Mrs. Merrod gazed into her mirror across the littered dressing-table.
It was a gilded triple affair, each side panel swinging on a pivot so that the woman sitting there could study herself from all angles. Under the crude electric light, from which she had removed the rose-coloured shade, her face looked sallow and almost plain, but was saved from insignificance by the intelligence of her eyes.
Dark topaz colour they were under the fine arched brows, full of deep slumbering fire that accentuated the hint of passion in the full-lipped and mocking mouth.
After a moment's steady gaze, drawing her lace peignoir about her, she rang the bell that lay on the table: a dainty little silver toy where a winged Eros stooped to kiss a smiling Psyche with arms uplifted. When the lips of the little creatures met the electric poles were united, and away in her maid's room she could hear the distant reverberation.
The door opened noiselessly.
"Mélanie, my velvet dress, and the boots with the gray suede tops."
"Bien, Madame." The maid passed into the dressing-room adjoining, where a looped-up curtain of rose-coloured silk revealed an elaborately fitted bath.
"The ermine scarf—no! The gray fox." She still studied her pale face—"and I want those new combs from Lalique—and long gray gloves and my violet toque."
She glanced as she spoke at the little clock which pointed to half-past six, and, with a sigh of relief, leaned back comfortably in her chair.
To pass the time while the maid came and went between the cupboards of the two rooms, Mrs. Merrod opened her manicure case, and began to polish her pink nails.
Then, as the door closed at last behind Mélanie's brisk step, she stirred herself and started upon the lengthy business of her toilette.
Into a saucer she poured from a bottle a thick creamy-looking liquid, and, with a broad camel's hair brush, spread it smoothly over her face. She waited for the skin to absorb it, then, with a piece of chamois leather, she polished the whitened surface lightly, added a faint dust of powder and peered again into the glass.
Satisfied with the result, she drew out the nearest drawer of the satin-wood dressing table, disclosing a number of pencils and lip-salves and little pots of cosmetic.
She hunted for a tiny brush, dipped it in a dark powder and, holding back each eyelid, proceeded to brush the lashes upward. Next a black pencil for her eyebrows, the merest line, traced with skill; then another, this time blue to accentuate the length of her eyes.
Finally, with care, she selected a lip-salve case from among many and held it thoughtfully for a moment against the creamy-white face.
"Too red." Fantine sighed. Her weakness was for carmine lips, but she feared McTaggart's critical gaze, those keen and mischievous blue eyes.
Picking out a paler shade, she passed it slowly over her mouth. At once the face became alive, losing the suggestion of a mask. Beneath the dark curls, bunched low on her ears, she coloured carefully each lobe, and, with her head tilted back, added a touch inside her nostrils.
This singular performance over, she rose briskly to her feet, shed the filmy lace peignoir and stood before the long mirror.
She nodded happily to her image, conscious of her perfect figure. In the shimmering long black silk tights with the frilled lace about her bosom, she looked like a dainty travesty of a Harlequin in a Transformation.
Slipping quickly into her dress, she was sheathed now in black velvet; very severe but with a cut that whispered Paris in each line.
She fastened a single deep red rose into the folds above her waist, then swayed slowly from side to side, very supple, her hands to her hips, a slight smile on the reddened lips.
"Bon!" She reached back for her hat—a violet splash on the lace counterpane—settled it closely on her head, with a final touch to the glossy hair, doubly black now against the warmth of the crumpled purple velvet.
At this moment the knocker sounded. Close at hand it seemed to clatter, for her bedroom door faced the entrance with only a narrow strip of hall.
She heard the maid's step pass and then the well-known voice of McTaggart.
"Entrez donc!" She cried gaily, "I am almost ready, Pierrot." Through the half-open door, glancing sideways with bright eyes, her hands still lifted to her head, she caught a glimpse of his laughing face.
He hesitated on the threshold, drinking in the pretty picture of the dainty pink room with its gleaming mirror and silver toys and the perfect silhouette of Fantine in her sombre velvet dress.
"Épatante! Comment ça va?" For he prided himself on a slender stock of French slang acquired mostly from a painstaking study of Willy's works.
"Youdolook nice!" He eased the strain of a conversation begun in French.
"Just one?" He stooped down and lightly kissed her smiling lips. Then he stood back, holding her hands, and, with a comprehensive glance, looked her over from head to foot, touched anew by her feminine charm.
"Only my boots now—and gloves, mon cher."
Her eyes with their half-veiled topaz lights returned his gaze hardily, with an answering pressure of tiny hands. "Go, now—there's a good boy. Mélanie!" she raised her voice—"vite! mes bottines." She sank down on a low chair, her feet outstretched.
"Let me do it," McTaggart begged, "I'm sure I'd make a splendid maid."
"No, no—Mélanie." The sly face of the femme de chambre drove him effectually from the room.
