§ 1
“I am told that Molly Leighton has a party this afternoon. Shall we go?”
“And who is Molly Leighton?”
“She is a very smart and amusing little American. I knew her before
she married. As a matter of fact, she is now Madame la Comtesse of
something or other, so there is no Molly Leighton, but I can only think
of her as old Hiram Leighton’s pretty daughter.”
“Yet another old romance!”
“Not quite, my dear. American women are all that is charming, but they
don’t work as tender memories. No half lights about Molly--just a jolly
girl and a bit of a minx.”
“Let us go to her party. Will there be music?”
Charles shrugged and walked to the window of the hotel sitting-room.
It was early December and the Tuileries Gardens sparkled in winter
sunshine.
“Maybe music; certainly frills and sparkling eyes. We go, then? Perhaps
she’ll ask us to her box at the opera. Let us hope; the Leightons used
to be good at theatre suppers.”
Viola laughed, hoped Madame la Comtesse would do her duty, and moved to
the door.
“I want to see Lavrolle about that evening frock. Will you take me?”
Charles looked at his watch.
“In half an hour. I have some letters to do. You go and start getting
ready; it usually requires a bit of time!”
She put out her tongue, playfully impudent. As she left the room
she glanced at her reflection in the tall mirror by the door. The
reflection pleased her. Satisfied, she sought her bedroom and gave
thought to the achievement of street-going perfection.
§ 2
The hotel of the Comte de Villehardouin overlooked the Parc Monceau.
Its salons were large and elegant, and no less large or elegant was
the crowd that filled them. Viola, at her guardian’s side, made slow
progress to where stood the hostess of the afternoon. She was not
impatient, savouring with enjoyment the smartly dressed throng, the
murmur of cultivated talk, the overt admiration of the young bucks
to left and right. It was her real debut in metropolitan society,
and already the thrill of a greater triumph menaced the satisfaction
of past exploits. This was a worthy stage; her earlier appearances
shrank to provincial nothings. About her, in maddening convolution,
swirled the dark worship of men. Like a dancer on a brilliant stage,
she felt their eyes converge hungrily upon her loveliness. Deliciously
she shivered, fear and vanity struggling with composure for mastery.
Charles’ voice dispelled the clouds of her intoxication. He was
greeting his hostess.
“Molly! How nice to see you after these æons!”
“Why, I do believe it’s Charles Plethern! Now Charles, stand right here
and tell me all about your wicked self. I do declare I as soon expected
to see the man in the moon!”
“He’d have more gossip for you, my dear! I’ve become a domestic
paragon. And this is why. Viola, let me introduce you to a charming
person. Molly, this infant has been left me to look after.”
The Comtesse absorbed Viola in one flickering glance. Then she turned
to Charles and shook her head roguishly.
“My, what a man! I verily believe if you had a haunted house,
Charles Plethern, the ghost would be the prettiest girl in the whole
roundabout! Let me look at you, child. If you aren’t the sweetest
thing! Now you must both come to the opera with me to-morrow night. Say
you will! That’s fine! Ask for my box, and we’ll have a nice little
supper afterwards. Now I must do my social duties. Just you play around
and keep smiling and I’ll have a good talk to you both later.”
As she moved onward at her guardian’s side, Viola was suddenly
conscious of a new and aggressive scrutiny. Cautiously she glanced to
right and left. Music having begun in a farther room, the salon in
which they found themselves was comparatively clear of people, so that
she was not long in identifying her importunate observer.
“Charles,” she whispered, “who is that over there?--on the sofa?”
Following her discreet gesture, he turned as though casually, and saw
against the far wall a languid figure, propped gracefully on an ornate
settee. Its long emaciated face--clean-shaven, dead white save where
a touch of unconvincing rose gave colour to the cheeks, with eyebrows
like painted strokes--was crowned by a mass of auburn hair, elaborately
waved and parted scrupulously along the middle of the head; its body,
swathed in some kind of flowing gown of dark, rich silk, drooped rather
than lay against the sofa arm; below the fringe of the unusual garment
gleamed patent shoes, high-heeled and silver buckled; above them were
stockings, glimpsed rather than seen, of deep claret-purple.
Charles Plethern surveyed this curious phenomenon as his eyes,
seemingly concerned on other duty, swept down the gilded spaces of the
room.
Then he walked away with Viola on his arm.
“I haven’t the least idea,” he said. “Funny looking object, any way.
Might be anything.”
But though he straightway forgot his ward’s inquiry and his ambiguous
reply, Viola remembered the former and could afford to ignore the
latter, being by now more than enough a woman to know instinctively
when scrutiny was male.
They had barely passed through the curtained doorway to the music room
when the Comtesse de Villehardouin bustled into the saloon they had
just left, the saloon where still, draped against an ornate settee, a
strange, exhausted figure pondered their passing.
