end, looking down insolently upon her, was the famous Circe picture. It dominated the whole room. The only other pictures were landscapes, a couple of Olssons, an exquisite Whistler, which the artist had himself given to Mrs. Iverson, a Sisley and a small Cézanne. But they were all subservient to the glowing Circe in her wonderful clinging blue robes. The whole room had apparently been designed as a frame for the portrait, for it was a harmony of dull blues and faded pinks. A case of miniatures at her elbow contained some exquisite Cosway beauties and some rare scraps of old Venetian goldsmiths’ work. Lady Currey caught sight of a Vernis Martin cabinet full of priceless Sèvres and some Chelsea figures that made the collector’s mouth water. It was annoying to think that Sybil owned such china, for Lady Currey was sure she did not value it.
“You have some beautiful pieces here,” she said to Claudia, crossing to look at the cabinet.
“Yes, I believe they are considered very fine. I am afraid I don’t know much about china myself.” If Claudia had only known it, her last chance was gone. Lady Currey’s eyebrows went up in contempt. But the china was exquisite and avenged Claudia’s slip.
Lady Currey turned away and glanced at the clock. Twenty to two! Where was her hostess?
The door opened, but it was only Patricia with Billie at her heels. “Billie was crying for you, Claudia. I let him loose. I thought you had forgotten him.”
Claudia had instinctively felt that Lady Currey wasthe type of woman who disapproved of dogs in the house, so she had tied him up.
Pat surveyed the visitor with her clear blue eyes. Very precise and a little dowdy did Lady Currey look that day. Her grey silk was a dull shade, her ornaments were valuable, but belonged to the day when diamonds were deeply embedded in gold, her toque was as near to a bonnet as she could buy. Pat took it all in and her lips said “prunes and prism” behind their visitor’s back.
“Ripping day, isn’t it?” she said affably. “Doesn’t it make you feel as if you’d like to turn somersaults on the grass and yell like a wild Indian every time you come right side up?”
Claudia stifled a laugh at Lady Currey’s expression.
Of course, Sybil’s children would be terrible and lawless. She disliked anything so large and athletic as Pat, and privately thought that so much flesh and bone inclined to coarseness. She was of the small and tidy type herself.
“There’s no way of letting off steam nowadays, is there?” continued Pat, unabashed by Lady Currey’s stare, and crossing her legs so as to display a large expanse of silk-covered calf. “That’s why people get into mischief. They boil up inside, sometimes you canfeelthe bubbles!”
“That’s because you’re a very young kettle,” interposed Claudia hastily.
But at that moment—five minutes to two—Sybil Iverson glided into the room. Her figure was still wonderful, willowy and most seductive in its lissomness. She was wearing a dress that showed every curve of it, and the transparent guimpe of her bodice showed the gleam of her neck in a manner that Lady Currey found very indecent. Her hair, burnished and waved in a carefully negligent fashion, matched her slightly tinted complexion. The whole effect was pleasingly artificial, like that ofsome rare orchid. She was still Circe—after a careful toilette.
“Ah! Marian, what a long time since we met! But you are just the same.”
“We are both considerably older,” said the companion of her girlhood with emphasis.
“Are we really? I have ceased to be a body, I am now only a spirit, and spirits know no age.” She let her heavy lids drop over her eyes, a trick which Lady Currey had always disliked. “I have learned to project the soul into space and leave the body behind. Have you ever pierced through the intangible walls of the Unseen, Marian?”
“I attend regularly to my religious duties,” said her visitor shortly, rather nonplussed by Circe’s new attitude. Her flippancies she knew and could meet, but this was something that verged on her own preserves.
“Ah! that is not quite the same.” The hostess smiled sweetly upon her. “But now we will go in to lunch. Gilbert is not coming, I think?”
“He has his work,” said his mother. “You cannot expect such a man to dance attendance on a woman.”
“Oh! I quite understand,” interjected Claudia. “I did not expect he would come.”
“He has the aura of a successful man.” said Circe dreamily. “I saw it quite distinctly last night. But there was something mingled with it—I saw a vivid streak of purple——” She shook her head mysteriously and broke off the sentence.
“I shouldn’t say there were any purple patches about Gilbert,” smiled Claudia, across the rose-bowl.
“I do not understand the phrase,” said Lady Currey acidly. “Will you explain it to me?”
Patricia gave an audible chuckle, and Claudia looked imploringly at her mother.
“Purple patches,” said Circe vaguely, “stand for allthe wonderful emotions and sensations that make this life a thing of magic and mystery. A purple patch—what is it? It may be a minute, a second even—the look from someone’s eyes caught in a crowd—a chord of music—a whiff of perfume—an hour of passion—a day of memories—the song of a bird—anything rare and evanescent. Purple patches are moments of crystallization, of ecstasy, of poetry, of life; patches that glow in your heart for years and I think, even when you are dead shroud it in royal mourning.”
She came out of her dream and took the salmon mayonnaise that the butler had been patiently holding.
“I am glad to think there are no purple patches on my son,” said his mother dryly, dubbing her hostess “a mass of affectation.”
“No, I don’t think a successful barrister would be likely to stray into Wonderland. Documents of the law, blue paper and crude red tape do not harmonize with purple, do they? Claudia, will you remember that when I die I want to be buried in purple silk and the coffin must be lined with a deep shade of crimson. I think I might select the colours when I have time. The wrong crimson would be so fatal to my hair.”
Billie suddenly gave a little howl from his seat on the sofa as though the conversation depressed him. Lady Currey looked her disapproval of him, and Claudia shushed him.
Then she tried to change the subject in deference to the dachshund’s tender feelings.
“Isn’t it delightful, Lady Currey? I had a letter from father’s old friend, the Countess Ravogli, this morning, sending her congratulations and offering us her beautiful villa on the Lake of Como for the honeymoon. I have seen photographs of it, and it is too sweet for words.”
“Does Gilbert like the idea?”
“I haven’t told him yet, but he is sure to like it. It is a sort of fairy castle with an enchanted garden full of wonderful sculpture and strange flowers. There is a terrace of white marble brought from Greece and a fountain of coloured waters. It must be perfectly delicious. I have always dreamed of it as an ideal honeymoon place.”
“One must be very young to look well in such a place,” said her mother. “The Countess tried to get me to visit her, but I declined. White marble is only suitable to the eternal youth of gods and goddesses and it is so chilly! A marble terrace always sounds delightful, but as a matter of fact it generally gives you cold feet and you have to fly in and demand hot-water bottles, and there is nothing romantic about a hot-water bottle.”
“The drinking-water is so bad in Italy,” remarked Lady Currey. “I do hope you will be careful.”
After luncheon, Mrs. Iverson carried off Lady Currey to her boudoir on the plea of reviving old memories. Claudia was relieved, but surprised, for her mother seldom took any but her very special cronies into her private apartments.