He sauntered across into the salon, where a fire was burning cosily. The wide portière was drawn across the larger room beyond where, on the evenings when they played, the card table was set out.
He warmed his hands before the blaze, glancing at the crowded mantel-piece, covered with many photographs, most of them portraits of men.
He smiled as he recognized the face of a youthful college friend. It was signed in a sprawling hand—"Yours, Archie," and the thought flashed into his mind that no power of blandishment could win from himself a similar trophy.
Whatever his weakness for Fantine might cost, McTaggart knew, deep down in his heart, respect did not share in the feeling; his shrewdness would balance his desire. But he knew as well that she held a charm which set her apart from her type, not only physical but mental, appealing to his intellect.
There lay the danger. For after her the English women he admired seemed heavy; they lacked her spice; their calmer beauty was apt to cloy on close acquaintance.
He was idly scanning the photographs, his mind partially abstracted, when he caught a glimpse of a curious face, half-hidden from his sight.
The portrait, old and faded, had slipped into the crack between mirror and wall and he rescued it and held it a moment underneath the electric light.
A man with a short square beard, his dark hair cut "en brosse," with evil eyes and an aquiline nose, rather crooked below the bridge. Something Eastern, McTaggart thought, lay in the lazy, sensuous smile, in the heavily lidded narrow eyes, slightly tilted toward the temples.
A Frenchman? hardly. A Greek? perhaps. A "wrong un'"!—of that he was sure.
He had just time to replace the photo before Fantine entered the room.
"Me voilà donc!—you admire my gallery?—all the men I have loved and lost..."
"It makes me glad I am not among them." McTaggart turned with a short laugh. "I should like to flatter myself with the thought, that I am the one you will love ... andkeep!"
"That depends." She came nearer and the faint perfume she affected floated up into his nostrils as he looked down from his height at her.
"On what?" Despite his control the narrow face upturned to him, above the shimmering gray fur, with its red lips in a mocking line cutting the dead-white of her skin, made his pulses beat faster.
"On yourself." She turned away with a quick, indifferent shrug. Fully aware of her power, she never strained a situation.
"My friend—I'm famished!" She fastened her glove. "Why talk about the little heart when the big rest of one is empty? I thought you were here to take me out to a new restaurant to-night?"
"But it's only seven o'clock." He smiled at the rueful note in her voice. "You can't eat anything yet, can you? Of course we'll start—at once, if you like."
"Good." She clapped her hands like a child. "I'm ver' hungry, really, Pierrot. I slept late and missed lunch."
McTaggart noticed, with amusement, that the question of his own appetite never occurred to the fair speaker. Manlike, a trait which would have aggrieved his sense of mastership in his home, appeared to him as involving no martyrdom in this piquante egoist's hands.
"Greedy child! As a matter of fact, I told my taxi to wait. It's such a nice one, almost new. I thought, perhaps, you'd like a drive?"
"Merci, non." She drew her furs carefully about her shoulders, the gray head of the fox nestling under her little pink ear.
"Lucky beast!" said McTaggart, with a gesture pointing his remark. "Why wasn't I born a fox?"
"Because the English are born sheep!" Her topaz eyes flashed wickedly. "They only ask for a stupid leader—and off they go, baa ... baa ... quite contented—straggling down the same dull path paved with precepts."
They passed out as she spoke and entered the narrow lift where a saddened-looking individual clung to the rope like a drowning man. Mrs. Merrod glanced at him, recognizing a new porter.
"Slowly, please,"—she commanded. "I hate..." she explained to McTaggart—"to feel my feet running up my spine. Once when I went into the City to see my lawyer the lift went down at such a terrible pace, mon Dieu!—I found a boot-button in my hair."
"You're sure it wasn't the top of a hat-pin?"
McTaggart's voice was studiously grave.
"Mais non! A button. But I'm notquitecertain whether it came off a boot..."
The sad-looking porter, his back turned, relaxed into a sudden grin. He saw the pair into their taxi and stood for a moment watching them.
"There goes a little bit of all right!"—he confided to the world at large. Then he solemnly spat on McTaggart's shilling "for luck" and burrowed back into the lift.
The Restaurant "Au Bon Bourgeois" faced on a dingy Soho street, the newly painted white door flanked by myrtle-trees in tubs. The entrance was through a narrow passage which led to a low room in the rear, divided from the one in front by a partition of plate glass.
The latter place was reserved for the Café, where marble tables were closely packed on a red-tiled and sanded floor; and it boasted its own separate entrance, carefully remote from the other. It gave a Bohemian atmosphere to the newly opened Restaurant. For the diners in the room beyond could watch the ever-changing scene—undisturbed by smoke or chatter—like a slice of French life cut bodily from the gay capital over seas.
The proprietor had been head-waiter in a fashionable London hôtel; a shrewd Swiss—known as "Monsieur Auguste"—he had learned the secret underlying the modern demand for catering.
