Gerald Lorimer, although still quite young, was already a dramatist of some note. He was gaiety andinsouciancepersonified. A genial philosopher, witty, sometimes a cynic, but always a kindly one, indulgent to the shortcomings of humanity, he looked at life as a comedy, which he witnessed from the most comfortable of orchestra stalls. The world amused him and supplied him with types for study. He enjoyed robust health, the joy of living was written all over his face, and, wherever he went, he brought an atmosphere of contagious irresistible gaiety. He was a handsome man, distinguished-looking, and fairly well off. When asked why he did not marry, he answered, "Thanks, I prefer to study from afar; one observes better at a distance."
He had a little house in Philip's neighbourhood, that was the envy of all who were privileged to enter its doors. Women thought it impudence of a man to dare to install himself thus, and so proveurbi et orbithat it is not absolutely necessary to have a woman under one's roof to enjoy the most perfect comfort. And yet, when asked why Lorimer did not marry, all that women had to say, was, "No inclination, I suppose."
Women adore parties given by bachelors. They went in crowds, when Lorimer asked them to an "At home" or a garden-party. They took free advantage of the permission he gave them to wander over the house, and examined all its corners. Every bachelor's house interests women and arouses their curiosity. They pried into every nook and cranny, in the hope of bringing to light a mystery, perchance some woman's portrait—Heaven knows what, perhaps a hairpin on the carpet. Wherever they looked, everything was ease, comfort, and liberty; and they arrived at the conclusion, that one may be a bachelor and yet live happily, but consoled themselves with the thought that nobody has found the way to live a bachelor and die happily. Lorimer's house was arranged with taste, in the oriental style. The drawing-room, dining-room, library, and smoking-room formed a delightful suite of rooms.
"You see," said some woman, "nothing but men-servants—a French cook, a German valet: our host must be a woman-hater."
"I do not see that that follows, dear," said another one: "men are more discreet and less gossiping than women, and I warrant that this house has been the scene of many an interesting little tête-à-tête."
Each one had her own opinion; none of them really knew anything about it. Lorimer had never given anyone occasion to gossip about him; he was English and a gentleman, therefore discreet. The French boast often of things they have never done; the English never boast of what they do. The latter are right. Besides, a bachelor, in giving his house a reputation of perfect respectability, can thus invite to it not only his friends, but their wives and daughters.
Lorimer knew all London: the club world, the aristocratic world, the artistic world of Chelsea and St. John's Wood; and at his parties duchesses, actresses, cabinet ministers, painters, writers, actors, and journalists jostled one another.
A friend of men, because of his good-fellowship, frankness, and loyalty; and of women, by reason of his wit, his discretion, and his charming manners, Lorimer was received everywhere with open arms. He could have dined and lunched out every day, if this had been the programme of his existence. On the contrary, he worked hard, went out little, knew everybody, but was the intimate acquaintance of but few, and amongst these were numbered Philip and Dora, whom he liked exceedingly and who interested him intensely.
They sat down in merry mood and did honour to the simple and appetising lunch.
"What a pity you did not turn up a few moments earlier, my dear fellow!" said Philip to Lorimer. "You would have been edified, and have heard Dora holding forth against wealth. The contempt my wife has for money is sublime. She is of the opinion that art, like virtue, should be its own reward."
"I'm sorry to say it's often the only one art gets," said Lorimer. "Well, what's your news?"
"Haven't any," said Philip. "Oh yes, though," added he, "Sir Benjamin Pond threatens to pay us a visit to-day ... deuce take him."
"You're in luck; he spends a mint of money in pictures."
"They say he buys them by the dozen."
"Hum," said Lorimer, "by the square yard. He's an awful ass, but his money is as good as that of the cleverest. When I said just now, 'What's your news?' I meant from the workshop."
"My wife's portrait will be finished in an hour's time; you shall see it after lunch."
"And what will you call it?"
"Oh, simply, 'Portrait of Mrs. Grantham,' or perhaps, 'A Bunch of Pansies.'"
"'A Bunch of Pansies,' that's charming," said Lorimer; "I should like to have a title like that for my new play, as simple" ...
"Oh, by-the-bye, how about your play, is it getting on?"
"It's finished, my dear fellow. I have the manuscript with me. I have to read it to the company at the Queen's Theatre to-day at four o'clock."
"Are you pleased with it?"
"My dear friend, when a man has the artistic temperament, his work never realises his ideal—but, thank goodness, when I have finished a play, I think of nothing but—the next one."
"You are right—but, still, with your experience—you have been writing plays for years."
"I wrote my first play when I was seventeen," said Lorimer, drawing himself up in a comic manner.
"When you were seventeen?" exclaimed Dora.
"Yes! a melodrama, and what a melodrama it was!—blood-curdling, weird, terrible, human, fiendish. I portrayed crime, perfidy and lying triumphing for a while, but overtaken in the long-run by fatal chastisement."
"And was the piece produced?" interrupted Dora.
"It was read," answered Lorimer. "I received a very encouraging letter from the manager of the theatre. My play, it appeared, showed a deplorable ignorance of stagecraft, but was well written and full of fine and well-conceived situations. However, horrors followed one another so closely that it was to be feared that the audience would scarcely have time to draw breath and dry their tears. Finally, the letter terminated with a piece of good advice. This was, in the future, not to kill all mydramatis personæ, so that, at the fall of the curtain, there might be someone left alive, to announce the name of the author, and bring him forward!"
"It was most encouraging," said Dora, in fits of laughter.
"That is not all," added Lorimer; "I received, a month later, an invitation to a dinner given by the Society of Dramatic Authors, and found myself amongst the leading authors and actors of the day."
"You must have been proud," said Dora.
"Proud, my dear madam," said Lorimer; "if you would form an idea of what I felt, try to imagine a little shepherd of Boeotia asked to dine with Jupiter, to meet all the gods of Olympus."
"Now, come, tell us about your new play," said Philip.
"Oh, well, you know, I hope it will be a success, but you never know what will please the great B.P. The dialogue is good, the characters are interesting, the situations are strong without being vulgar, the idea is new ... yes, I must say, I am sanguine."
"Bravo!" said Philip, "the theme is original."
"Perfectly original," said Lorimer. "I don't adapt Parisian plays for thePharisianstage."
"It must be enchanting," cried Dora, "to see one's own creations in flesh and blood ... alive!"
"Yes, for one month, two months, perhaps six months. The creations of painters last for centuries."
"That is true," said Dora, looking at Philip.
"Shakespeare and Molière are still being played with success," said Philip.
"Yes, I grant you these two. Human nature is still and always will be what it was in their time. There are no new passions, follies, to portray since their time; but against those two names which you cite ... real demi-gods ... I could give you two hundred painters and sculptors dating from antiquity down to the present day."
Dora was delighted with the turn the conversation had taken. It seemed to her that Philip no longer enthused over his art, and she tried her utmost to rekindle the sacred fire that threatened to go out. So, encouraging Lorimer to continue in the same strain, she said—
"Yes, you are right. It is painting that expresses all that is beautiful in the world."