“Molly!”--the voice was singularly sweet, flutelike and gently
penetrant--“spare me the fraction of a second!”
She hurried across the room and stood in mock humility at the sofa-arm.
“My lord commands.”
“Something too exquisite for our detestable age has crossed my vision.
Who is she?”
“Bless the man, what does he mean? Describe!”
“A vision of grace and golden hair, Molly. A movement as lovely as a
boy’s; a straight slim figure from an ancient frieze. Skirts--wherefore
I compute it feminine; but such perfection as youths had in the great
days, perfection that you women----”
She silenced him with a deft movement of her fan.
“Be quiet, you wretch! Was this adorable alone?”
He shook his languid head.
“On the arm of a father--the very thought is sacrilege, but I am forced
to conclusions from conventional data--a father as unworthy as they
always are. Dark and lean and dreadfully English!” At this moment
Charles Plethern moved into distant sight. The man on the sofa seized
his hostess’ wrist.
“There, Quickly! That’s the man!”
“Now I know,” she cried. “Your divinity is Charles Plethern’s ward.
I’ll introduce you.”
As she darted away, her questioner turned the surname in his mind.
“Plethern? It sounds familiar. Plethern?” Then he remembered and, had
he been other than he was, would have raised his eyebrows in amused
surprise. But such excesses were denied him. He dared not raise his
eyebrows. They were lacquered.
With pleasurable nervousness Viola followed the Comtesse and her
guardian to a ceremony of introduction. As they approached, the man
on the sofa made no movement of greeting; only his eyes, deep-set and
piercing, fixed themselves appraisingly upon the girl.
“Charles,” said the Comtesse, “I want you to know Lord Rockarvon.
Stephen, this is Charles Plethern and this is his ward, Miss--” with a
quick laugh--“Miss Viola is all I know!”
Rockarvon extended a long, white hand.
“Mr. Plethern, I am delighted to know you. We are neighbours in
Gloucestershire, I believe. My wretched health--the same that keeps me
seated in these ladies’ presence--forbids my coming home as I could
wish. Perhaps Miss--er----” he paused for the name to be supplied, but
Charles was silent. Before she knew it, Viola herself had spoken.
“My name is Marvell, Lord Rockarvon.”
He gave her a look of leering gratitude and bowed.
“Miss Marvell--a thousand thanks--may I offer you a coner of this
admirable settee? If Mr. Plethern could bring that chair----?”
As the Comtesse, with an encouraging nod, turned and left them,
Charles recovered from the first shock of presentation. It had been so
completely unexpected, this strange encounter, but now he knew that he
was face to face, and for the first time, with the most stubborn enemy
of his ambitions.
“Thanks. I’ll stand,” he replied shortly. Then, with deliberate
abruptness, “I understood you were bedridden, Lord Rockarvon. It is a
surprise to find you visiting!”
“Visiting? Hardly that. I am an old lover of Molly’s, and one should
respect the ashes of one’s past. They are often a very charming shade
of grey. Indeed, you are almost right to call me bedridden--bed or
sofa--they have so much in common!”
Charles saw the glance the speaker threw toward Viola, saw her
perplexed but eager gravity; observed with rising distaste the
elaborate make-up of the man before him. His lips tightened.
“It is gratifying to know that rumour exaggerates,” he said drily.
“Viola, it is time to go. We are dining at eight, and it is seven now.
If Lord Rockarvon will excuse us----?”
“Of course,” was the courteous reply. “Perhaps we may meet again. You
are in Paris long?”
“We go south on Thursday night. I am afraid there is no time. Another
occasion, maybe.”
Rockarvon gestured polite regret.
“Ah! I am unfortunate. I should like Miss Marvell to see my pictures.
Number three, Rue des Montagnards. Au revoir, mademoiselle. You will
permit ‘au revoir’?”
She blushed prettily and, rising, gave him her hand.
“Au revoir,” she said.
Charles bowed slightly, murmured a farewell and led her away. Rockarvon
looked after them, and his eyes were thoughtful. Then with the tip of
his tongue he moistened his painted lips.
§ 3
“What a funny person,” said Viola, as with her guardian she drove
toward their hotel.
“Hardly funny,” retorted Charles crossly.
Viola noted his curtness and, teasingly, persisted.
“I thought he was very polite,” she ventured. “Why don’t you like him?”
Charles shuddered.
“Ugh!”
She laughed gaily.
“Poor old darling! He shan’t be bothered. Tell me one thing--is
Rockarvon the valley next to Morvane?”
He nodded.
“And it belongs to this ‘hardly funny’ lord?”
He nodded again.
“What’s the house like?”
“A ruin, my dear, because its owner is too rotten and selfish to care
for it.”
“Tut, tut!” Her voice was mockingly impertinent.