He realized that the Englishman will readily pay an exorbitant price for rich food badly cooked in a first-class Restaurant; impervious to a hurried service, to overcrowding and noise, provided that the place held a fixed reputation for "smartness."
But he knew, besides, that success waited at the other end of the long scale: that it tickled the average British mind to strike a bargain over dinner: to justify the national shrewdness and play the pauper (without discomfort)—with a hint, too, of mild Bohemia to salt its sense of respectability. The fact that he gave them well-cooked whiting instead of a tepid "Sole Normande"; "pot-au-feu" which was mainly stock, in place of a glue-like "Consommé" his clients manfully ignored. Conscious of the economy of dining "Au Bon Bourgeois," their virtue was rewarded, doubtless, by the after ease of their digestion.
No noisy band rent the air. The service was clean and prompt under the all-pervading eye of the busy proprietor. And for those who found no special interest in the Café life the place offered as a perpetual mise-en-scène, two rooms on the first floor were provided, where the tables ranged along the walls were screened by match-wood partitions, offering a sanctuary for flirtation and isolation for the "Select."
McTaggart had reserved a table in the coveted angle of the room where no waiter could jar his chair by darting feverishly behind it. It allowed his guest a full view through the screen of plate-glass and, as Fantine took her place, under the cool, admiring eye of "Monsieur Auguste," in attendance, she gave a quick exclamation of mingled pleasure and surprise.
"Charming—quite Continental..."
A wistful note crept into her face. Absorbed by this travesty of the Boulevards, she peeled off her long suede gloves and smoothed her hair with an absent gesture.
Monsieur Auguste, in spotless white—linen coat and long apron—relieved by a huge black cravatte fastened with the famous pin (the present of a Grand Duke), glanced at McTaggart with the smile of a serene and confident host.
"Look at those men playing dominoes! and the long-haired creature with the cape—He's drinking absinthe ... oh! how nice...!" Fantine's eyes shone with golden lights.
"Madame is pleased?" Monsieur Auguste handed the Wine Carte to McTaggart, the page carelessly opened where the list of champagnes began. With a long nail cut into a point he underlined a special brand. "Madame would like this," he said, "nottoodry, a good vintage."
But "Madame" was not of his opinion. With all her artistic little soul she revelled in the atmosphere, recognizing the bourgeois note—"Red wine, n'est ce pas, Pierrot?—something that sings aloud of France."
And, suddenly, before her eyes, the scene blurred and, in its place, memory tricked her. She was back in a smoke-wreathed cabaret at Montmartre. She could hear the merry chorus rise and see Bruant, with his shaggy mane, roaring out the "Song of the Grape"; while by her side, his arm about her, was the one man she had really loved.
Ah! those days ... She caught her breath and was conscious again of Auguste's stare.
He studied the white, piquante face and wondered if he had made a mistake. But he added a new shade of respect to his suave acknowledgment of her order. Not many ladies with such red lips, combined with a costume of faultless cut, carelessly dismissed champagne. He bowed himself away from her, and sent the pair his best waiter.
"I'm glad you approve of the little place." McTaggart took on an explorer's pride. "I found it by the merest chance and since then have come often. The food's not bad—well, you'll see for yourself!—and it always comes in piping hot. Now, what shall we have?" He gathered up the big card with its printed list.
"Petite Marmite,—d'you agree to that? and fish—you choose——" he handed it over.
"Skate," she said decidedly—"with 'black butter'" (she translated). "It sounds vile in English, somehow—what a difference language makes to things. Listen, now—'Raie au beurre noir'—Isn't there a charm about it?—and ... 'Veal Schnitzel' ... and 'Petits Pois'—Yes, I know they're tinned——" she forestalled his objection—"but with plenty of butter and well cooked...." she flashed an expressive little gesture.
"What potatoes?" McTaggart asked.
"Fi donc!" She smiled indulgently—"a boiled potato for you, mon cher—the hall-mark of the English 'home.' And cabbage, perhaps, to make you happy!"
"No—I draw the line at that!—What do you say to a bird, to follow?"
"Comme tu veux!—For me it's enough—with a little fruit and good coffee ... and a 'petit verre.' Say, now, Pierrot, shall we come one day and sit there?" She pointed gaily through the screen to the crowded noisy room beyond.
"I should love that! To sip absinthe—dressed like a little milliner! Look at that woman on the right with the shabby ulster and elegant boots. You rarely see that over here—It's a feathered hat in the latest fashion and no thought for the 'dessous.' And the hair all scrabbled up anddull—the gloves old or far too tight—everything squandered on the dress, with colors to make one's ... 'digestion' turn!"
"Even the women in higher classes don't seem 'soignées'—only smart. And you call yourself a clean race! ... Because you walk through a cold bath."
For that sudden mirage of the Past had aroused in her the mal du pays. She flogged the Present with a rod, pickled in salt experience.