"Especially Philip's art," said Lorimer, seeming to grasp Dora's meaning from the warmth with which she spoke. "You paint nature, my dear friend, flowers, portraits ... you do not inflict the nude upon us, as do so many of your brothers in art, who show themselves but poor imitators of the French school,servum pecus."
"But nature is surely always beautiful, wherever she is found," said Dora.
"The ideal, yes," said Lorimer; "but it is the realistic method of treatment, in most pictures, that displeases me. Perhaps I am a little puritanical; but what can you expect? I'm English!"
"But there is no ideal nature, there is only true nature," said Dora. "Call it realism, if you wish: what is real is true, and what is true is beautiful."
"My dear Lorimer," exclaimed Philip, "if you are going to argue out that subject with Dora, you are lost, I warn you. You will get the worst of it."
"Well, you will admit this much, I suppose," said Dora, "that the models chosen are generally beautiful. English models are even more than beautiful, they are mostly pure in form."
"Quite so, but no artist has a right to expose a woman's nude figure to the public gaze. In sculpture it may be permissible,—the cold purity of the marble saves everything,—but never in painting."
"Shake up the Englishman," said Dora, laughing, "and the Puritan rises to the surface. I thought you were artistic, my dear friend. One may forgive a Puritan, but apruritan, excuse the word. Oh!... I have met people who only saw in theVenus de Miloa woman with no clothes on. Poor Venus! I wish she could grow a pair of arms and hands to box the ears of such Philistines. Of course, I must say, these people were not of our society."
"Well, call me prejudiced if you will; but I hate to see woman robbed of her modesty ... and of her clothes, for the edification of a profane public, especially a public as inartistic as our English one. Your remark about theVenus de Miloproves that I am right. In France it is another matter. The public understands. It knows that such and such a picture is beautiful, and why it is beautiful. Even the workmen over there have been visitors of picture galleries from generation to generation, and I have heard some, at the Louvre and the Luxembourg, making criticisms of pictures that they looked at, criticisms which proved to me that they had more true appreciation of painting than the fashionable crowd that goes to the Royal Academy on private view day. No, I say, the nude in France, if you will; but in England, Heaven preserve us from it!"
"And yet," said Dora, in a calmer tone of voice, "the novelists and dramatists of to-day, for the most part, do exactly the same thing."
"What do you mean to say? Novelists and dramatists describe the emotions, the passions of the soul. To uncover the heart and uncover the body are two vastly different things. Add to that, in England on the stage, if not in the novel, that virtue triumphs invariably."
"Yes, but at what cost? Firstly, often at the expense of insulting one's common-sense; but that is the fault of a public that insists on being sent home, perfectly convinced that the hero and heroine still henceforth live happily ever after. That is not the worst of it. Before seeing the triumph of virtue, often an impossible kind of virtue, one must assist at the heartrending dissection of a woman's soul. All the deformities of her heart are laid bare. I suppose you call that realism too, I call it clinical surgery—that is to say, my dear friend, that modern fiction exhales a strong odour of carbolic acid. Ah, I must say I prefer a picture in which a woman is presented in all her beauty of form and colour, to a novel or a play, in which we see woman represented as impure, corrupted" ...
"I told you that you would be beaten, Lorimer. Own yourself vanquished."
"My dear madam," said Lorimer, "you preach to a convert. But I must remind you that converting the British public is not my rôle. I serve up to that worthy public, which has always been kind to me, the dish of its predilection. We cannot always put on the stage Pauls and Virginias, who, moreover, are getting rarer every day, as you will admit."
"Virginias, especially," said Philip, in parenthesis.
"Oh, that's another thing," exclaimed Dora almost indignantly; "you work, you turn out dramatic literature, for what it brings you in; own it at once—to make money! That is modern art, the art of making ten thousand a year. Some are writers, some are green-grocers; you put them all in the same category. Under these conditions, I do not see why Philip should not accept offers to paint advertisements for manufacturers of soaps and hair restorers."
"But, my dear friend," said Lorimer, "some of our greatest academicians have accepted such commissions with the most satisfactory results."
"Oh, hold your tongue, you are incorrigible!" said Dora, laughing.
Philip saw that it was time to put a stop to the conversation that threatened to get too heated, and proposed a smoke in the studio. Dora did not go with them; she made a solemn bow to Lorimer; and all three burst out laughing and separated the best of friends.
Philip and Lorimer lit their cigars, the latter without taking his eyes off the portrait of Dora, which he thought a splendid likeness and perfect in colouring and modelling.
"Ah, my dear friend, what a wife you have! What a companion for an artist! Upon my word, if I were married to such a woman, I believe I could write masterpieces."
Philip hardly heeded him. He paced up and down the studio, looking at the clock, then at the door, and starting at every sound he heard in the street.
"I should like to gain the world, to lay it at the feet of this woman," said he, standing before the portrait a moment. Philip felt more and more agitated. Lorimer looked at him fixedly.
"Why, old fellow, what on earth is the matter with you?"
"My dear Lorimer," answered Philip, who could conceal his feelings no longer, "you see me to-day in an indescribable state of excitement. In a few moments, I may hear that I am a rich man."
"You don't say so," said Lorimer, amazed; "an old uncle about to depart this life?"
"No," said Philip; "my work, my very own work is perhaps on the point of making me wealthy. For months past, night and day so to speak, I have been working" ...
"At a great picture," interrupted Lorimer.
"At an invention."
"Nonsense! take care. You will die in the workhouse."
"Not at all, old fellow," said Philip; "there are two kinds of inventors, those who seek and those who discover. I have discovered."
"What have you discovered, dear friend?" said Lorimer, more and more surprised.
"A shell that may revolutionise the art of warfare. A Special Commission is now sitting at the War Office in Paris, to discuss its merits. I am awaiting their decision. I shall get a telegram to-day, perhaps in a few moments. I offered my shell to the English Government, but they declined it."
"Are you speaking seriously?"
"Do I look as if I were joking? Can't you see, man, I'm in such a fever of impatience, that I can't hold a brush, my hand is trembling so? I have neither the courage nor the strength to finish this portrait, which only requires about an hour's work. But not a word to Dora on the subject; she knows nothing about it yet, and never will, if the affair falls through."
A violent ringing was heard at the studio bell.
"There," said Philip, "that is it perhaps ... the telegram at last." And he ran to open the door himself.
He returned accompanied by a big man, pompous and shiny, who entered the studio with a majestic step. Bald, chubby-faced, with a huge nose that divided his face in two, as the Apennines divide Italy, and two large round eyes set lobster-fashion, he was, with his huge white waistcoat, a fair example of a certain type of city merchant, in all his glory. This pretentious personage cast a look into every corner of the studio.
"Plague take the bore," said Philip to Lorimer.
"I'll be off," said Lorimer.
"Oh no, please stay. Sir Benjamin Pond's visit won't last long."
"Ah, ah," said the big City alderman; "you received my note, in which I announced my visit?"
