* * * * *
Sir Tito took Edith in to dinner.
As they found their places at the long table (Sir Tito had exchanged cards, as though he meant to fight a duel with Edith's destined partner) of course the two turned their backs to one another. On her other side was Mr Mitchell. When Madame Frabelle noticed this, she gave Edith an arch shake of the head, and made a curious warning movement with her hand. Edith smiled at her in astonishment. She had utterly forgotten her friend's fancy about the imaginary intrigue supposed to be going on between her and Mr Mitchell, and she wondered what the gesture meant. Sir Tito also saw it, and, turning round to Edith, said in a low voice:
'Qu'est-ce-qu'elle a, la vieille?'
'I really don't know. I never understand signs. I've forgotten the code,I suppose!'
Mr Mitchell, after a word to the person he had taken down, gladly turned to Edith. He always complained that the host was obliged to sit between the oldest and the most boring guests. It was unusual for him to have so pretty a neighbour as Edith. But he was a collector: his joy was to see a heterogeneous mass of people, eating and laughing at his table. For his wife there were a few social people, for him the Bohemians, and always the younger guests.
'Not bad—not bad, is it?' he said, looking critically round down the two sides of the table, while his kind pink face beamed with hospitable joy.
'You've got a delightful party tonight.'
'What I always say is,' said Mr Mitchell; 'let them enjoy themselves! Dash it, I hate etiquette.' He lowered his voice. 'Bruce is looking pretty blooming. Not so many illnesses lately has he?'
'Not when he's at home,' said Edith.
'Ah! At the F O the dear fellow does, I'm afraid, suffer a good deal from nerves,' said Mr Mitchell, especially towards the end of the day. About four o'clock, I mean, you know! You know old Bruce! Good sort he is. I see he hasn't got the woman I meant him to sit next to, somehow or other. I see he's next to Miss Coniston.'
'Oh, he likes her.'
'Good, good. Thought she was a bit too artistic, and high-browed, as the Americans say, for him. But now he's used to that sort of thing, isn't he? Madame Frabelle, eh? Wonderful woman. No soup, Edith: why not?'
'It makes me silent,' said Edith; 'and I like to talk.'
Mitchell laughed loudly. 'Ha ha! Champagne for Mrs Ottley. What are you about?' He looked up reprovingly at the servant. Mr Mitchell was the sort of man who never knows, after twenty years' intimate friendship, whether a person takes sugar or not.
Edith allowed the man to fill her glass. She knew it depressed Mr Mitchell to see people drinking water. So she only did it surreptitiously, and as her glass was always full, because she never drank from it, Mr Mitchell was happy.
A very loud feminine laugh was heard.
'That's Miss Radford,' said Mr Mitchell. 'That's how she always goes on. She's always laughing. She was immensely charmed with you the day she called on you with my wife.'
'Was she?' said Edith, who remembered she herself had been out on that occasion.
'Tremendously. I can't remember what she said: I think it was how clever you were.'
'She saw Madame Frabelle. I wasn't at home.'
'Ha ha! Good, very good!' Mr Mitchell turned to his other neighbour.
'Eh bien,' said Sir Tito, who was waiting his opportunity. 'Commence!'
At once Edith began murmuring in a low voice her story of herself andAylmer, and related today's conversation in Jermyn Street.
Sir Tito nodded his head occasionally. When he listened most intently, he appeared to be looking round the table at other people. He lifted a glass of champagne and bowed over it to Mrs Mitchell; then he put his hand to his lips and blew a kiss.
'Who's that for?' Edith asked, interrupting herself.
'C'est pour la vieille.'
'Madame Frabelle! Why do you kiss your hand to her?'
'To keep her quiet. Look at her: she's so impressed, and thinks it so wicked, that she's blushing and uncomfortable. I've a splendid way, Edith (pardon), of silencing all these elderly ladies who make love to me. I don't say "Ferme!" I'm polite to them.'
Edith laughed. Sir Tito was not offended.
'Yes, you needn't laugh, my dear child. I'm not old enough yet pour les jeunes; at any rate, if I am they don't know it. I'm still pursued by the upper middle-age class, with gratitude for favours to come (as they think).'
'Well, what's your plan?'
He giggled.
'I tell Madame Frabelle, Madame Meetchel, Lady Everard—first, that they have beautiful lips; then, that I can't look at them without longing to kiss them. Lady Everard, after I said that, kept her hand before her face the whole evening, so as not to distract me, and drive me mad. Consequently she couldn't talk.'
'Do they really believe you?'
'Evidemment!… I wonder,' he continued mischievously, as he refused wine, 'whether Madame Frabelle will confess to you tonight about my passion for her, or whether she will keep it to herself?'
'I dare say she'll tell me. At least she'll ask me if I think so or not.'
'Si elle te demande, tu diras que tu n'en sais rien! Well, I think….'
'What?'
'You must wait. Wait and see. Really, it's impossible, my dear child, for you to accept an invitation for an elopement as if it were a luncheon-party. Not only that, it's good for Aylmer to be kept in doubt. Excellent for his health.'
'Really?'
'When I say his health, I mean the health and strength of his love for you. You must vacillate, Edith. Souvent femme varie. You sit on the fence, n'est-ce-pas? Well, offer the fence to him. But, take it away before he sits down. Voilà!'
Edith laughed. 'But then this girl, Miss Clay, she's always there. And I like her.'
'What is her nationality?'
'How funny you should ask that! I think she must be of Spanish descent. She's so quiet, so religious, and has a very dark complexion. And yet wonderful light blue eyes.'
'Quelle histoire! Qu'est-ce-que ça fait?'
'The poor girl is mad about Aylmer. He doesn't seem to know it, but he makes her worse by his indifference,' Edith said.
'Why aren't you jealous of her, ma chère? No, I won't ask you that—the answer is obvious.'
'I mean this, that if I can't ever do what he wishes, I feel she could make him happy; and I could bear it if she did.'
'Spanish?' said Landi, as if to himself. 'Olé! olé! Does she use the castanets, and wear a mantilla instead of a cap?'
'How frivolous and silly you are. No, of course not. She looks quiteEnglish, in fact particularly so.'
'And yet you insist she's Spanish! Well, my advice is this. If he has a secret alliance with Spain, you should assume the Balkan attitude.'
'Good gracious! What's that?'
'We're talking politics,' said Landi, across the table. 'Politics, and geography! Fancy, Meetchel, Mrs Ottley doesn't know anything about the Balkans!'