McTaggart felt a trifle ruffled. He was English enough to hold the theory that nothing outside the little island—with a patronizing lesser degree of excellence for its colonies—could nearly approach the standard set by British prosperity—plus its morals.
"Oh, come, now"—he paused a moment as the waiter ladled out their soup. "I defy you to find anywhere a finer type than our English girls. Look at their skin—their teeth—their hair—the healthy, well-bred look of them. Oh, no—I grant, there's charm, and style and an inborn sense of dress in foreign women and they're generally witty and can talk fourteen to the dozen! But give me an English girl"—his thoughts flashed back to Cydonia—-"unless," he added somewhat quickly—"unless, of course, I can have Fantine."
"Ah! merci——" she clapped her hands—"I'm the exception to prove the rule? But, seriously, I think you're biassed, though part of what you say is true. They've everything to make them perfect, these rose-leaf tinted, long-limbed girls—everything! That's what annoys me—save the wit to profit by Nature's gifts. It's such a prodigal waste of beauty ... Look at that girl at the end table——" she lowered her voice as she spoke—"with the colouring of Titian's 'Flora.' And she wears—bon Dieu!—an orange blouse. Because she's taking Tango lessons! And with it a cheap amethyst necklace. Someone has told her—without doubt!—they're Queen Alexandra's favorite stones. Her hat? Yes—it cost two guineas. So she compromised with shoes from a Sale and last year's skirt, taken in rather badly round the ankles. What a hotch-potch!—bound about that divine figure—ruined by cheap corsets—and yes! I was sure of it—a hole in a pair of openwork thread stockings!"
"I give in!——" McTaggart laughed—"or I know you won't enjoy your dinner. You see I'm half-Italian, too, so it's not real disloyalty."
She looked up, interested.
"Tiens! Perhaps it explains your ... un-English charm? On your mother's side, I suppose?"
"Yes. She was a Maramonte. They've lived for centuries at Siena. I believe they've got a palace there a good bit older than the Tower! But I've never met my relations. My uncle is the present marquis—with two sons and a second wife. So there's no chance for me as heir—beyond what was left me by my mother."
He laughed, happily unconcerned. "I can't picture myself, somehow, the lordly owner of feudal lands. You know Siena's quite mediæval in many of its customs now. 'Il Palio,'—those weird races are still run twice a year. Every quarter of the city sends a horse to compete, and the jockeys wear historic clothes and tear round the market-place. It's a little bigger than Hanover Square and sloped on the side of a hill, so at the most dangerous angle they lay out a row of mattresses! Fact, I assure you"—he smiled. "I mean to see it myself some day. And, after the race is run, the jockey leads the winning horse, in gorgeous trappings with the banner of the victorious Quarter, right into the Cathedral! There it receives a solemn blessing and after that a feast is held in the market-place by torch light and the horse, if you please, presides—with his bin of corn—at the head of the table! Isn't it quaint? In these days of 'wireless' and Zeppelins there's something rather refreshing about it—the glamour of a fairy-tale."
"Delightful. Take me with you, Pierrot." She sent him a mocking smile over the edge of her wine-glass.
"Will you come?" McTaggart's voice was low,
The "intime" atmosphere of the place, with the magnetism of Fantine, her strange and nameless charm, were not without effect on him.
"Per'aps..." She shrugged her shoulders lightly. "If you will promise to leave behind that rather alarming British half sacred to the 'English Miss.'"
His "Scotch heart!" Whimsically he studied the proposition. It seemed just now a small item beside the beat of his other organ.
A sudden moodiness beset him. Was he never to understand himself? To be swayed with every turn of the wind at the mercy of his temperament?
For the foreign blood in his veins warred perpetually with the Scotch. It was in truth a heady mixture, typical South and typical North. With the passion of the former, its restless fiery love of beauty, were blent the caution and the strength and something vaguely religious—'dour'—tinged with a faint melancholy, the heritage with his blue eyes from a long-dead Covenanter.
Never, he said to himself, should he find a woman who suited both sides; gave him ardour and left him respect, satisfying body and soul...
Fantine, with her subtle instinct, divined the change in his mood. She swept aside personalities and started to talk of the Russian Ballet.
"It's curious how it has left its mark. It seems to have bitten and to have scratched!"
McTaggart, despite himself, smiled at the clever, brutal touch. This was Fantine at her best.
"To succeed now one must surprise!—the days of Mendelssohn are past. I suppose the world is getting old with emotions that Time has dulled."
"Or the Worldlings too degenerate." McTaggart still felt gloomy. "These Cubists now ... What do you think of their pictures? Do you call it really Art?"
"I can't somehow make up my mind. I like the idea at the back of it. I think they're groping in the dark for a sign not yet vouchsafed to us."
McTaggart tried to follow her thought, failed and asked for a nearer clue.
Fantine's eyes were far away, the fine brows drawn together in an effort of concentration. She pushed her plate away from her and, with hands clasped on the table, leaned unconsciously toward him.