With an effort he controlled his temper and, after a moment, spoke
gravely and slowly.
“Listen, Viola. Rockarvon is a bad man. It is no use my telling you why
or how, because you wouldn’t understand. Just take my word for it, like
a good girl. He’s a bad man and no decent person should have anything
to do with him.”
“Then why does the admirable Molly ask him to her parties?”
The question came pert and instantly. Charles was discountenanced.
Incapable of bluster, his anger yielded to appreciation of her
quickness.
“Touché,” he said with a smile. “I confess I am surprised at Molly, and
a little shocked.”
“We’ll tell her so to-morrow!” laughed Viola.
* * * * *
But there was no opportunity. Others were present in the box and,
on the arrival at the discreet restaurant where the Comtesse was to
show her mettle as supper-giver, the situation was sensationally
transformed. Awaiting them in the private room, on a sofa specially
arranged for his convenience, was Rockarvon himself. Charles saw the
humour of the incident and banished indignation. He was not the man to
spoil a pleasant evening by heroics. His greeting was almost affable.
“You are ubiquitous for an invalid!” he said. “I had no idea we should
meet to-night.”
“Nor I, when we parted,” replied the other, with his queer, smooth
smile. “But Molly told me of her little supper party and, as I wanted
to see you both again, I asked to come.”
He turned to Viola:
“Mademoiselle, I kiss your hand. Did you enjoy _Don Giovanni_?”
“Very much, thank you. I have not heard it before.”
Rockarvon made her sit beside him, and began to talk of operas, their
composers and their history. He talked vividly and with caustic humour;
his knowledge of the by-ways of music seemed illimitable. Viola was
soon under the spell of his exotic personality. At first she felt
discomfort from his roving eyes. They stroked her shoulders, ran the
length of her body, returned to probe the shadows and laces at her
breast. Gradually, however, her embarrassment faded. With amusement and
with interest she followed his conversation; with a certain pride in
their evident approval, she let his glances go their unshrinking way.
Later in the evening he had a few words with Charles.
“I am so anxious,” he said, “to speak with you about my place over in
England. Agents can tell one some things, but a neighbour--a friendly
neighbour, if I do not presume too far--can be so vastly helpful. You
see, I am an exile. England disgusts me. I must have beauty and I must
have freedom. Inquisitive morality--that I cannot bear. You can tell me
so many facts----”
“Not very many, I fear,” interrupted Charles. “Trespassers are
prosecuted at Rockarvon.”
“No! Seriously? How utterly quaint! What barbarians my faithful
followers must be! Trespassers indeed! I have forgotten the meaning of
the word. But really--the place is becoming a white elephant. Perhaps
you could advise me----”
Charles’ heart gave a leap of excitement. Was it possible? In that
moment of dizzy hope, he forgot all his loathing for the creature
before him, forgot the rouged cheeks, the eyebrows of black and gold,
the finger-nails with their deep, gilded gleam. Only was he conscious
of a sudden unimagined promise of success--success of the kind that
alone had meaning.
But of this his expression showed no sign. Outwardly calm, he affected
to consider the other’s words.
“Advise you? I am not sure of the value of any advice I could give. But
I should be glad to be of any service within my power.”
“You do not leave till to-morrow night, I think? Are you free midday?
Will you take luncheon with me? Miss Marvell, too, of course. We will
look at my things and then you and I could have a few moments’ talk. I
should be very grateful----”
Charles turned to Viola:
“What do you say, child? Lord Rockarvon suggests we lunch with him
to-morrow. Did you promise Freda Thesiger to go and hear Pachmann, or
was it merely a suggestion?”
“Merely a suggestion. I’d far rather see Lord Rockarvon’s pictures.”
“I am entranced, mademoiselle. Then I may count on you for one o’clock?
I lunch early--foreign habits grow on one--you must forgive the cranks
of a _dépaysé_!”
“Thank you,” she said. “It will be very nice.”
Next morning early she sent a note to Miss Palliser (the daughter of an
English diplomat), pleading a final round of visits to her dressmakers.
“We leave so early Friday,” she concluded, “and I _must_ get
the things finished off. Please don’t hate me for failing you. I’m
_dying_ to hear Pachmann, but duty, you know, and all that!” Miss
Thesiger was displeased. She was left with a concert ticket on her
hands. But then she may have been unreasonable. The whole affair was
perhaps “merely a suggestion.”...
§ 4
The Rue des Montagnards was a short, narrow street lying between the
Invalides and the Orleans station. It had the secluded insignificance
proper to the remote dignity of its householders. The tall gates of
Number Three were opened by a gigantic negro, who with exaggerated
respect conducted his master’s guests across a gloomy little courtyard,
bunched with laurels, to the front door of the _hôtel_. In a
sombre, book-lined room, Rockarvon received his visitors.