'Ha, very good,' said Mitchell. 'Capital. What a fellow you are!' He gave his hearty, clubbable laugh. Mr Mitchell belonged to an exceptionally large number of clubs and was a favourite at all. His laugh was the chief cause of his popularity there.
'Il est fou,' said Landi quietly to Edith. 'Quel monde! I don't think there are half-a-dozen sane people at this table.'
'Oh, Landi!'
'And if there are, they shouldn't by rights be admitted into decent society. But the dear Meetchels don't know that; it's not public. I adore them both,' he went on, changing his satirical tone, and again apparently drinking the health of Mrs Mitchell, who waved her hand coquettishly from the end of the long table.
'Now listen, my child. Don't see Aylmer for a little while.'
'He wants me to take him out for a drive.'
'Take him for a drive. But not this week. How Madame Frabelle lovesBruce!' he went on, watching her.
'Really, Landi, I assure you you're occasionally as mistaken as she is.And she thinks I'm in love with our host.'
'That's becauseelle voit double. I don't.'
'What makes you think….'
'I read between the lines, my dear—between the lines on MadameFrabelle's face.'
'She hasn't any.'
'Oh, go along,' said Landi, who sometimes broke into peculiar English which he thought was modern slang. Raising his voice, he said: 'The dinner isexquis—exquis,' so that Mr Mitchell could hear.
'I can't help noting what you've eaten tonight, Landi, though I don't usually observe these things,' Edith said. 'You've had half-a-tomato, a small piece of vegetable marrow, and a sip of claret. Aren't you going to eat anything more?'
'Not much more. I look forward to my coffee and my cigar. Oh, how I look forward to it!'
'You know very well, Landi, they let you smoke cigarettes between the courses, if you like.'
'It would be better than nothing. We'll see presently.'
'Might I inquire if you live on cigars and coffee?'
'No,' he answered satirically; 'I live on eau sucré. And porreege. I'mScotch.'
'I can't talk to you if you're so silly.'
'You'll tell me the important part on the little sofa upstairs in the salon,' he said. 'After dinner. Tonight, here, somehow, the food and the faces distract one—unless one is making an acquaintance. I know you too well to talk at dinner.'
'Quite true. I ought to take time to think then.'
'There's no hurry. Good heavens! the man has waited four years; he can wait another week. Quelle idée!'
'He's going back,' said Edith, 'as soon as he's well. He wants me to promise before he goes.'
'Does he! You remind me of the man who said to his wife: "Good-bye, my dear, I'm off to the Thirty Years' War." It's all right, Edith. We'll find a solution, I have no fears.'
She turned to Mr Mitchell.
* * * * *
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Alone with the women, Madame Frabelle was the centre of an admiring circle, as she lectured on 'dress and economy in war-time,' and how to manage a house on next to nothing a year. All the ladies gasped with admiration. Edith especially was impressed; because the fact that Madame Frabelle was a guest, and was managing nothing, did not prevent her talking as if she had any amount of experience on the subject, although, by her own showing she had been staying at hotels ever since the war began, except the last weeks she had spent with the Ottleys.
The men soon joined them.
A group of war valetudinarians, amongst whom Bruce was not the least emphatic, told each other their symptoms in a quiet corner. They described their strange shiverings down the spine; the curious fits of hunger that came on before meals; the dislike to crossing the road when there was an accident; the inability to sleep, sometimes taking the form of complete insomnia for as much as twenty minutes in the early morning. They pitied each other cordially, though neither listened to the other's symptoms, except in exchange for sympathy with their own.
'The war has got on my nerves; I can't think of anything else,' Bruce said. 'It's anidée fixe. I pant for the morning when the newspaper's due, and then I can't look at it! Not even a glance! Odd, isn't it?'
The Rev. Byrne Fraser, who gave his wife great and constant anxiety by his fantasies, related how he had curious dreams—the distressing part of which was that they never came true—about the death of relatives at the front. Another man also had morbid fancies on the subject of the casualty list, and had had to go and stay at a farm so as to 'get right away from it all'. But he soon left, as he had found, to his great disappointment, that his companions there were not intellectual, and could not even talk politics or discuss literature. And yet they went in (or so he had heard) for 'intensive culture'!…
Presently Sir Tito played his Italian march. The musical portion of the party, and the unmusical alike, joined in the chorus. Then the party received a welcome addition. Valdez, the great composer, who had written many successful operas and had lived so much abroad that he cared now for nothing but British music, looked in after a patriotic concert given in order to help the unengaged professionals. Always loyal to old friends, he had deserted royalty itself tonight to greet Mrs. Mitchell and was persuaded by adoring ladies to sing his celebrated old song, 'After Several Years.' It pleased and thrilled the audience even more than Landi's 'Adieu Hiver'. Indeed, tonight it was Valdez who was the success of the evening. Middle-aged ladies who had loved him for years loved him now more than ever. Young girls who saw him now for the first time fell in love, just as their mothers had done, with his splendid black eyes and commanding presence, and secretly longed to stroke at least every seventh wave of his abundant hair. When Edith assured him that his curls were 'like a flock of goats on Mount Gilead' he laughed, declared he was much flattered at the comparison, and kissed her hand with courtly grace.
Young Mr. Cricker, who came because he wasn't asked, insisted on dancing like Nijinsky because he was begged not to, but his leaps and bounds were soon stopped by a few subalterns and very young officers on leave, who insisted, with some fair partners, on dancing the Fox Trot to the sound of a gramophone.
* * * * *
For a few moments on the little sofa Edith managed to convey the rest of her confidence to Landi. She pointed out how hurried, how urgent, how pressing it was to give an answer.
'He wants a war elopement, I see,' said Landi. 'Mais ça ne se fait pas!'
'Then what am I to say?'
'Rien.'
'But, Landi, you know I shan't really ever…'
'Would it give you pleasure to see him married to the Spanish girl?'
'She's not exactly Spanish—she only looks it. Don't laugh like that!'
'I don't know why, but Spain seems always to remind me of something ridiculous. Onions—or guitars.'
'Well, I shouldn't mind her nearly so much as anyone else.'
'You don't mind her,' said Landi. 'Vous savez qu'il ne l'épouse pas?What would you dislike him to do most?'
'I think I couldn't bear anyone else to take my place exactly,' admittedEdith.
'C'est ça! you don't want him to be in love with another married woman with a husband like Bruce? Well, my dear, he won't. There is no other husband like Bruce.
Landi promised to consider the question, and she arranged to go and see him at his studio before seeing Aylmer again.