"Have you ever read Swedenborg? His 'Heaven and Hell!' No? What a pity! Well one of his favourite theories is on what he calls 'Correspondences.' He thinks that everything lovely here is the symbol, materialized, of a higher, more exquisite spiritual force—known to angels in Paradise. For instance, a rose—with its perfect shape, its colour, its scent, has a counterpart—a'Correspondence' is his word—with a 'state'—it's difficult to explain—-a ... sense of happiness above. Well, it seems to me that artists now, in music and painting—in all the arts—are trying to get away fromformto express themeaningin their work. It's a wireless message to the mind away beyond the animal senses; something above the mere glamour of appeal to the flesh—it's 'correspondence.'"
McTaggart nodded his head gravely.
"It sounds bigger than I imagined." He felt a half-ashamed surprise at these depths in a woman he deemed light.
And, as if in answer to his thought, the old mocking look returned to the painted lips that smiled at him. But scorn was in her half-veiled eyes. For Fantine knew the ways of men: the forfeit that her class must pay—to be used and loved and set aside as a thing of nought when custom staled.
She felt a keen stab of revolt, a fierce desire to extort to the full her share of the bargain, blow for blow, to prey on the weaknesses she served.
And McTaggart's next careless remark sealed his fate as far as it lay in the hands of the shrewd adventuress, turning the scales against the man.
"I didn't know you read so much. How on earth do you find the time?"
The speech, innocently meant, stung the wound in her heart.
But she gave him a daring glance.
"Mon cher—Iamalone ... sometimes!"
"You wouldn't be if I had my way." He checked himself as the waiter poured the fragrant coffee into their cups.
"Talking of the Cubists' work"—Fantine reverted to the subject. "I was over in Paris last year when they held their exhibition. Rather a funny thing happened." She dipped the long slab of sugar daintily into her cup and sucked it like a wilful child, conscious of stolen pleasure. "We used to call that a 'canard,' Pierrot——" laughingly, she interjected—"Well, revenons! There was a picture—I can't quite remember the name. But I think it was called 'A woman, falling downstairs.' There was always a little crowd before it—the artist was the 'dernier cri'—and I stood one day and amused myself by listening to their remarks. One man said: 'There—don't yousee? It's her head—and that touch of white is an arm—and, well, of course! her foot is plain against the background of the wall.' The poor lady by his side tried in vain to see the outline. She screwed up both her eyes and looked like a child with a jig-saw puzzle. As to myself——" Fantine laughed—"I must confess I could make out nothing but a blur of colour and sharp lines without the slightest human form. Well, some months later I happened to meet this very artist and I told him of the enthusiasm in Paris and the remarks I had overheard. Ma foi!—I thought he would have slain me. He said:
"'Madame—They are fools, fools, fools! There is no woman—But—of course! It's the feeling ... the fear ... I have painted. Thesenseof falling down steep stairs.'"
McTaggart laughed heartily.
"Well—it's a bit above my head! I'm afraid I've no artistic merit. I like a picture I understand."
"I know." Fantine's voice was sweet, but malice lay underneath—"a picture that tells its own story—like that famous Scotch cow lost in the snow."
But her host's attention was wandering. The Titian "Flora" had caught his eye. With flushed cheeks and an air of pride she was smoking her first cigarette. He pointed it out to his companion.
"Let's hope it will agree with her. Hullo! she's choked—poor child! She's really quite a pretty girl—I don't know why you find fault with her."
"Not with her face," Fantine corrected—"one sees that the Bon Dieu modelled that. It's the sinful clothes she makes for herself—without celestial inspiration! She reminds me of an English girl my husband used to adore in Algiers."
McTaggart felt a sudden curiosity. This was the first time Mrs. Merrod had mentioned to him the late partner of her married joys and cares.
"Yes? And what didyousay to that?"
"I? why nothing." She laughed lightly. "I'm not jealous—pas si bête! He was always very kind to me and I liked to watch his little affairs. But in this instance it proved tragic..."
She smiled the meaning out of the word.
"What happened?" McTaggart asked, his eyes still on the distant "Flora."
"She was very pretty—the wild-rose type—and poor Gustave was quite captured. You see, she always wore gloves..." She paused with a pensive, teasing air.
"Too tight, perhaps? or shabby, eh?" He remembered her sweeping remarks.
"Oh, dear, no—far worse than that! One evening she took them off and he found ... that she actuallybit her nails!"
"And that finished it?"
Fantine nodded as the waiter handed McTaggart's bill.
"But, of course! Gustave wept with chagrin. But I told him it was his own fault. He should have laid his volatile heart at the feet of a Parisienne."
"The love then was only skin-deep?"
Obedient to her little sign, he handed his guest her furs, watching her with amused blue eyes as she powdered her face in the glass.