Philip made a sign in the affirmative. Sir Benjamin placed his hat on a table and, rubbing his hands, threw a condescending glance at Philip, which seemed to say, "You ought to be proud to have a visit from me." He took stock of the furniture in detail.
"Very cosy here; very comfortable quarters indeed. You are evidently doing well. One is constantly hearing of artists who live on buns in garrets ... upon my word, I don't know any such inviting and attractive houses as those inhabited by artists, and I flatter myself I know them all."
"Painters surround themselves with a certain artistic luxury, as a means of inspiration," said Philip; "and then, Sir Benjamin," added he, laughing, "I don't see why all the good things of this life should be for the fools. Pray, take a seat."
"Thanks," said the patron of arts ... "I came" ...
"To arrange for a portrait?"
"No, no, not a portrait. Now I hope I shan't offend you by saying so, but I really don't care for portraits in oil. You may say what you like, but, to have a perfect likeness, give me a good coloured photograph. That's my tackle. For fancy portraits, very good, but otherwise" ...
"It sounds promising," thought Lorimer, who took up his position near the window, to enjoy the fun.
"The moment a process is discovered for photographing colour as well as lines and shade," continued Sir Benjamin, "nobody will want a painted portrait. For a portrait, you don't want imagination, you want truth, sir, real truth, an exact reproduction of the original."
"Some people prefer Madame Tussaud's Exhibition to the Louvre or the British Museum," said Lorimer.
The City alderman turned round and looked at him, and Philip introduced them to each other.
"Sir Benjamin Pond—Mr. Gerald Lorimer, our well-known playwright; no doubt you know him by reputation."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance," said Pond, shaking hands with Lorimer. "I see by the papers that you are going to give us a new play. When I was a young man I wrote several plays myself, but I thought better of it, and, like a good Briton, I preferred to be useful to my country and go into business. No offence, I hope," added he, bursting into loud guffaws.
"How long is this ass going to stay here boring us, I wonder?" murmured Philip.
"But to return to the object of my visit," said Sir Benjamin. "A few days ago my daughter got married, and, among other presents, I gave her the choice of two pictures in my gallery. It has left two empty spaces on my wall, one eighteen by twenty-four, another thirty-six by fifty. Now, what have you got that would fill them?"
"Framed or unframed?" said Philip, who by this time was beginning to thoroughly enjoy the situation.
"Bless me, framed, of course," said Sir Benjamin.
"I asked the question merely to form an idea of the size of the canvas."
"Do you think you have what I want? Some pictures that you have finished lately? If they are a trifle smaller, it won't matter much. I like wide frames, they show their value better; and no picture ever suffered from a good-sized frame. I have all my frames made at Denis's ... only the French know how to frame pictures and bind books."
"A sensible remark," said Lorimer to himself.
"I am afraid I have nothing to suit you," said Philip, in the tone of a bootmaker, who has not the right-sized shoes for his customer.
The alderman took a rule out of his pocket, and measured several canvases that Philip placed on Dora's easel, after having removed the copy that she was doing of her own portrait.
"Too small ... too small again ... oh, much too small. By George, what a pity!"
"Perhaps you could put two of those in the larger space, Sir Benjamin," suggested Lorimer, with a wink at Philip, and without losing that British calm, which is the strong point of the Englishman in critical situations.
"Two! oh dear no, that would look patchy. I am very proud of my gallery, sir.... Come and see it some day. There is hardly a good modern painter that isn't represented there. My philanthropy consists in patronising the arts, and especially modern artists. In buying old pictures you put money in the pockets of collectors and dealers, whereas, in buying pictures from living painters, you put money in the pockets of the artists. Now, don't you think I'm right?"
Philip and Lorimer recognised that this was indeed the best manner of appreciating modern art.
"And so you have nothing?" continued Sir Benjamin. "One eighteen by twenty-four, and one thirty-six by fifty," he repeated.
"My work is either too small or too large, I fear. I could, within a month or six weeks, fill your eighteen by twenty-four."
"No, no, I can't wait. Those open spaces, staring me in the face, are too awful."
"I am extremely sorry," said Philip.
"So am I," replied Sir Benjamin. "I wanted a picture of yours; I like variety in my gallery."
"And no doubt he has it," thought Lorimer.
"Mr. Grantham," continued the City man, "you have a great career before you. Everybody says so. You'll be an academician before five years are over; you are one of our future great painters."
He gazed around the studio once more, and suddenly noticing the portrait of Dora, he said, "Holloa! what's this?" and proceeded to measure the picture.
"Why, this is the very thing. I'll take this ... I don't know the original, but she's a deuced pretty woman, and if it's a fancy portrait" ...
"It is not quite finished yet."
"Yes, that's true," said Sir Benjamin; "I see the face and hands want a little" ...
"No, the flowers," interrupted Philip; "but it will be finished to-day."
"Good, send it to me to-morrow."
"Sir Benjamin, this picture was painted under exceptional circumstances. I mean" ...
"That's all right, my dear sir; your price is mine. That is my way of doing business. When I have taken a fancy to a picture, I never bargain with the artist."
"You misunderstand me, Sir Benjamin," returned Philip; "I simply meant to say, that this picture is not for sale. It is a portrait of my wife, and belongs to her."
"Oh, that's another matter. In that case, I'll say nothing more."
"I hope to be more fortunate some other time."
"So do I. Well, good-day, good-day," said Sir Benjamin, as Philip handed him his hat. "Very pleased to have made your acquaintance. I will let you know, as soon as another" ...
"Vacancy occurs," suggested Lorimer.
"That's it, that's it. Good-bye."
Philip would have liked to give him a kick as well as his hat. He accompanied the alderman to the door and, returning to the studio, found Lorimer holding his sides with laughter.
"Those people are the drawbacks of my profession, old man. They are enough to disgust you with it all. Great heavens, what a fool!"
"I don't know about that; they buy pictures and pay cash down. One may safely say that but for the good inartistic British middle class, the fine arts would have to put up their shutters. Our upper classes have only praise and money for foreign works. Have we not musicians by the score, who have had to resort to Italiannoms de guerre, to get a hearing in this country? Yes! I must say, I admire our middle classes. If it were not for our aldermen and county councillors, who have sufficient patriotism to get their portraits done in their own country, our English portraitists would end their careers in the workhouse. And, come, you must own that he was vastly amusing, the dear man; that the imposing big-wig of the City was simply killing." And the humour of the situation striking him afresh, Lorimer rolled on the sofa with laughter, and Dora, entering the studio at that moment, discovered him in a far from dignified position, his legs cutting figures in the air.
"Oh, you've just come too late," said he, rising quickly; "he is gone."
"Who is gone?" said Dora.
"Why, the patron of the arts, Alderman Sir Benjamin Pond." And in a few words, Lorimer described the humorous little scene that had just taken place. Then, suddenly remembering his appointment, he looked at the clock.
"By Jove! it's four o'clock! That is the time I had promised to be at the theatre.... I must fly!"