* * * * *
As they went out of the house Miss Coniston ran after Madame Frabelle and said eagerly:
'Oh, do tell me again; you saysoupe à la vinaigreis marvellously nourishing and economical. I can have it made for my brother at our flat?'
'Of course you can! It costs next to nothing.'
Arthur Coniston came up.
'And tastes like nothing on earth, I suppose?' he grumbled in his sister's ear. 'You can't give me much less to eat than you do already.'
'Oh, Arthur!' his sister said. 'Aren't you happy at home? I think you're a pessimist.'
'A pessimist!' cried Mitchell, who was following them into the hall. 'Oh, I hate pessimists! What's the latest definition of them? Ah, I know; an optimist is a person who doesn't care what happens as long as it doesn't happen to him.'
'Yes,' said Edith quickly, 'and a pessimist is the person who lives with the optimist.'
'Dear, dear. I always thought the old joke was that an optimist looks after the eyes, and a pessimist after the feet!' cried Madame Frabelle as she fastened her cloak.
'Why, then, he ought to go to a cheer-upadist!' said Mr Mitchell. And they left him in roars of laughter.
Dulcie Clay, in her neat uniform of grey and white, with the scarlet cross on the front of her apron, was sitting in the room she occupied for the moment in Aylmer's house in Jermyn Street. It was known as 'the second best bedroom'. As she was anxious not to behave as if she were a guest, she used it as a kind of boudoir when she was not in attendance.
It was charmingly furnished in the prim Chippendale style, a style dainty, but not luxurious, that seemed peculiarly suited to Dulcie.
She was in the window-seat—not with her feet up, no cushions behind her. Unlike Edith, she was not the kind of woman who rested habitually; she sat quite upright in the corner. A beautiful little mahogany table was at her right, with a small electric lamp on it, and two books. One of the books was her own choice, the other had been lent to her by Aylmer. It was a volume of Bernard Shaw. She could make neither head nor tail of it, and the prefaces, which she read with the greatest avidity, perplexed her even more than the books themselves. Every now and then a flash of lightning, in the form of some phrase she knew, illumined for a second the darkness of the author's words. But soon she closed the thick volume with the small print and returned toThe Daisy Chain.
Dulcie was barely one-and-twenty. She carried everywhere in her trunk a volume calledThe Wide, Wide World. She was never weary of reading this work with the comprehensive title; it reminded her of schooldays. It was comforting, like a dressing-gown and slippers, like an old friend. Whether she had ever thoroughly understood it may be doubted. If any modern person nowadays were to dip into it, he would find it, perhaps, more obscure than George Meredith at his darkest. Secretly Dulcie loved best in the world, in the form of reading matter, the feuilletons in the daily papers. There was something so exciting in that way they have of stopping at a thrilling moment and leaving you the whole day to think over what would come next, and the night to sleep over it. She preferred that; she never concentrated her mind for long on a story, or any work of the imagination. She was deeply interested in her own life. She was more subjective than objective—though, perhaps, she had never heard the words. Unconsciously she dealt with life only as it related to herself. But this is almost universal with young girls who have only just become conscious of themselves, and of their importance in the world; have only just left the simple objectiveness of the child who wants to look at the world, and have barely begun to feel what it is to be an actor rather than a spectator.
Not that any living being could be less selfish or vain, or less of an egotist than Dulcie. If she saw things chiefly as they were related to herself, it was because this problem of her life was rather an intricate one. Her position was not sufficiently simple to suit her simple nature.
Her mother, who had been of Spanish descent, had died young; her father had married again. He was the sort of man who always married again, and if his present wife, with whom he was rather in love, had passed away he would have undoubtedly married a third time. Some men are born husbands; they have a passion for domesticity, for a fireside, for a home. Yet, curiously, these men very rarely stay at home. Apparently what they want is to have a place to get away from.
The new stepmother, who was young and rather pretty, was not unkind, but was bored and indifferent to the little girl. Dulcie was sensitive; since her father's second marriage she had always felt in the way. Whether her stepmother was being charming to her husband, or to some other man—she was always charming to somebody—Dulcie felt continually that she was not wanted. Her father was kind and casual. He told everyone what he believed, that his second wife was an ideal person to bring up his little daughter.
Therefore it came upon him as a surprise when she told him she was grown up, and still more that she wished to leave home and be a nurse. Mrs. Clay had made no objection; the girl rather depressed her, for she felt she ought to like her more than she did, so she 'backed up' with apparent good nature the great desire to go out and do something.
Dulcie had inherited three hundred a year from her mother. Her father had about the same amount of his own to live on. He believed that he added to it by mild gambling, and perhaps by talking a good deal at his club of how he had been born to make a fortune but had had no luck. His second wife had no money.
Dulcie, therefore, was entirely independent. No obstacles were placed in her way—the particular form that her ambition took was suggested by the war, but in any case she would have done something. She had taken the usual means of getting into a hospital.
Gentle, industrious, obedient and unselfish, she got on well. Her prettiness gained her no enemies among the women as she was too serious about her work at this time to make use of her beauty by attracting men. Yet Dulcie was unusually feminine; she had a natural gift for nursing, for housekeeping, for domesticity. She was not artistic and was as indifferent to abstractions and to general ideas as the ideal average woman. She was tactful, sweet, and, she had been called at school, rather a doormat. Her appearance was distinguished and she was not at all ordinary. It is far from ordinary, indeed it is very rare, to be the ideal average woman. She took great interest in detail; she would lie awake at night thinking about how she would go the next day to a certain inexpensive shop to get a piece of ribbon for one part of her dress to match a piece of ribbon in another part—neither of which would ever be seen by any human being.
Such men as she saw liked and admired her. Her gradual success led her to being sent abroad to a military hospital. She inspired confidence, not because she had initiative, but because one knew she would do exactly as she was told, which is, in itself, a great quality. At Boulogne she made the acquaintance at once of Aylmer, and ofthe coup de foudre. She worshipped him at first sight. So she thought herself fortunate when she was allowed to come back to London with him. Under orders she continued her assiduous attention. Everyone said she was a perfect nurse.
Occasionally she went to see her father. He greeted her with warmth and affection, and told her all about how, on account of racing being stopped, he was gradually becoming a pauper. When she began telling him of the events in which she was absorbed he answered by giving her news of the prospects for the Cambridgeshire. In the little den in the house in West Kensington, where he lived, she would come in and say in a soft voice:
'Papa dear, you know I shan't be able to stop much longer.'