"Not ever, that, mon cher Pierrot"—she flashed him a mocking glance, hard and brilliant, holding a hint of the resentment in her heart. Then she rose to her feet with a supple movement, gathering her furs about her.
"He loved her," she volunteered—"as far as—jusqu'aux bouts des ongles!"
Ebenezer Cadell was one of those men—daily becoming more rare—who, after a life of strenuous work, can face, at breakfast, a mutton chop. In this nervous age the fact in itself stands for an attribute of success. For next to money a good digestion will thrust an ambitious man far.
He did not even take his chop in obedience to his doctor's wishes, but out of a healthy appetite for that peculiar delicacy. He liked it as a second course, after eggs or fish or bacon, rather underdone and large, remembering lean years of porridge.
Breakfast over, he filled his pipe before the fire, where his boots were warming, and steeped his soul in the Liberal papers with the air of governing the Empire.
Mrs. Cadell, naturally, took in theMorning Postto keep in touch with that social world where names mean more than personal effort.
Cydonia was given theDaily Mirror, generally left unread by her and devoured in the Servants' Hall. Once a weekPuncharrived and an unwieldy Ladies' journal, while into the depths of the smoking-room was smuggled a certain apricot paper.
On this particular winter morning the master of the house had failed to find the notice of a sale in his belovedChronicle. Slightly aggrieved, he made his way into the morning-room beyond, where Helen was occupied poring over household matters. He begged the loan of those crisp sheets, white and pleasant to the touch, that seem to hold a faint suggestion of the class they represent.
He was leaving the room when his wife turned and stopped him with an imperious gesture.
"Can you spare me a moment, Ebenezer?" The request was in truth a command. "I want to talk about Cydonia?"
Cadell, unwillingly, glanced at the clock.
"Well—five minutes—if that will do. What's the trouble about, my dear? Hope there's nothing wrong with the child?"
"Oh, no. I'm thinking of giving a dance. Cydonia's birthday falls next month. It would be a 'coming-out' affair and I want it—naturally—well done."
"Quite right. Dear me!"—the man sighed. "It seems only the other day she was running about in pinafores! I can't think of her as grown-up."
The tender look came into his face that only his daughter could evoke. Mrs. Cadell saw it and smiled, as he added in his pompous manner:
"If it's a question of money, my dear, you needn't spare it. Order the best. I'll settle the bills."
"Thank you. There'll be a good deal to arrange ... But since you approve I'll take it in hand."
The old man lingered at the door.
"Who are you going to invite?" he asked—"You're not counting on me for men?"
"Oh, no!"—She spoke hurriedly, with a faint note of satire he knew full well—"But I'm counting on you for good champagne."
"H'm ... I see. But I always thought it didn't matter much at a dance—more quantity than quality."
"A popular mistake," said Helen, "or rather mostunpopular! It's like this"—she explained—"we don't know many dancing-men—at least not of the kind I want! But it's quite easy nowadays. You ask people to make up parties. Only they're notyourguests, you see, but friends of the people who dine and bring them; and they feel they can grumble openly at any flaw in the entertainment. So I want the arrangements and the wine—(it's more important than the food) to be quite—well, above suspicion.Then, you see," she smiled enigmatically, "the men will come again—by themselves."
Ebenezer's face grew red.
"I'd like to see them grumble here! Dash it all!—we make no charge—it'smyhospitality."
He bristled visibly at the thought.
"That counts for nothing nowadays." Helen's voice was quite composed. "They come to enjoy themselves—for what they can get out of it! The only people who can give small parties and consider themselves the attraction are artists or Royalty. They canaffordsimplicity."
"H'm!—A pretty state of affairs. And what about Cydonia? You'd think any man would be proud to dance with my lovely girl."
"Ah! you're her father." Helen laughed. "I don't say, mind, that I approve of the present-day attitude. But the fact remains that the modern youth considers that his presence at a party confers a favour ... and, in return, he demands a first-class entertainment."
She met his eyes, smiled again, and turned to her desk with an air of dismissal.
"What about presenting the child? I'd like that done, you know, Helen. It don't mean much to my mind to bob down before Royalty, but I gather it's a sort of hall-mark."
He gave a gruff, contented laugh.
"That will come later," said Mrs. Cadell. "I was talking to Lady Leason about it, and she knows of a certain friend of hers who arranges these little matters. For a consideration, of course."
"I didn't know you had to pay?" Ebenezer was interested. Secretly he admired his wife's steady assault on Society.
"My dear, one pays for everything. Look at the people who get honours! It will mean, I should say, about three figures to get a well-known name to present her—a titled woman of good standing; and then there will be Lady Leason's present—and the commission..." She knit her brows. "Anyhow, Cydonia's worth it."
"That she is—bless her pretty face! She's the crowning gem of my collection! And I mean her to make a fine marriage! If it costs me every penny I've got."
He turned his sharp, near-set eyes shrewdly on Helen's countenance.