"Are you off?" said Philip; "I'll go with you. I want some fresh air; I feel stifling, staying all day in this confounded studio. Don't worry, darling," said he to Dora, on seeing her look at the picture that he had begun almost to take a dislike to. "I will finish the picture when I come back. As I said, there is only an hour's work to do to it."
"Where in the name of fortune have I put my manuscript?" exclaimed Lorimer.
"Here it is on the table," said Dora. "Is there a woman with a past in it?"
"A past?" said Lorimer. "Four pasts, and fine ones too. Quite enough to make up for all possible defects in the play. My dear Mrs. Grantham, I shall not put in appearance here again until I have written a play with an angel in it."
"Never mind the angel," said Dora. "Have a real, true woman—that's good enough for anybody."
"Oh, well, never mind; with all her pasts, you know, this woman has a great future."
"I hope so, for your sake. Good luck."
Philip and Lorimer got into a cab and went off waving their hands to Dora.
Philip's state of feverish agitation had not escaped Dora's notice. She had never seen him thus preoccupied and restless, until to-day. It was very evident that he was hiding something from her, and that it must be something most important. What could it possibly be? Philip, hitherto always so open and confiding, had failed for the first time to unbosom himself to her. She was no longer the confidante of his worries and the dispeller of his clouds of depression. There must be something very extraordinary going on, something quite exceptional and hitherto unknown, since she had been kept in the dark concerning it. Uncertainty is the cruellest trial for the heart of a woman to endure, when that woman is resolute and brave, and feels ready to face any danger courageously. Dora knew herself to be strong and valiant enough to brave any ordinary danger, but what was the use of that while there was nothing tangible to deal with and defy? This incertitude was devouring her. "I am stifling in this wretched studio," Philip had said to her, before going out with Lorimer. Never had she heard him speak thus of the dear retreat where they had passed so many exquisite hours together.
A kind of presentiment came over Dora, that their artistic existence was about to be broken up. Their past life had been an unbroken chain of happy days; what did the future hold in store? For the first time, Dora could see only a mist of uncertainty in front of her. Up to to-day, the road had seemed clear and sunny to her happy vision, and easy to tread, but now doubt clouded her sky; she could not see ahead. The road was perhaps going to branch. Would they take right or left?
"This wretched studio," had dealt her a blow, straight at the breast. A man may be irritable, sulky, wanting in common politeness even; he may forget himself so far as to lose his temper and use violent language, if you will; but there are hallowed things that he respects in all times and seasons, in temper and out of temper, and to Dora the studio was one of these things—a temple dedicated to all that she most cherished.
"This wretched studio," signified for her much more than Philip had put into the words, for, in her brain, things began to take magnified proportions. In cursing the studio, Philip had cursed his art, and for this he had chosen a day like the present, the anniversary of their wedding, and just when he was to have finished the portrait, whose growth she had watched as a child watches, with bated breath, the growth of a house of cards, which one false touch will destroy.
For the first time in her life Dora was miserable. Her pride revolted at the thought that something mysterious was passing under their roof, and that her husband had not thought fit to take her into his confidence. It did not occur to her that a man often avoids taking his wife into his confidence rather than expose her to the risk of a disappointment, by talking to her of hopes which may not be realised. Besides, there are important secrets which a man has to know how to keep to himself. A secret disclosed proves to be an indiscretion in the confiding one as often as a show of faith in the confidante. But Dora felt so sure of herself, so strong in her power of devotion, that it would never have entered her head that Philip could not repose entire confidence in her.
When little Eva returned from a walk, about half-past four, accompanied by Hobbs, she found her mother in tears, half lying on the sofa, her face hidden in her hands.
Eva had never seen her mother weep before. The effect upon the child was terrible.
"Mama, what is the matter?" cried Eva. And she burst into violent tears.
Quickly Dora pressed her handkerchief over her eyes to dry them, and smiled at the child.
"It is nothing at all, darling; nothing, nothing." And she took her up and pressed the poor little heaving breast to her own, but the more she sought to console her, the more the child sobbed and cried. It was impossible to calm her grief, it was heartrending.
"Mama, mama, are we not going to be happy any more?"
Dora rocked her beloved Eva in her arms and said, with a gay laugh—
"What a little goose it is! Was there ever such a goosikins?"
Eva had hidden her face on her mother's shoulder, and dared not look up for fear of seeing the awful mysterious something that had caused the state of distress in which she had discovered her mother. Her sobs finally died down into hiccoughs, and Dora began to sing to her some songs that the child loved. Eva gazed at her mother, whose face had regained its look of serenity, and then, growing bolder, glanced around into every corner of the room. Smiling once more, after her cautious survey of her surroundings, she ensconced herself more comfortably upon Dora's knees and said—
"Weren't we stupid, mama? There is nothing here, is there? But where can daddy be? How lazy he is to-day!"
"Yes, isn't he? Naughty father, he ought to be at work."
"When I marry," said Eva, "I shall never have a painter."
"Why?" asked Dora, whom the child's chatter always amused.
"Oh, because—I don't know—a painter is too busy always—he doesn't play with little girls. When I have a little girl, I shall play with her all day long."
Dora felt the reproach stab straight to her heart. She was on the verge of tears once more, and felt a choking lump in her throat, but she mastered the emotion.
"Then what kind of man shall you marry?" said she, with an effort at her gayest tones.
"None at all—I shall stay and live with you always; or else I shall be a nurse, like Aunt Gabrielle."
"To nurse sick people and take care of the poor who are suffering?"
"Yes," replied Eva, "and to wear a dress just like auntie's."
"Oh, that is your reason, eh? a very good one!"
Gabrielle looked her best perhaps in the nurse's costume which had so taken Eva's fancy. Of the purely English type, with rosy complexion, delicate features, sweet soft eyes and fair hair, and with that mixture of modesty and assurance in her bearing which is so characteristic of the best of her countrywomen, she lent a fresh charm to the always pleasing semi-nun-like attire worn by hospital nurses. Something of that joy of living, which angels seem to stamp upon the faces of women who devote themselves to the well-being and happiness of others and to the assuaging of pain and suffering, had fascinated her little niece. Eva felt the charm, without being able to analyse it. She knew that Aunt Gabrielle would look beautiful in any dress, but thought that she was lovely in her nurse's garb.
The child had forgotten all her tears and went on with her prattle. It was nearly five o'clock when Philip came in, evidently in a poor humour, and muttering words that did not reach Dora's ear.
"Eva," said he, "you must go and get dressed now, there's a good child; we are going to dine a little earlier to-night, so that you may sit up to dinner with us. You know, it is a holiday to-day; it is the anniversary of the day daddy and mama were married on—I'll warrant there will be a special pudding for the occasion."
Eva ran off, singing in her delight, and went to find Hobbs. A moment later, her little silvery voice was heard at the top of the stairs, announcing to her nurse that she was to stay up to dinner with mama and daddy.
Presently the sound of the delightful babble ceased with the closing of the nursery door.
"You have scarcely had time to go down to the theatre," said Dora.