'Much longer where?'
'Why, with my patient, Mr Ross—Mr Aylmer Ross.'
'Shan't you? Mind you, my dear, there are two good three-year-olds that are not to be sneezed at.' He shook his head solemnly.
It had never occurred to Dulcie for a moment to sneeze at three-year-olds. She hardly knew what they were.
'But what do you advise for me, papa?'
'My dear child, I can't advise. You can't select with any approach to confidence between Buttercup and Beautiful Doll. Mind you, I'm very much inclined to think that More Haste may win yet. Look how he ran in August, when nobody knew anything about him!'
'Yes, I know, papa, but—'
She gave it up.
'Go and see your mother, dear; go and ask her about it,' and he returned to the racing intelligence.
Strange that a man who had not enough to live on should think he could add to his income by backing losers. Still, such was Mr Clay's view of life. Besides, he was just going out; he was always just going out.
She would then go and see her stepmother, who greeted her most affectionately.
Dulcie only kept half her little income for herself at present, a considerable advantage to a woman like Mrs Clay, who declared she was 'expected to dress up to a certain standard, though, of course, simply during war-time.' She would kiss the girl and drag her up to her bedroom to show her a new coat and skirt, or send the general servant up to bring down the marvellously cheap little tea-gown that had just come home.
Both her parents, it will be seen, were ready enough to talk to her, but they were not prepared to listen. All the warmth and affection that she had in her nature very naturally was concentrated on her patient.
Dulcie now sat in the window-seat, wondering what to do. She was sadly thinking what would happen when the time came for her to leave.
In her mind she knew perfectly well that what several people had said was true: the profession she had chosen was too arduous for her physical strength. Besides, now she could not bear the idea of nursing anyone else after Aylmer. She was trying to make up her mind to take something else—and she could not think what.
A girl like Dulcie Clay, who has studied only one thing really thoroughly, could be fitted only to be a companion either to children, whom she adored, or to some tedious elderly lady with fads. She knew she would not do for a secretary; she had not the education nor the gift for it.
The thought of going back to the stepmother who showed so clearly her satisfaction and high spirits in having got rid of her, and of being again the unwanted third in the little house in West Kensington, was quite unbearable.
She had told much of her position to Edith, who was so sympathetic and clever. It would have been a dream of hers, a secret dream, to teach Edith's little girl, whom she had once seen, and loved. Yet that would have been in some ways rather difficult. As she looked out of the window, darkened with fog, she sighed. If she had been the governess at Edith's house, she would be constantly seeing Aylmer. She knew, of course, all about Aylmer's passion. It would certainly be better than nothing to see him sometimes. But the position would have been painful. Also, she disliked Bruce. He had given her one or two looks that seemed rather to demand admiration than to express it; he had been so kind as to give her a few hints on nursing; how to look after a convalescent; and had been exceedingly frank and kind in confiding to her his own symptoms. As she was a hospital nurse, it seemed to him natural to talk rather of his own indisposition than on any other subject. Dulcie was rather highly strung, and Bruce got terribly on her nerves; she marvelled at Edith's patience. But then Edith…. No, she could not go to the Ottleys.
Her other gift—a beautiful soprano voice—also was of hardly any use to her, as she was now placed. When she sang she expressed herself more completely than at any other time, but that also she had not been taught thoroughly; she had been taught nothing thoroughly.
A companion! Though she had not absolutely to earn her living, and kept only half of her little inheritance for herself, what was to become of her? Well, she wouldn't think about it any more that day. At any rate Aylmer talked as though she was to remain some time longer.
When he had returned suddenly to the house in Jermyn Street, a relative had hastily obtained for him the necessary servants; his former valet was at the front; they were all new to him and to his ways, and he had no housekeeper. Dulcie did the housekeeping—could she take that place in his house? No, she knew that she was too young, and everyone else would have said she was too pretty. Only as a nurse would it be correct for her to be his companion.
And from fear of embarrassing him she was hardly ever with him alone. She thought he was abrupt, more cool to her since their return, and guessed the reason; it was for fear of compromising her. How angelic of him; what a wonderful man—how fortunate his first wife must have been. And the boy, Teddy—the charming boy so like his father, whom she had only seen for a day or two before he left to go out. Teddy's presence would help to make it more difficult for her to remain.
In that very short time the boy had distinctly shown her by his marked attention how much he admired her. He thought her lovely. He was devoted to music and she had sung to him.
Aylmer also liked music, but apparently did not care to hear her sing. On the occasion that she did, it seemed to irritate him. Indeed, she knew she was merely the most amateurish of musicians, and could just accompany herself in a few songs, though the voice itself was a rare gift…. How perfect Aylmer had been!… There was a sharp ring. She closed the book, turned out the little electric lamp and went downstairs.
She was looking ideally pretty in the becoming uniform, but uniforms are always becoming, whatever the uniforms or the people may be. The reason of this is too obscure to fathom. One would say that to dress to suit oneself would be more becoming to men and women. Yet, in fact, the limitation and the want of variety in this sort of dress had a singular attraction. However, if she had chosen it to suit her, nothing could have been more becoming. The severity of the form, the dull colour, relieved by the large scarlet cross, showed off to the greatest advantage her dense dark hair, her Madonna-like face and the slim yet not angular lines of her figure. Dulcie's beauty was of a kind that is thrown into relief by excessive plainness of dress.
As she came in, Aylmer looked at her with more observation than usual, and he acknowledged to himself that she was pretty—remarkably pretty, quite a picture, as people say, and he liked her, as one likes a confidante, a reliable friend. He trusted her, remembering how he had given himself away to her that dreadful day in the Boulogne hospital…. And she had another quality that pleased him immensely; she was neither coquettish nor affected, but simple and serious. She appeared to think solely of her duties, and in Aylmer's opinion that was just what a nurse should do.
* * * * *
But Edith's remark that Dulcie was madly in love with him had made a certain impression on his mind. Indeed, everything Edith said, even a merely trivial observation, was of importance to Aylmer. Edith wouldn't have said that unless she meant it. If it was true, did it matter? Aylmer was very free from vanity and masculine coquetry. He had a good deal of pride and great self-respect. Like almost every human being who is superior to the average, he didn't think ill of himself; there were things that he was proud of. He was proud, secretly, of having gone into the army and of having been wounded. It made him feel he was not on the shelf, not useless and superannuated. He took a certain pride also in his judgement, his excellent judgement on pictures and literature. Perhaps, even, having been a spoilt only child, he was privately proud of some of his faults. He knew he was extravagant and impatient. The best of everything was barely good enough for Aylmer. Long before he inherited the property that had come to him a year ago he had never been the sort of young man who would manage on little; who would, for example, go to the gallery by Underground or omnibus to see a play or to the opera. He required comfort, elbow-room, ease. For that reason he had worked really hard at the Bar so as to have enough money to live according to his ideas. Not that he took any special interest in the Bar. His ideal had always been—if it could be combined—to be either a soldier or a man of leisure, devoted to sport, literature and art.