"What's this young man who's always around? McTaggart, I think, is his precious name. A tall fellow with blue eyes and a damned cool manner when I meet him!"
"He's all right," said the mother quickly, "and rather useful just now. He's a great friend of Lady Leason's and moves in a very good set."
"Well—don't allow any nonsense there. He don't come here to seeme! And he don't seem to do any work—I can't stand his 'haw, haw' style."
The door banged behind him loudly.
Mrs. Cadell took up her pen, but held it a moment, absently, gazing out on the Mayfair street, empty at this early hour.
Did her daughter like McTaggart? That was the question she asked herself. Was his society the reason that Cydonia of late had seemed to quicken, to lose her slumbering childish calm?
And if so...? She frowned at the thought. Then she sighed. Ebenezer was right. But the mother-love warred within her with the ambition of her life. All the happiness she had missed!—she reached for it with nervous hands, longing to pile it, height on height, into the lap of her only child.
And, as if her thoughts had drawn the girl, Cydonia, that moment, entered the room.
"Am I disturbing you, Madre, dear?"
She stood there, radiant, in coat and hat; the fair face full of life, an eager look in the soft brown eyes. There seemed a little suppressed air of excitement in her bearing.
Helen stretched out her hand. Her daughter took it indifferently, pressed it lightly and let it fall.
"It's just to ask may I go out?—with Mason, of course—to do some shopping?"
"Wouldn't you rather wait for me? I shall be ready about twelve."
"Well ... you see, Madre,"—a faint flush stole into the clear skin as she spoke. "Christmas is getting very near and I've no presents at all, as yet. And——" a sudden excuse seemed to strike her—"I rather thought ... I'd get yours."
"Oh, very well." Helen laughed, "I mustn't trespass on any 'secret.'"
Cydonia averted her brown eyes, conscious of a twinge of conscience.
"Thank you, Madre, dear." She stooped and kissed her mother gratefully, hesitated for a moment, and breathed an indistinct "Good-bye."
But once outside the front door her spirits began to rise. She looked unusually animated, beautiful in her costly furs.
The maid shuffled along beside her, a subdued black form of indeterminate shape, rather like an unwilling retriever, dragged by an invisible leash.
They crossed Berkeley Square and swerved up to the right into Bond Street. Here Cydonia's step quickened as she glanced eagerly about her. She paused once or twice before a shop, gazing abstractedly into the window, and bought a bunch of Parma violets, which she pinned on to her white fox.
Then, with the gold head proudly carried, shining in the wintry sun like a halo under her black hat, she moved on, very sedate, avoiding all admiring glances.
"Hullo! Here's a stroke of luck."
McTaggart barred her further progress.
"What are you doing out so early?" His blue eyes were mischievous.
"How do you do?" she said demurely. "I'm shopping." Conversation failed her.
"Can I come, too?" McTaggart asked. He turned without waiting for permission.
The maid, with dog-like fidelity, fell to heel behind the pair, and, lowering his voice, he added:
"I began to think I must have missed you."
"Am I late?" said Cydonia. "I shall really have to buy something. I told Mother it was Christmas presents... And I shouldn't like to tell a lie."
"We'll buy the whole street," said McTaggart, ministering to the wounded conscience. "Let's cross over and look at Asprey's—their window's bursting with 'suitable gifts.'"
They dodged across between the taxis, heedless of the nervous maid.
"Can't we lose her?" he suggested. "I'm not used to a royal escort."
Glancing round him, he observed a Gallery close at hand where an Exhibition was advertised, and jumped at the way of escape.
"Come in and see the pictures." He raised his voice as he spoke.
"You really ought to—they're fine!—done by that man..." he spelled out the name.
Cydonia giggled, recovered herself and turned to the reluctant maid.
"Mason—we're going in here. Do you think, meanwhile, that you'd have time to run up to Marshall's and match that satin for my frock?"
"Yes, miss." The girl's face brightened. She much preferred to shop alone and dawdle down the long counters. "I'd be back within half-an-hour."
"Excellent," said McTaggart. As Cydonia passed through the doors he slipped his hand into his pocket and noiselessly tipped the maid.
"Take your time," he said kindly. The pale, subdued Cockney thanked him.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"I'll bet you do!" thought the man.
They passed down a narrow passage and into the long empty room with its crude top-light, so trying to many a fair-haired woman.
But Cydonia stood the test triumphantly, her skin shell-like above her furs.
A single sad-faced man was standing in possession of the scene, gazing with ardent eyes at a violent blue seascape.
"I'll guarantee that's the artist." McTaggart whispered in her ear. "Don't let's break into his dreams—— That sofa looks comfortable."
They sat down on the green plush, side by side, and Cydonia played with the violets at her breast, conscious of McTaggart's eyes.
"Don't you want to see the pictures?" She made an effort at small talk. "I thought—you said—they were rather fine."
"Never heard of them in my life! Besides, I'm looking at a picture."