"No," replied Philip. "Lorimer began upon his endless theories again—what a bore he is when he talks like that! I could not stand him to-day; and, besides, I thought I had better get back and go on with the portrait until dinner."
He looked at the clock and took off his coat.
"It is going to be done to-day, after all then, that wretched portrait," said Dora, laughing and laying a stress on the word "wretched."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I see you are tired of it."
"To tell you the truth, I am dying to get it done."
He put on his velvet jacket, sat at the easel, took his palette and his brushes.
"Now then, to work!" said he.
"It is only five o'clock," said Dora; "you have a good deal of time yet before dinner."
He mixed his colours and was soon apparently engrossed in the pansies. He worked three-quarters of an hour without stopping. Dora had taken a book, and sat reading a few paces from the easel.
On the stroke of six, a violent ring at the bell, impatiently repeated, was heard at the door. Philip, who had heard a cab draw up outside the studio, trembled with excitement at the sound of the bell and let fall his palette and brush.
"It is he," he cried; "it is de Lussac! no one else would ring violently like that. He has good news, he must have—yes," he shouted, wild with joy, "it is his step, I hear him."
And he ran to meet the young attaché, whose voice he recognised.
Dora had thrown her book down on the sofa, and had risen from her chair.
De Lussac came briskly into the studio, with a telegram in his hand, which he waved about his head.
"Good news! Victory!" he cried. "Hip, hip, hurrah! as you say in England—adopted unanimously, my dear fellow. The Government offers you a million francs for the shell—here is the wire!"
Philip was half beside himself with joy. He seized the telegram from the hands of the attaché, read it, re-read it, and handed it back.
Dora, mute, immobile, was standing a couple of paces off.
"Oh, Dora dear, my dream is realised at last! For months I have worked in secret. I was so afraid of failing that I have never dared mention a word to you about this thing, but I have succeeded. I am rewarded for all my labour and agony of anxiety about my invention. This shell is bought by the French Government. I am rich—rich!" he cried. "Do you hear, darling? Oh, my Dora!"
And he folded her lovingly in his arms.
Eva had come, running in at the sound of her father's shouts, which had reached her ears.
"Daddy, daddy, what is the matter?"
Philip seized the child and lifted her in the air.
"Why, the matter is that your papa is a rich man. Are you glad?"
"Oh yes, of course I am very glad," said the child, seeing her father's beaming face. "Then we are going to be happier than ever?"
"Why, to be sure we are," said Philip, executing another swing of the child into the air.
Dora seemed to be stunned. She did not realise the situation, which, for that matter, could only be fully explained by Philip later on. All that the poor woman clearly understood for the moment was, that in the present state of excitement in which Philip appeared to be, he would certainly not finish the portrait that day.
Philip begged de Lussac to stay and dine, and also sent a telegram to Lorimer, to tell him the great news and ask him to try and join them. He needed friends to help him bear his joy. To bear hers, Dora would have chosen to be alone with Philip.
In moments of greatest joy a woman prefers solitude with the man she loves, and Dora was vexed that Philip should invite de Lussac and Lorimer to pass this evening with him.
The two sexes will probably never understand each other.
It may possibly be that each one judges the other by its own.
To Dora the vow that she had taken on her wedding-day was a sacred thing. As he knelt at her side in church, Philip had murmured low in her ear: "Before God and man I love you." This had sufficed her, and, following on it, even the words of the Church service pronounced by the priest had seemed almost superfluous. The phrase uttered in that solemn moment had sealed her fate and ordained her line of conduct. Her life belonged to this man. Besides, had she not in firm clear tones given her promise to love, honour, and obey him? To her this was no empty formula—it was an oath; and she had sworn that, come what would, how fatal soever to her personal happiness, she would be loyal to her vow.
She prepared to play her new rôle with the ardour which she had always shown in seconding her husband, even in the most trifling affairs of life, quietly effacing herself, satisfied and happy if Philip seemed to appreciate the efforts that she made to please him.
Philip left his house in Elm Avenue without even trying to sublet it. He took a house in Belgravia and installed himself there among the aristocracy and plutocracy of London. Mayfair is, perhaps, still more aristocratic and select; but it is sombre, its streets are narrow, and Philip had been too long accustomed to plenty of light to care to bury himself alive in the midst of its dark, depressing-looking streets. Mayfair is to Belgravia what the Rue St. Dominique is to the Avenue des Champs Elysées in Paris.
The rent of his house was a thousand a year. When he added what he would have to pay in parish taxes, Queen's taxes, and all those little blessings which endear Great Britain to every true-born Englishman, Philip had to come to the conclusion that his new house would cost him about fifteen hundred pounds a year.
He spent some five thousand pounds upon his installation. The furniture was chosen by Dora, who was consulted upon every point. Most of the things from the St. John's Wood house were distributed throughout the new one, but Dora took it upon her to arrange, on the ground floor, behind the dining-room, the library, exactly as it had been arranged in Elm Avenue; not a book, nor a picture, not a photograph, nor a knick-knack was forgotten. Dora had the bump of remembrance.
This library would be her favourite room, she said to herself, and she would pass an hour or two every day here among the souvenirs of the happy days lived in the artists' quarter. Near the drawing-room, Philip arranged a room which might have passed for a studio in the eyes of people who see likenesses everywhere. To speak truly, there was no longer a studio.
As for painting, there was no more question of that; Philip had other ideas in his head. He would go into society and would entertain. He could do it now that he had a suitable house. He would make useful acquaintances, and the celebrity that his invention of the famous shell had brought him would lead to his being sought after. He had no doubts, no misgivings. The future was safe enough.
Occasionally, however, he fell into reflection. He had spent something like five thousand pounds over his installation; there remained therefore in hand not more than thirty-two or three thousand pounds. At five per cent. interest, that would bring him an income of some fifteen hundred pounds, just about the amount of his rent and taxes. Now, he had started his new existence on a scale which entailed an expenditure of at least ten thousand a year. He would therefore need to earn the rest, about eight thousand pounds, or else his capital would last him only four years. There it was—a judgment without appeal, arrived at by the inflexible rule of three.
It is not money that ensures a man's being rich, it is the excess of his receipts over his expenditure. Such is the declaration made by that great philosopher who was called Monsieur de la Palice. Such is also, however, the principle which even very intelligent people fail to understand.
Philip reflected. "Pooh!" said he to himself, "there is no need to bother myself yet; fortune has smiled on me once, she will again."
Dora consented to everything without a murmur. With the exception of a general sadness, which she could not entirely dissimulate, she gave no outward sign of dissent, and approved before Philip many things which she tacitly condemned. She did not encourage her husband in his new ideas, but she did not feel the strength of will to discourage him. She would not earn reproaches. She had taken a resolution to let events follow their course and to remain firm at her post of observation, so as to be ready to save Philip before the coming of the downfall which to her seemed inevitable. She almost found a happiness in this new part. "I will prevent his going under," she said to herself.
Gaiety had vanished, there was no more laughter, the chief subject of talk was speculations. In the mornings Philip read the financial papers.