Now he had asserted himself as a soldier, and he meant to go back. But he looked forward to leisure to enjoy and indulge his favourite tastes, if possible, with the only woman he had ever been deeply in love with.
He was particularly attractive to women, who liked his strong will and depth of feeling, his assertive manner and that feeling of trust that he inspired. Women always know when a man will not treat them badly. Teddy's mother, his first wife, he had really married out of pity.
When she died everyone regarded it as a tragedy except himself. He still worshipped his mother, whose little miniature he kept always by him, and he had always fancied that Edith resembled her. This was simply anidée d'amoureux, for there was no resemblance. His mother, according to the miniature, had the dark hair and innocent expression that were the fashion at the time, while Edith was fair, with rather dark eyebrows, grey eyes and the mouth and chin characteristic of Burne-Jones's and Rossetti's pictures. But though she might be in appearance a Burne-Jones, she was very modern. His favourite little photograph of her that he had shown, in his moment of despair, to Dulcie, showed a charming face, sensuous yet thoughtful, under a large hat. She had fur up to her chin, and was holding a muff; it was a snapshot taken the winter before they had parted.
Aylmer worshipped these two women: his dead mother and the living woman whom he had never given up entirely. How unlike were both the types to Dulcie Clay, with her waved Madonna hair, dark skin, large, clear blue eyes, softened by eyelashes of extraordinary length. Her chin was very small, her mouth fine, rather thin; she had a pathetic expression; one could imagine her attending, helping, nursing, holding a child in her arms, but not his intellectual equal, guiding and directing like his mother; and without the social brilliance and charm of Edith.
* * * * *
Seeing him looking at her with a long, observant look, Dulcie became nervous and trembled slightly. She waited for him to speak.
'Come here, Miss Clay. I want to speak to you.'
Instantly she sat down by him.
'I wanted to say—you've been most awfully kind to me.'
Dulcie murmured something.
'I'm nearly well now—aren't I?'
'Dr Wood says you can go out driving next week.'
'Yes; but I don't mean that. I mean, I'm well in myself?'
He spoke quickly, almost impatiently.
'The doctor says you're still suffering from nervous shock;' she answered in a toneless voice, professionally.
'Still, very soon I shan't need any attendance that a valet or a housekeeper couldn't give me, shall I?'
'No, I suppose not.'
'Well, my dear Miss Clay—of course, I shall hate you to go,' he said politely, 'but don't you think we ought to be thinking—'
He stopped.
She answered:
'Of course I'll go whenever you and Dr Wood think it right.'
'You see,' he went on, 'I know I shall need a housekeeper, especially when Teddy comes back. He's coming back on leave next week'—Aylmer glanced at the telegram in his hand—'and, well—'
'You don't think I could—'
'Of course you would make a splendid housekeeper,' he laughed. 'You are already, but—'
She didn't wish to make him uncomfortable. Evidently he was thinking what she knew herself. But she was so reluctant to go.
'Don't you think I could remain here for a little while?' she said modestly. 'To do the housekeeping and be useful? You see, I've nowhere to go really.'
'But, my dear girl, excuse me, don't you see you're rather too—young.It would be selfish of me to let you.'
He wished to say that it would be compromising, but a certain consciousness prevented his saying it. He felt he would be ridiculous if he put it into words.
'Just as you like. How soon do you think I ought to go?'
Though she tried not to show it, there was a look almost of despair in her face. Her eyes looked startled, as if trying not to shed tears.
He was very sorry for her, but tried to hide it by a cool and impatient manner.
'Well, shall we say in about a fortnight?'
'Certainly.' She looked down.
'I shall miss you awfully,' he said, speaking more quickly than usual to get it over.
She gave a very small smile.
'Er—and then may I ask what you're thinking of doing next?'
'That was just what I was thinking about,' she answered rather naïvely.'There are so few things I can do.'
Then fearing this sentence sounded like begging to remain, she hastily added:
'And of course if I don't go home I might be a companion or look after children.'
'I wonder if Mrs Ottley—' began Aylmer. 'She has a dear little girl, and I've heard her say she would soon want someone.'
'Dilly?' said Dulcie, with a slight smile.
'Yes, Dilly.'
There was a moment of intense awkwardness between them.
Then Dulcie said:
'I'm afraid that wouldn't quite do. I'm not clever enough.'
'Oh, rot. You know enough for a child like that. I shall speak to MrsOttley about it.'
'It's very, very kind of you, but I would rather not. I think I shall try to be a companion.'
'What's the name of that woman,' Aylmer said good-naturedly, 'that Irish woman, wife of one of the Cabinet Ministers, who came to the hospital at Boulogne and wanted to have lessons?'
'Lady Conroy,' Dulcie answered.
'Yes, Lady Conroy. Supposing that she needed a secretary or companion, would you dislike that?'
'Oh, no, I should like it very much.'
'Right. I'll get Mrs Ottley to speak to her about it. She said she was coming to London, didn't she?'
'Yes. I got to know her fairly well,' said Dulcie. 'She's very charming.'
'She's celebrated for her bad memory,' Aylmer said, with a smile.
'She declares she forgets her own name sometimes. Once she got into a taxi and told the man to drive home. When he asked where that was, she said it was his business to know. She had forgotten her address.'
They both laughed.
'I'll go tomorrow,' said Dulcie, 'and see my stepmother, if you don't want me in the afternoon. Or, perhaps, the day you go for a drive would be better.'
'Tell me, Miss Clay, aren't you happy at home?'
'Oh, it isn't that. They don't want me. I'm in the way. You see, they've got used to my being out of the house.'
'But, excuse me—you don't earn your own living really?'
'No, that isn't really necessary. But I don't want to live at home.'
Her face showed such a decided distaste to the idea that he said no more.
'You're looking very well today,' Dulcie said.
He sighed. 'I feel rather rotten. I can't read, can't settle to anything.'
She looked at him sympathetically. He felt impelled to go on.