Cydonia vainly pretended to miss the meaning of his speech. She pointed a slender finger at the portrait of a Spanish girl, facing the pair with a bold smile, a red rose behind her ear.
"I like the colour of her hair—that glossy black which looks blue..."
"So do I." McTaggart smiled, "but it's not black—it's ... spun sunshine! And the only blue that I can see is a tiny vein near the temple."
"I wonder," said Cydonia desperately, "how much we've made by those Tableaux?"
"Fifteen pounds, four and tuppence."
"Really? ... Not more than that?" She turned a bewildered face toward him.
"Ah ... that's better," said McTaggart. "To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I haven't the faintest idea of the sum. But I was getting tired of your profile." He saw her frown and stopped short.
"All right! I'll be good. But it's such fun, now, isn't it? When I think of the patient Mason matching yards of satin up at Marshall's."
Cydonia laughed. The soft note echoed through the empty room, for the artist had quietly slipped away into a further one beyond.
One quick glance he had given them, and his sensitive mind had received the impression. The girl, with her apple-blossom face, Spring incarnate, wooed by Summer.
"It isn't often I have the chance of your company without Mamma. Don't you ever go to dances?" He watched her lips move as she answered.
"Not yet—but, Peter, I forgot! I've such a lovely piece of news. I'm going to have a birthday party next month ... You'll come, won't you?"
"Rather. I say, that's ripping! A dance? Good," as she nodded her head. "I'll bet your people will do it well." Unconsciously he voiced the sentiments expressed that morning by Mrs. Cadell.
"How many dances may I have? I suppose you can't spare the lot?"
The infection of his mood was catching.
"One and an extra..." Cydonia laughed.
"Nonsense!" He hunted for a pencil and pulled out his cuff aggressively.
"Five at least. And supper too. Oh, Cydonia! you reallymight..."
But over the girl's merry face a shadow fell. She turned her head with startled eyes and a quick "Hush!" as a voice outside, loud and harsh, echoed down the long passage.
"It's Father!" She gave a gasp. "Oh, Peter, what shall we do?"
McTaggart was on his feet.
"The inner room"—he grasped her arm—"don't speak!" On tiptoe they fled.
"Stand here—in this corner—it's hidden from either door." He whispered the words, his lips brushing the soft hair drawn over her ears.
"Worth it—even if we're caught!" He said to himself with inward joy, conscious of the girl's hand, tightly clasped in his own.
They heard the heavy step pass and enter the room beyond; then a sound of men's voices broke across their strained attention.
McTaggart crept to the curtain that half veiled their hiding-place, then back to Cydonia, his smile showing his vast relief.
"He's talking to that artist chap. Now, softly into the passage, and then we'll make a bolt for it."
But he paused for a moment, very near her, his eyes on her frightened face.
"You dear thing—don't worry! I hate to see you look like that."
For a second's space he fought hard against the temptation of her answering smile. Then, drawing back, he led the way noiselessly into the hall.
The ruse succeeded, but outside a further problem awaited them. For Mason was "taking her time" conscientiously earning her tip.
"I can't leave you here alone." McTaggart's glance swept the street. "What shall we do? Walk to Marshall's? or—isn't that your car there?" He pointed out a landaulette, drawn up against the curb.
"Is Willcox safe, do you think?"
Willcox was the Cadells' chauffeur. He despised the family whom he served, realizing with the flair of his kind their status as parvenu. But he made an exception of Cydonia. Her sweet voice and well-bred face induced in him the belief of blue blood—achieved by some worthy misdemeanor!
The girl, aware of his silent worship, welcomed the sight of him with relief.
"He'll say nothing—how splendid! I'll just get into the car and wait."
McTaggart agreed. "You can explain you saw your Father go into the Gallery. And, as you felt tired, dispatched Mason to do your shopping, while you rested."
"Yes. That's it." She nodded her head. "Please go now. He might come out. You know what a rush he's always in."
She reached the carriage breathlessly, with a glance at the chauffeur's impassive face.
"Willcox—I'll wait inside. Mr. Cadell won't be long."
McTaggart tucked the rug around her.
"To-morrow," he whispered, "at Lady Leason's." Then, out loud, "Good-bye, Miss Cadell—I won't forget your Mother's dance."
"Good-bye, Mr. McTaggart." She smiled at the formal address.
Stiff and discreet on the box Willcox was smiling too. He was conscious of the whole manoeuvre, and in his heart he approved. He watched McTaggart stride away, with his careless, well-bred walk, pause at the corner and glance back surreptitiously through the crowd.
And then he heard his young mistress call in a low, quick voice, "Mason!"
And the maid's excuse, rather frightened.
"I hope I'm not late, miss—I've got the satin."
"A little," Cydonia calmly replied, "but you needn't wait. Give me the parcel. I'm driving home with Mr. Cadell when he's bought that picture we went to see."