"By Jove!" he would exclaim, "here is a South African mine which was worth one pound a share. These shares are now worth twelve pounds." Philip was probably seeking to solve this problem: How can I make eight thousand pounds a year with a capital of hardly forty thousand pounds? And the devil answered him: By placing your money where you can get twenty-five per cent. interest for it.
Philip was anxious; Dora was depressed; life was monotonous, and they were both bored to death. Dora would fain have said to the French Government, much as good old La Fontaine's cobbler said to the financier, "Give me back my songs and take again your lucre."
The artists, writers, and all the friends who had frequented the old house dropped away one after another, till Lorimer was almost the only one they continued to see anything of. He had always felt a sincere friendship for Philip and Dora, and now they were playing a little comedy before him which interested him keenly. He watched closely and awaited the dénouement. He came in his old intimate way, without waiting to be asked. His frequent visits delighted Dora, for he was the only friend to whom she opened her heart or from whom she could hope for sound advice. "Be patient," he would say; "Philip will grow tired of this kind of life; one of these days he will set to work and will return to his studio never to leave it."
To speak truly, Dora scarcely had time to brood on the past. The management of her house, which was kept with scrupulous order, six servants to superintend, her child to be watched over, visits to pay and receive—all these things filled up her time. But, full of occupation as her days might be, the life that they composed appeared to her empty and aimless, compared to the one she had led hitherto.
Once a week she received, and her rooms were crowded. By her sweetness and tact, the simplicity of her manner and rare beauty of her face and figure, it had been easy to her to make the conquest of the fashionable world as, years before, she had made the conquest of the artistic one. The men were loud and untiring in their praises of her. The women, who, with the best will in the world to do so, could find no flaw in her, declared that she was "very nice." Some of them went so far as to pronounce her charming, and one or two to say that she was fit to be a duchess.
"What do you think of my new acquaintances?" asked Dora of Lorimer, after he had helped her to entertain a number of them one Thursday afternoon.
"Lady A. is pretty," he replied; "Lady B. is not bad in her own style."
"No, no; I ask you for a general opinion."
"In the lump? Well, I would give the whole batch for a new umbrella."
"You are like me," said Dora. "I would give all the trees of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens for the few chestnuts and limes in my garden in Elm Avenue. And how stupidly they kill time, all these people! In spite of their rank and their fortune, they are bored to death. I can see it in their wrinkled foreheads and quenched, weary-looking eyes. The theatre makes them yawn, they prefer the vulgar inanities of the music-halls; they do not read; Art is nothing to them; their parties are mass meetings where one is hours on one's feet without being able to move or talk comfortably, and to get a sandwich or a glass of champagne costs the poor victims of this strange hospitality frantic struggles. When they speak of their pleasures it is with a sigh as if they were so many irksome tasks, and, the season over, they go to Homburg or elsewhere to drink the waters and get set up and patched up in readiness for the shooting and house-parties of the autumn."
"You exaggerate slightly," said Lorimer; "there are in that set plenty of very clever people with literary and artistic tastes, but I grant you that the majority lead a pitiful existence."
Dora had taken a violent dislike to society, so when Lorimer came she often revenged herself for the smiles she was obliged to dispense to her new acquaintances by running them down to her heart's content.
Philip had lately been several times to Paris without taking Dora, as he had always done formerly. He had not confided to her the object of these journeys, but had contented himself with telling her that he was going on business. He was always back again on the second or third day.
Without entering into details, he had mentioned some visits to the Russian Embassy. He had even confided to her that, in consequence of a rather lengthy correspondence between the Russian ambassador in Paris and General Ivan Sabaroff, War Minister in St. Petersburg, it was not impossible that the Czar might make overtures to him for the purchase of the shell he had invented. The French Government, he said, would not be opposed to his accepting such overtures from an ally of France.
There would be nothing very extraordinary in such a proceeding, of course. The young Czar of all the Russias and the worthy President of the Republic had given each other the kiss of brotherhood in public; Monsieur Felix Faure had returned the visit which the young Sovereign had paid him; and there had been signed at St. Petersburg that gigantic joke, that Titanic hoax which is called the Franco-Russian alliance, an alliance between the Phrygian cap and the Cossack cap, between the sons of the great Revolution and the scourgers of women, an alliance by the terms of which the blind Gallic cook undertook to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for the wily bear of the Caucasians, and gave to the rest of Europe a grotesque and amusing spectacle. The Frenchbadaudrarely misses an opportunity of making France the laughing-stock of the whole world. It is much to be regretted that the French do not read the two or three columns that are devoted to them every day by the newspapers of London, New York, and Berlin. Their follies supply these great dailies with more material for comment than they can hope to get out of all that goes on in their respective countries, and that, I say it to their credit and to be just, without bitterness, without prejudice, for France counts among her sincerest friends and admirers, in England and America, all that is most intelligent and enlightened in these two countries of light and leading. It is a cosmopolitan traveller, French-born and still French at heart, who ventures to speak thus in parenthesis. Alexis de Tocqueville might have written in the year of grace 1899 the following lines, which were penned by him in 1849: "France, the most brilliant and most dangerous nation of Europe, is destined ever to be, in turn, an object of admiration, of hatred, of terror and of pity, but of indifference, never."
Philip decided to give a house-warming party in the month of November, and to ask to a largesoirée musicaleall the society notabilities, in fact all London and his wife. Cards of invitation were sent to ambassadors, cabinet ministers, aristocracy, and City princes. He invited a few literary friends, but not many artists, being afraid of passing for a man who was trying to dazzle his less fortunate brothers in art by his wealth. Perhaps he also rather feared meeting them—the studio world has not a very developed bump of admiration for painters who make a rapid fortune and settle in Belgravia. Those who believed that he still painted had nicknamed himle Grantham des Salons, a not very brilliant pun upon his name which sounded rather like the two French wordsgrand homme. Between four and five hundred people accepted invitations. The artists for the most part refused, "having a previous engagement which prevented them from accepting Mrs. Philip Grantham's kind invitation." Poor Dora seemed to see the artistic world slipping away from her, since Art itself had deserted the house. Lorimer had accepted. Thank Heaven, she would at least have one real friend at her reception. She set about doing her best to ensure the success of her party. She had a long list of the people who were coming, all well-known names. She gavecarte blancheto the best impresario of London, who was entrusted with the arrangement of the musical programme. She ordered her supper from Benoist, and flowers and palms in profusion for the decoration of the house, and went to the best dressmaker in London for a gown which, when it came home, Philip pronounced simply beyond competition. Dora was a borngrande dame. True, she preferred the simple intellectual life that she had led hitherto, but she was fitted to shine in the gay world. If she had been the wife of the President of the French Republic, all the Faubourg St. Germain would willingly have rendered her homage at the Elysée, and would probably have said, on returning home, "ARépublicainecan be as beautiful, witty, and distinguished-looking as the most high-bornMarquise, were she as noble as Charlemagne or Louis XIV."