'I'm a bit worried,' he continued.
'About your son?'
'No, not about him so much, though I wish he would get a flesh wound and be sent back,' his father said, laughing. 'But about myself.'
She looked at him in silence.
'You know—what I told you.'
She made no answer, looking away to give him time to speak.
'I've made a suggestion,' he said slowly…. 'If it's accepted it'll alter all my life. Of course I shall go out again. But still it will alter my life.'
Suddenly, overpowered by the longing for sympathy, he said to himself aloud.
'I wonder if there's a chance.'
'I don't know what it is,' she murmured, but instinctively she had guessed something of it.
'I don't want to think about it any more at present.'
'Shall I read to you?'
'Yes, do.'
She quietly arranged a pillow behind him and took up a newspaper.
He often liked her to read to him; he never listened to a word of it, but it was soothing.
She had taken up 'This Morning's Gossip' fromThe Daily Mail, and she began in the soft, low, distinct voice reading from The Rambler:
'Lord Redesdale says that when Lord Haldane's scheme for a TerritorialArmy was on foot he took it to the—'
Aylmer stopped her.
'No—not that'
'Shall I read you a novel?'
'I think I should like to hear some poetry today,' he answered.
She had taken up a pretty, tiny little book that lay on his table, calledLyrists of the Restoration, and began to read aloud:
5165'Phyllis is my only joy,Faithless as the winds or seas,Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy,Yet she never fails to please.'
'Oh, please, stop,' Aylmer cried.
She looked up.
'It tinkles like an old-fashioned musical-box. Try another.'
'What would you like?' she asked, smiling.
He took up a French book and passed it to her.
'You'll think I'm very changeable, but I should like this. Read me the beginning ofLa-Bos.'
And she began.
He listened with his eyes closed, lulled by the curious technique, with its constant repetitions and jewelled style, charmed altogether. She read French fluently enough.
'That's delightful,' he said, but he soon noticed she was stumbling over the words. No, it was not suitable for her to read. He was obstinate, however, and was determined she should read him something.
* * * * *
So they fell back onNorthanger Abbey.
Lady Conroy had arrived home in Carlton House Terrace, complaining of a headache. She remained on the sofa in her sitting-room for about five minutes, during which time she believed she had been dozing. In reality she had been looking for her glasses, dropping her bag and ringing the bell to send a servant for a handkerchief.
She was a handsome woman of thirty-eight, with black hair turning a little grey, grey Irish eyes and a wonderfully brilliant complexion. She must have been a remarkably good-looking girl, but now, to her great vexation, she was growing a little too fat. She varied between treatments, which she scarcely began before she forgot them, and utter indifference to her appearance, when she declared she was much happier, letting herself go in loose gowns, and eating everything of which she had deprived herself for a day or two for the sake of her figure.
Lady Conroy had often compared herself to the old woman who lived in a shoe, because of her large family. Her friends declared she didn't remember how many children she had. She loved them, but there were certainly weeks when she didn't see the younger ones, for she was constantly absorbed in various different subjects. Besides, she spent most of her life in looking for things.
She was hopelessly careless and had no memory at all.
Suddenly she glanced at the watch on her wrist, compared it with the splendid Empire clock on the mantelpiece, and went with a bewildered look to the telephone on her writing-desk. Having gone through a considerable amount of torture by calling up the wrong number and absently ringing off as soon as she had got the right one, she at last found herself talking to Edith.
'Oh, is that you, dear? How lucky to catch you! Yes…. Yes…. I came back yesterday. Dying to see you. Can't you come round and see me? Oh, you've got on your hat; you were just coming? Of course, I forgot! I knew I had an appointment with someone! How soon will you be here?… In a quarter of an hour? Good! Could you tell me the time, dear?… Four o'clock, thanks. My watch is wrong, and they've never wound the clock up all the time I've been away. Good-bye. Don't be long…. How soon did you say you could come?… Oh, about a quarter of an hour! Do hurry!… I say, I've something very particular to tell you. It's about… Oh, I'm detaining you. Very well. I see. Au revoir.'
As she waited for her visitor, Lady Conroy walked round the room. Nearly everything on which she cast her eye reminded her of a different train of thought, so that by the time Edith was announced by the footman she had forgotten what she wanted to tell her.
'How sweet you look, dear!' cried Lady Conroy, welcoming her most affectionately. 'How dear of you to come. You can't think how I was longing to see you. Can you tell me what day it is?'
'Why, it's Thursday,' Edith said, laughing. 'Don't you remember? You wired to me to come and see you today.'
'Of course; so I did. But, surely, I didn't ask you to come onThursday?'
'I assure you that you did.'
'Fancy! How stupid of me! Thursday is my day at home. Dear, dear, dear. I forgot to tell Standing; there will be no proper tea. Oh, I've brought such a nice French maid—a perfect wonder. She knows everything. She always knows what I want. One moment, dear; I'll ring for her and give her orders. Wait a minute, though.' She took Edith's hand and patted it affectionately. 'Nobody knows I've come back; it'll be all right. We shan't have any visitors. I'm bursting with news to tell you.'
'And I'm longing to hear what it is.'
Lady Conroy's charming, animated face became blank. She frowned slightly, and a vague look came into her eyes—the pathetic look of someone who is trying to remember.
'Wait a minute—what is it? Oh yes. You know that woman you introduced me to at Dieppe?'
'What woman?'
'Don't you know, dear? Good heavens, it was you who introduced her—you ought to know.'
'Do you mean Madame Frabelle?' asked Edith, who was accustomed to LadyConroy, and could follow the drift of her mind.
'Capital! That's it. How wonderful of you! Yes, Madame Frabelle. How do you like her?'
'Very much. But I didn't introduce her to you. You sent her to me.'
'Did I? Well, it's very much the same. Look here, Edith dear. This is what I want to ask you. I remember now. Oh, do you mind ringing the bell for me? I must tell Marie about the tea, in case people call.'
Edith obeyed.
'You see, dear,' went on her hostess, 'I've undertaken a terrific number of things—Belgian refugees, weekly knitting, hundreds of societies—all sorts of war work. Well, you know how busy I am, even without all that, don't you? Thank heaven the boys are at school, but there are the children in the nursery, and I don't leave them—at least hardly ever—to their nurse. I look after them myself—when I think of it. Oh, they've grown such heavenly angels—too sweet! And how's your pet, Dilly?'
'Very well. But do go on.'
'How right of you to keep me to the point, darling. That's where you're such a comfort always. Do you mind passing me my glasses? Thanks.'
