"You are letting yourself go in a way that is humiliating."
"Indeed, I am doing nothing of the kind."
"Why did you blush, then, when he merely touched your hand? He is simply
a thoughtless, foolish boy."
"I shan't talk to you any more."
But still the urgent conversation went on within. Lady Locke was, in
fact, very angry with herself, and considerably surprised at her own
girlishness. For that was what she called it, for want of a better name.
She was half disgusted at finding herself so young. Had life done
nothing more for her than this? Was she still liable to become an easy
prey to emotions that were undignified and inappropriate? It seemed as
if her heart were clouded while her mind remained clear, for she saw
Lord Reggie quite as he was, and yet she began to like him quite
absurdly. Why she was attracted by him she could not conceive. Was it
the swing of a Nature's pendulum? She had loved a hard, brusque man, and
had found a certain satisfaction in his blunt and not too considerate
affection; now she found something interesting in a nature that seemed
boyish to softness, that was no doubt full of absurdity, that was, so
people said, and he himself boasted, given over to vice, to the tasting
of emotions that is unfortunately so dangerous, often so inhuman in its
humanity. Perhaps it was really Lord Reggie's personal beauty or
prettiness that attracted her, for, say what one will, a pretty boy
steps easily into the good graces of even a strong-natured woman.
Perhaps it was his fleeting air of weakness combined with daring that
drew her to him. She could not tell. She only knew, as she walked among
the shy roses, that the casual touch of his hand--a hand, too, that was
very like a girl's--had communicated to her quite a startlingly strong
emotion. Alas! the motherly feeling seemed to have had its little day,
and to have been swept off the stage on which her mental drama was being
acted. It had played a principal part, but now an understudy appeared,
more full-blooded, stronger, wilder. Lady Locke was very angry with
herself among the roses that morning.
She knew she was a fool, but she knew also that she had no intention of
making a fool of herself. She had too much character, too much
observation, both of others and of herself, to do that.
Madame Valtesi joined her presently, leaning on her cane and fanning
herself rather languidly.
"Nature has gone into quite a vulgar extreme to-day," she said. "It is
distinctly too hot for propriety. One wants to sit about in one's
skeleton. I wonder what Mr. Amarinth's skeleton would be like--not quite
nice, I fancy. I have had bad news by the post."
"Indeed! I am sorry."
"My dearest enemy has written to say that she is going to marry again. I
did not wish her so much ill as that. It is really curious. If some
people have been chastised with whips, they pine after scorpions. Women
have such an unwholesome craving to experience the keenest edge of pain,
that I believe many of them would cut themselves with knives, like the
priests of Baal, if they could not get a husband to perform the
operation for them."
"You speak rather bitterly of your sex."
"Do I? A nineteenth-century cynic minus vitriol would be like a goose
minus sage and onions. I prefer to be a goose with those alleviations of
the goose nature. My enemy married for money the first time, now she is
going in for celebrity. The chief drawback to celebrity is that it is
generally dressed in mourning; a kind of half mourning when it is
notoriety only, and absolute weeds when it is fame. Why should
cleverness and crape go together? People are so frightfully solemn when
they have made a name, that it is like doing a term of hard labour to be
with them for five minutes. Stupidity gives you a ticket-of-leave, and
sheer foolish ignorance is complete emancipation, without even police
supervision."
"I suppose it is always difficult not to take oneself seriously."
"I do not find it so. My mental proceedings generally strike me as the
best joke I know, a sort of Moore and Burgess' performance, with corner
men always asking riddles that nobody can ever answer. Mr. Amarinth is
taking himself seriously this morning. He is composing a catch for the
choir-boys to sing to-night after supper. It is to be parody, or, as he
calls it, an elevation of 'Three blind mice,' and is to be about youth
and life. It ought to be amusing."
"Mr. Amarinth is generally amusing."
"Yes, he has got hold of a good recipe for making the world laugh and
think him clever. The only mistake he makes is, that he sometimes serves
up only the recipe, and omits the dish that ought to be the result of it
altogether. One cannot dine off a recipe, however good and ingenious it
may be. It is like reading a guide-book at home instead of travelling.
Dear me, it is too hot! I shall go and lie down and read Oscar Wilde's
'Decay of Lying.' That always sends me to sleep. It is like himself, all
artfulness and no art."
She strolled languidly away, still fanning herself.
Esmé Amarinth and Lord Reggie were busy at the piano, inventing and
composing the elevation of "Three blind mice."
Lady Locke could hear an odd little primitive sort of tune, and then
their voices singing, one after the other, some words. She could only
catch a few.
"Rose--white--youth,
Rose--white--youth,
Rose--white--youth,"
sang Lord Reggie's clear, but rather thin voice. Then Amarinth broke in
with a deeper note, and words were lost.
Lady Locke listened for a moment. Then she suddenly turned and went out
of the garden. She made her way to the paddock, and spent the rest of
the morning in playing cricket with her boy and the curate's children.
She caught three people out, made twenty-five runs, and began to feel
quite healthy-minded and cheerful again.