Dora felt sure of herself, certain of doing honour to Philip, and, notwithstanding the profound sadness that reigned in her heart, she was still woman enough to rejoice in advance over the success which she anticipated. She accordingly made all her preparations to that end, and took pains to put her beauty and intelligence at her husband's service. Philip, for that matter, did things in lordly style; he had given Dora an unlimited credit,carte blanche, that is to say a blank cheque. Philip wished to have a great social success.
Without saying anything to his wife, he had sent invitations to all the principal papers, thinking that if the editors did not come they would not fail to send reporters who would write accounts of the party, the publication of which would make them known, he and Dora, in the society in which he had taken a firm resolution to shine.
The concert alone caused Dora some anxiety. She almost regretted having hadmusicprinted on her cards. Her artistic temperament had often caused her to pity from the bottom of her heart those pianists and singers, whom nobody listens to at parties, and whose first notes invariably give the signal for general conversation. She thought this unmannerly, even offensive, not only to the hosts, but to the artistes. The shopkeeper demands only the price of the goods that he sells you, and it is a matter of indifference to him whether you have your hat in your hand or on your head in his shop. The artiste is more difficult to please. He asks for the appreciation of those who pay him, and more than one celebrated star has consented to sing in drawing-rooms for hundreds of pounds, but only on the formal condition that silence would be enforced. It must be said that at these gatherings many people, who are too busy to pay one another frequent calls, are pleased to have the opportunity of meeting, the men to talk of politics and business, the women of dress, theatres, gossip, or scandals. They can so well dispense with music that many Englishwomen have the wordsno musicprinted on their invitation cards. I know one who, in order to persuade me to accept her invitation, put a postscript thus: "I shall have a Hungarian orchestra, but you won't hear it."
Dora was reassured, however, as the impresario, who was to arrange the music, knew his public. He had guaranteed her "complete satisfaction."
She thought no more about it, and awaited the day with all the serenity of a society stager who had done nothing else all her life.
Like the great Condé, on the eve of the battle of Rocroy, Dora slept peacefully and profoundly on the eve of the day that was to see her play the rôle of hostess for the first time in her new house in Belgravia.
She was careful not to tire herself during the day, in order to feel fresh and alert at half-past nine, the hour at which the guests would begin to arrive.
For a mistress of a house, for a novice especially, a reception of this kind is a severe trial. She stands four mortal hours at the entrance of the drawing-room, all the while on thequi-vive. She would like to possess a hundred pairs of eyes instead of one, to assure herself that everything is going as smoothly as she could wish, for the least littlecontretempswill spoil the party. Out of four hundred people who accept an invitation, two hundred come to criticise—some the music, others the supper, others the wines, others the dresses. If there is the slightest hitch in the proceedings, there are whispered comments on it. If the music is bad, people drown it with their voices; if the supper is of doubtful quality, they go early; if the servants do not number the hats carefully, the men, on leaving, choose the best that come to their notice; if the hostess is embarrassed, they smile. If the women meet people whom they have ceased to know, they look bored. The most thankless task in the world is giving a large "At home." I know many women who, after giving such parties, have to go to bed for a couple of days.
Dora dined lightly at seven o'clock, and, after giving her last instructions, went to dress. At nine o'clock she was ready. Her white dress of exquisite material, trimmed with old lace and silver embroidery, suited her to perfection, and set off every line of her supple figure. She seemed to be moulded in it. She wore arivièreof diamonds and emeralds, and three magnificent diamond stars were fastened on her bodice. Philip had given her these diamonds, to console her for the portrait that he had not had the courage to finish. She would have infinitely preferred the portrait, but she accepted the jewels willingly, and, thanking her husband prettily, she said to herself, "When the shell bursts, its pieces will be useful. I shall at any rate have a couple of thousand pounds with which to face the situation." She wore no ornament in her hair, which seemed to be proud of being entrusted alone with the task of showing off her beautiful pure Madonna-like face. Never had a lovelier head, framed in luxuriant tresses, been placed more proudly on classical shoulders. Her beauty was dazzling.
She went into the drawing-room to give a last glance at the decorations. Everything looked perfect.
Notwithstanding the air of calm and simple dignity that she wore, like all who have the knowledge of their own worth and who know their triumph is assured, those who had examined Dora's expression attentively would have discovered a new anxiety depicted on her countenance, perhaps nothing very important, but nevertheless an annoyance at the least.
General Ivan Sabaroff, Russian War Minister, was in London. Philip had invited him to Dora's party, and he had accepted. Philip told his wife this at dinner.
Dora sat down in the drawing-room with a cloud on her brow.
"Sabaroff!" she said to herself, "General Sabaroff! What if it be the Colonel Sabaroff that I met eight years ago at Monte Carlo? He was already much talked about. To-day he is the Russian Minister of War—it is quite possible, even probable; but then? See the man again! Oh no, never! And yet, I shall be obliged to receive him—I shall warn Philip that he had a detestable reputation with women, and if that does not suffice, well—I will tell Philip everything. And why shouldn't I? The confession will not be very painful, and I have often been on the point of making it. I have made up my mind—I will not, and I cannot meet this man. I will be polite to him to-night, but very distant; of course, I know what is expected of me as hostess. After that I hope there will be an end of it."
This resolution seemed to clear away the clouds from her face. She smiled eagerly at her husband when he came gaily into the drawing-room.
"Everything is ready and admirably arranged," said Philip. "The drawing-room is decorated with such taste! Ah, my dearest, it is easy to see you have had a hand in the arrangements. I recognise your touch in a thousand little details. Your party will be a huge success—the rooms will look splendid, the music will be excellent, the supper first-rate, and we shall have a regular crowd of celebrities and pretty women—it will be a triumph! And you, darling—how beautiful you look to-night! that gown suits you to perfection. I wish I was going to have you all to myself."
"How absurd! nothing would have been easier, if you had only expressed the wish," said she, a little piqued.
There are many men who are on the point of falling in love with their wives when they see them near to making the conquest of a crowd of outsiders.
"And those diamonds," continued he, "how splendid they look on you! You were built to wear a diadem, that's your style. At last you are playing your proper rôle, and I am proud to see you doing the honours of a house that is worthy of you. When I come to think of it, fortune has been very kind to me."
On seeing Dora quite unmoved, he added—
"Really, one would think, to look at you, that all this does not stir you to the least enthusiasm: it's curious! sometimes I can't quite make you out. I am nearly beside myself with delight. Now, listen a moment," said he, taking her hand. "I am negotiating with Russia. If they take my invention, as I have every hope that they will, my ambition will be satisfied, my wildest dreams realised. I shall be rich. You know we are not really rich. It costs a perfect fortune to keep this house going. Ah, but only let General Sabaroff approve of my shell, and, dearest,—we are all right."
He rubbed his hands with joy.
"Philip," said Dora, "I want to speak to you about this General Sabaroff."