She put them on and immediately took them off. She only needed them for reading.
'Oh yes. I wanted to consult you about something, Edith.'
The footman came in.
'Oh, Standing, send Marie to me at once…. Bother the man, how he keeps worrying! Well, Edith dear, as I've got all this tremendous lot of work to do, I've made up my mind, for the sake of my health, I simply must have a sort of secretary or companion. You see?'
'I quite see. You spoke of it before.'
'Well, how do you think that woman you introduced to me, Madame Frabelle—how do you think she would—? Oh, Marie, today's my day at home; isn't it, Edith?'
'Today is Thursday,' said Edith.
'Thursday! Oh, my dear. Thursday's not my day at home. Well, anyhow, never mind about that. What was I saying, Marie?'
Marie remained respectfully waiting, with a tight French smile on her intelligent face.
'Oh, I know what it was. Marie, I want you to look after certain things for me here—anyhow, at present. I want you to tell the cook that I want tea at four o'clock. Oh no, it's half-past four—well, at five. And there's something I particularly want for tea. What is it?' she asked, looking at Edith. Immediately answering herself she said: 'I know, I want muffins.'
'Madame want "nuffing"?' said Marie.
'No, no, no! Don't be so stupid. It's an English thing, Marie; you wouldn't understand. Something I've forgotten to tell the cook about. It's so cosy I always think in the winter in London. It always cheers me up. You know, what is it?… I know—muffins—muffins!' she said the word carefully to the French maid.
Edith came to the rescue.
'Tell the cook,' she said, 'for madame, that she wants some muffins for tea.'
'Oh, oui. Ah, oui, bien, madame. Merci, madame.'
As the maid was going away Lady Conroy called out:
'Oh, tell the cook it doesn't matter. I won't have them today.'
'Bien, madame.'
Edith was already in a somewhat hilarious mood. Lady Conroy didn't irritate her; she amused her almost more than any friend she had. Besides, once she could be got to concentrate on any one subject, nobody was more entertaining. Edith's English humour delighted in her friend's Irish wit.
There was something singularly Irish in the way Lady Conroy managed to make a kind of muddle and untidiness all round her, when she had been in a room a minute or two. When she had entered the room, it was a fine-looking apartment, rather sparsely furnished, with very little in it, all severest First Empire style. There were a few old portraits on striped pale green walls, and one large basket of hot-house flowers on a small table. Yet, since her entrance, the room already looked as if several people had been spending the week in it without tidying it up. Almost mechanically Edith picked up her bag, books, newspaper, cigarettes and the glasses.
'Well, then, you don't think Madame Frabelle would do?' said LadyConroy.
'My dear Lady Conroy, Madame Frabelle wouldn't dream of going as a companion or secretary. You want a young girl. She's about fifteen years older than you are and she's staying with me as my guest. I shouldn't even suggest such a thing.'
'Why not? It wouldn't be at all a hard place.'
'No, I know. But she doesn't want a place. She's very well off, remember.'
'Good heavens, she can't have much to do then if she's only staying with you,' said Lady Conroy.
'Oh, she has plenty of engagements. No, I shouldn't advise MadameFrabelle. But I do know of someone.'
'Do you? Oh, darling Edith, how sweet of you. Oh, just ring the bell for me, will you?'
Edith rang.
'I want to send for Marie, my maid, and tell her to order some muffins for tea. I forgot to tell the cook.'
'But you have already ordered and countermanded them.'
'Oh, have I?—so I have! Never mind, don't ring. It doesn't matter. Who do you know, dear?'
Standing appeared in answer to the bell.
'What do you want, Standing? You mustn't keep bothering and interrupting me like this. Oh, tea? Yes, bring tea. And tell Marie I shan't want her after all.'
Lady Conroy leant back against her cushions and with a sigh went on:
'You see, I'm in the most terrible muddle, dear Edith. I don't know where to turn.'
She turned to her writing-table and opened it.
'Look at this, now,' she said rather triumphantly. 'This is all about my war work. Oh no, it isn't. It's an advertisement from a washer-woman. Gracious, ought I to keep it, do you think? No, I don't think I need.'
She folded it up and put it carefully away again.
'Don't you think yourself I need someone?'
'Yes, I do. I think it would be very convenient for you to have a nice girl with a good memory to keep your things in order.'
'That's it,' cried Lady Conroy, delighted, as she lit a cigarette. 'That's it—someone who will prevent me dropping cigarette ash all over the room and remember my engagements and help me with my war work and write my letters and do the telephoning. That's all I shall want. Of course, if she could do a little needlework—No, no, that wouldn't do. You couldn't expect her to do brainwork as well as needlework.'
Edith broke in.
'Do you remember mentioning to me a girl you met at Boulogne—a nurse called Dulcie Clay?'
'Perfectly well,' answered Lady Conroy, puffing away at her cigarette, and obviously not speaking the truth.
Edith laughed.
'No, my dear, you don't. But it doesn't matter. Well, this girl has been nursing Mr Aylmer Ross, and he doesn't need her any more—at least he won't after next week. Would you see her and judge for yourself? You might try her.'
'I'm sure I shall if I take her. I'm afraid I'm a trying person. I try everyone dreadfully. Oh, by the way, Edith, I met such a perfect angel coming over. He was a wounded soldier. He belongs to the Black Watch. Doesn't the name Black Watch thrill you? He's in the Irish Guards, so, of course, my heart went out to him.'
'The Irish Guards as well?'
'Oh no. That was another man.'
She put her hand to her forehead.
'I'm worrying you, dear, with my bad memory. I'm so sorry. Well, then, you'll see Madame Frabelle for me?'
'I will if you like, but not as a companion. It's Miss Clay.'
'Miss Clay,' repeated Lady Conroy. 'Ah, here's tea. Do you take milk and sugar. Edith?'
'Let me pour it out,' said Edith, to whom it was maddening to see the curious things Lady Conroy did with the tea-tray. She was pouring tea into the sugar basin, looking up at Edith with the sweetest smile.
'I can't stay long,' Edith went on. 'I'm very sorry, dear, but you remember I told you I'm in a hurry…. I've an appointment at Landi's studio.'
'Landi? And who is that?'
'You know him—the composer—Sir Tito.'
'Oh, darling Sir Tito! Of course I do know him!' She smiled reminiscently. 'Won't you have anything to eat, dear? Do have a muffin! Oh, bother, there are none. I wonder how it is cook always forgets? Then you're going to send Madame Frabelle to see me the day after tomorrow?'