"Yes, yes," said Philip, without heeding her; "I want you to charm him. You must make a conquest of him. Bring all your diplomacy to bear. He has an immense influence at the Russian Court, and is, I hear, the favourite Minister of the Czar. Being Minister of War, he is the master, the autocrat of his department. And, darling, I count on you to help me. I repeat to you, everything depends on him."
"Money again, Philip, always money," replied Dora. "Are you not rich enough yet? If we have not the income to keep a house like this, why do we live in it? Why should we live beyond our means? I don't think it is right, Philip. What has become of those happy days when we loved each other so much, and when you thought only of your art? Ah, give me back my dear studio."
"I am not rich enough yet," said Philip, "but I am perhaps on the road that leads to fortune."
"You were rich before, and on the road to fame. I loved an artist and I adored his art."
"Oh, deuce take art and artists," cried Philip, getting angry.
"Philip, how can you? If you only knew how it pains me to hear you speak like that."
"Well, my dear Dora," said Philip, "there are times at which I can scarcely keep my patience with you—you don't interest yourself in me as you used to do."
"Is it really you who dare speak to me in that way?" exclaimed Dora indignantly. "Is it you who accuse me of not being the same, you who consecrated your life to art and to my happiness, and who to-day think of nothing but making money, like the first City man in the street? There are times when I long to go and earn my own living with my brush. The only thing that holds me back is Eva—you too, perhaps, for I am certain that one of these days you will cry 'Help!' and I shall have to rescue you from drowning."
"You are ungrateful, Dora. It is for you that I work."
"For me? But can't you see I loathe the life I lead? For me? When the thirst for wealth gets hold of a man, he has always the same excuse—it is not for himself. It is even the eternal parrot-cry of the miser; if he holds fast to his money, it is for the children; and under this pretext he renders his wife, his children, and everyone around him as miserable as he is himself."
"Night and day," said Philip, "I have worked, and God is my witness that in working all my thoughts were for you. Now that I am almost at the goal, you turn against me—you refuse to give a smile to the man who can realise all my hopes."
"Ah, why do you choose that one?" said Dora, frowning.
"What a funny remark!" said Philip. "Just as if he was my choice."
Then, looking at Dora, who seemed agitated, he added—
"What do you mean?"
"I have been told that General Sabaroff is a libertine, a roué of the worst type, and you know what a detestation I have of such men."
"Let him be what he likes; what on earth does it matter to me?" exclaimed Philip. "Really, Dora, you can help me with a few smiles; ask him to come and see you on one of your Thursdays, without compromising yourself, and without your virtue running any danger. It ought to be easy enough for a woman to protect her virtue against a man—in a drawing-room," added Philip, with a slightly mocking air which intensely displeased Dora.
"Yes, much easier than protecting one's reputation against women. I hope you will not insist. I shall receive the General politely, that goes without saying, but I shall certainly not ask him to come and see me on the days I receive or the days on which I do not receive."
Philip and Dora looked at each other for a few seconds. They seemed both very determined.
"And suppose I insist," said Philip, who was the first to break the silence, "and, what is more, suppose I expect you to do what I wish?"
"In that case," said Dora, "since there is no other way of obtaining your indulgence, stay a moment and listen to me."
Philip looked at the clock.
"There is plenty of time," continued Dora, "we have nearly half an hour before anyone will come. My dear Philip, I have every reason to believe that this General Sabaroff is no stranger to me. Perhaps I should have told you this before, but when I have been on the point of doing so, I always said to myself, 'What is the use?' and I really did not see the need of it. This is the incident in two words. When I was nineteen, just out of the schoolroom, my aunt took me to winter in the Riviera. Among the many people we met there was a Colonel Sabaroff, a man of about thirty-five. From the first he paid me marked attention, and at the end of two months he made me an offer of marriage. He was handsome, clever, say fascinating if you like, had the reputation of being a brilliant officer, and was much sought after in society. I, a mere child, could not but feel flattered at his choice of me. What my answer might have been—I had asked for a week to consider it—I can scarcely tell, although my heart, I can say in all sincerity, was not touched. Abal masquéwas to be held that week and my aunt had subscribed to it, but she disliked public balls, and it had been decided that we were not to go, especially as she thought it hardly proper for two women alone to be present at such a ball. You know, my aunt was then still young and pretty. However, my uncle, arriving from England on the day of the ball, persuaded her to let him take me, for he guessed at my eagerness to go, and he assured her that if he came with me, the strictest British propriety would be satisfied. When we reached the ball, it was already late. After making a tour of the rooms, we sat down in a dimly lit conservatory, and I was just going to tell him of the offer of marriage I had received, when I started at hearing Colonel Sabaroff's voice in low but fierce altercation with that of a woman. Both were masked, and the language they spoke in was French, which was unintelligible to my uncle. Signing to him to keep silence, I listened intently. My own future was decided in those few minutes. But what need I tell you more except that I, a girl ignorant of all the world's falseness and ugly coarseness, sat dumfounded, petrified, as the history of a vulgar liaison was unfolded to my young ears, and the man who had asked for my hand and heart flung off a wretched woman who, to her own undoing, had given herself to him a year before."
"What did you do?" asked Philip.
"I sat spellbound as long as their conversation lasted; but when they rose and passed in front of us, I removed my mask, looked the man straight in the face, and, in as steady a voice as I could command, asked my uncle to take me home."
"Did you see any more of him after that?"
"No—the next day, at my request, we left Monte Carlo. During several months I received letters from him, all of which I tore up without reading, and soon, thank God, I ceased to know whether he existed or not."
"Perhaps it is he who sends the pansies," said Philip.
"Don't talk nonsense," replied Dora.
"But General Sabaroff may not be the man at all."
"I feel sure he must be," said Dora. "The description I have been giving of him corresponds perfectly. Philip, if it should be so, you won't throw me into the society of this man, will you? You won't ask me to make him welcome here?"
A servant came into the room to say that the decorations in the dining-room were finished, and to ask whether Dora would go and give a look to them before the florist left the house.
"Very well," said she to the servant, "I will go."
And, smiling at Philip, she said to him—
"It is understood, then,—you will not insist any more, Philip."
"Curious tricks Fate plays us all!" exclaimed Philip when Dora had gone. "One would think the devil had a hand in it."
It was half-past nine; nobody was likely to come before ten o'clock. He went downstairs to the library and asked for a glass of fine champagne and seltzer water. He was pained to see Dora lose her gaiety. To give him his due, his one hope was to soon see his ambitious dreams realised, to consecrate anew his whole existence to his wife. He hated himself for being unable to do so at once. But he had gone too far to retrace his steps. He seemed to be carried along by an irresistible current. In his heart of hearts he felt poignantly how much he was in the wrong, but he could not bring himself to break off yet and give up his darling hopes. His behaviour had assumed a disgraceful aspect to his eyes, although he dared not own it to himself. Often and often he longed to go and throw himself at Dora's feet. He had not the moral courage necessary to take a decision on which the whole happiness of his wife depended. Every feeling of delicacy and generosity in his composition revolted within him, for he adored her. He fought hard, but each time he returned to the attack he was vanquished.