Edith took both her hands and shook them, laughing, as she stood up.
'I will arrange to send Miss Clay to see you, and if you like her, if you don't mind waiting about ten days or a fortnight, you might engage her. It would be doing her a great kindness. She's not happy at home.'
'Oh, poor girl!'
'And she went as a nurse,' continued Edith, 'chiefly because she couldn't think of anything else to do. She isn't really strong enough for nursing.'
'Isn't she? How sad, poor girl. It reminds me of a girl I met at Boulogne. So pretty and nice. In very much the same position really. She also wasn't happy at home—'
'This is the same girl,' said Edith. 'You wrote to me about her.'
'Did I? Good heavens, how extraordinary! What a memory you've got,Edith. Well, then, she's sure to do.'
'Still, you'd better have an interview,' said Edith. 'Don't trouble to ring. I must fly, dear. We'll soon meet again.'
Lady Conroy followed her to the door into the hall, pouring forth questions, sympathy and cheerful communications about the charming young man in the Black Watch. Just before Edith escaped her friend said:
'Oh, by the by, I meant to ask you something. Who is Madame Frabelle?'
Sir Tito lived in a flat in Mayfair, on the second floor of a large corner house. On the ground floor was his studio, which had two entrances. The studio was a large, square, white room, containing a little platform for pupils. A narrow shelf ran all the way round the dado; this shelf was entirely filled with the most charming collection of English and French china, little cottages, birds and figures. Above the shelf was a picture-rail, which again was filled all the way round with signed photographs of friends. Everything in the room was white, even the piano waslaquéwhite, and the furniture, extremely luxurious and comfortable, was in colour a pale and yet dull pink. A curtain separated it from another smaller room, which again had a separate entrance into the hall on the left, and, through a very small dressing-room, led into the street on the right side.
Sir Tito was waiting for Edith, spick, span and debonair as always (although during the war he had discarded his buttonhole). He was occupied, as he usually was in his leisure time, not in playing the piano or composing, but—in making photograph frames! This was his hobby, and people often said that he took more pleasure in the carving, cutting out, gumming and sticking together of these objects than in composing the melodies that were known and loved all over the world.
As soon as Edith came in he showed her a tiny frame carved with rosebuds.
'Regarde,' he said, his eyes beaming. 'Voilà! C'est mignon, n'est-ce-pas? On dirait un petit coeur! Ravissante, hein?' He gazed at it lovingly.
'Very sweet,' said Edith, laughing. 'Who is it for?'
'Why, it's for yourmignonne, Dilly. I've cut out a photograph of hers in the shape of a heart. Gentil, n'est ce pas?'
He showed it to her with childish pleasure. Then he put all traces of the work carefully away in a drawer and drew Edith near to the fire.
'I've just a quarter of an hour to give you,' said Sir Tito, suddenly turning into a serious man of business. And, indeed, he always had many appointments, not a few of which were on some subject connected with love affairs. Like Aylmer, but in a different way, Sir Tito was always being consulted, but, oddly enough, while it was the parents and guardians usually who went to Aylmer, husbands worried about their wives, mothers about their children; to the older man it was more frequently the culprit or the confidant himself or herself who came to confide and ask for help and advice.
Edith said:
'The dreadful thing I've to tell you, Landi, is that I've completely changed.'
'Comment?'
'Yes. I'm in love with him all over again.'
'C'est vrai?'
'Yes. I don't know how and I don't know why. When he first made that suggestion, it seemed wild—impossible. But the things he said—how absolutely true it is. Landi, my life's been wasted, utterly wasted.'
Landi said nothing.
'I believe I was deceiving myself,' she went on. 'I've got so accustomed to living this sort of half life I've become almostabrutie, as you would say. I didn't realise how much I cared for him. Now I know I always adored him.'
'But you were quite contented.'
'Because I made myself so; because I resolved to be satisfied. But, after all, there's something in what he says, Landi. My life with Bruce is only a makeshift. Nothing but tact, tact, tact. Oh, I'm so tired of tact!' She sighed. 'It seems to me now really too hard that I should again have such a great opportunity and should throw it away. You see, it is an opportunity, if I love him—and I'm not deceiving myself now. I'm in love with him. The more I think about it the more lovely it seems to me. It would be an ideal life, Landi.'
He was still silent.
She continued:
'You see, Aylmer knows so well how much the children are to me, and he would never ask me to leave them. There's no question of my ever leaving them. And Bruce wouldn't mind. Bruce would be only too thankful for me to take them. And there's another thing—though I despised the idea at the time, there's a good deal in it. I mean that Aylmer's well off, so I should never be a burden. He would love to take the responsibility of us all. I would leave my income to Bruce; he would be quite comfortable and independent. Oh, he would take it. He might be a little cross, but it wouldn't last, Landi. He would be better off. He'd find somebody—someone who would look after him, perhaps, and make him quite happy and comfortable. You're shocked?'
'Ça ne m'étonne pas. It's the reaction,' said Landi, nodding.
'How wonderful of you to understand! I haven't seen him again, you know.I've just been thinking. In fact, I'm surprised at myself. But the moreI reflect on what he said, the more wonderful it seems…. Think howhe's cared for me all this time!'
'Sans doute. You know that he adores you. But, Edith, it's all very well—you put like that—but could you go through with it?'
'I believe I could now,' she answered. 'I begin to long to. You see, I mistook my own feelings, Landi; they seemed dulled. I thought I could live without love—but why should I? What is it that's made me change so? Why do I feel so frightened now at the idea of losing my happiness?'
'C'est la guerre,' said Sir Tito.
'The war? What has that to do with it?'
'Everything. Unconsciously it affects people. Though you yourself are not fighting, Aylmer has risked his life, and is going to risk it again. This impresses you. To many temperaments things seem to matter less just now. People are reckless.'
'Is it that?' asked Edith. 'Perhaps it is. But I was so completely deceived in myself.'
'I always knew you could be in love with him,' said Landi. 'But wait a moment, Edith—need the remedy be so violent? I don't ask you to live without love. Why should a woman live without the very thing she was created for? But you know you hate publicity—vulgar scandal. Nobody loathes it as you do.'
'It doesn't seem to matter now so much,' Edith said.
'It's the war.'
'Well, whatever's the cause, all I can tell you is that I'm beginning to think I shall do it! I want to!… I can't bear to refuse again. I haven't seen him since our talk. I changed gradually, alone, just thinking. And then you say—'