Leaning heavily on a stick he moved to greet them. He was buttoned to
the chin in a plain, close-fitting gown of dark grey cloth, fur-edged
at skirt and wrists. His gaunt and painted face shone garishly in the
subdued light. As he raised her fingers to his lips, Viola shivered
involuntarily; he was so nearly the stuffed Jesuit of a no-popery
bonfire she had once seen on the borders of Quebec. But, when he spoke,
she began to fall once more under the spell of his sweet, quiet voice.
“Miss Marvell, you do me much honour. Mr. Plethern, you are welcome.
Allow me to present the Marchesa Raffini--Laura--Miss Viola Marvell,
Mr. Charles Plethern. They are my neighbours in Gloucestershire.”
A buxom lady, from the shadows near the fireplace, advanced with
stately calm. Bowing acknowledgement of the introduction, she turned
her slow gaze on Viola.
“Is this your first visit to Paris, Miss Marvell?”
The voice was deep and husky; its English clear and careful,
with little beyond a hint of accent. As they exchanged courteous
commonplace, Viola studied the plump, pale face under its picture
hat, the plump hands restlessly playing with a thin, gold chain that
lay across the expansive bosom. Each time the lady turned her eyes on
Viola, the girl was struck anew with their veiled aloofness. Clearly
the mind of the speaker was busy with matters more important and more
distant than the trivial things her tongue was speaking.
A low burst of music stirred the stagnant air. Rockarvon, who had sunk
on to a couch the moment that the ceremonies of presentation were
completed, tapped sharply on the parquet-flooring with his stick.
“Laura,” he said, “please lead the way.”
As she followed the Marchesa, Viola observed two monstrous, white-robed
figures surge from the darkness and go noiselessly toward the couch on
which their master lay. She had barely taken her place for luncheon
when the host, couch and all, was carried in by giant blacks and so
placed that his head and shoulders neighboured her at table.
“You are surprised at my servants?” he said, with the queer,
constricted smile that was all his maquillage allowed him. “They are
very gentle and faithful--when I tell them to be--aren’t you, my
children?”
The negroes grinned silently, rolling their eyes and goggling horribly
at Viola.
“It is as well you don’t set up your household in Gloucestershire,”
observed Charles with a smile. “The peasants would suspect you of magic
and probably burn you out.”
Rockarvon gestured amused appreciation.
“So? Then I have another reason to shirk my obligations.” Turning to
Viola, he asked if she had everything she wanted.
“You like _foie gras_? A fragment more? No? Ah, here is the wine.
Giton, some wine for the signorina! It is very light, this wine. I hope
Mr. Plethern will excuse a light, sweet wine? Ladies prefer it and my
own wretched digestion--you understand?”
An olive-skinned youth poured the dark, amber wine into tall twisted
glasses. The beauty of the boy was very striking, and for a moment his
oval face and long straight nose reminded Viola of Daniel. At a second
glance, however, she saw that the lips were fuller and coarser and that
the eyes narrowed at the corners into lines of cunning that gave oddly
a look of knowledge to the smooth young face.
Throughout the meal the Marchesa ate steadily and in silence. Her
flow of flat and meaningless talk seemed to have dried up or suddenly
to have been cut off. She hardly raised her eyes from the table and,
when not actually engaged with fork or bread, her white, round hands
fidgeted, fidgeted with the golden chain. Rockarvon, on the other hand,
talked easily and well. If he found Charles Plethern unresponsive he
did not show it, but passed skilfully from one subject to another,
often amusing, never oppressively informative.
Viola ventured admiring comment on the room in which they sat, praising
the unpolished wood-work of the walls, that bore no pictures to break
the long, soaring lines of their tall panelling. She inquired period
and origin of the branched candelabra that flanked the open hearth.
“Mademoiselle delights me as much by her taste as by the compliment she
pays to mine,” Rockarvon said. “My pictures are all elsewhere. It would
be a shame to blotch the lovely grain of these panels with paintings.
You agree? I knew you would. Mr. Plethern, Miss Marvell and I agree on
everything.”
Charles threw a quick glance at Viola, and a tiny frown flickered
between his eyes. When he spoke, however, he was suave and genial as
ever.
“The wood itself is an unusual colour. Might one inquire----?”
“It is a particular kind of Spanish walnut. I wanted something with a
flush of red in its greyness.”
“You are an amateur of house-decoration?”
“Of house-decoration? Well, I suppose I am--among other things. I think
I love nothing but beauty”--again those swift piercing eyes rested on
Viola--“beauty in one form or another.... It amuses me to gather lovely
things. On the whole, I prefer to be called an amateur of beauty ...
and sensation. It gives one more scope, doesn’t it?”
* * * * *
When at last luncheon was over, the host issued a command to the
Marchesa. They were the first words he had spoken to her, since bidding
her lead the way to table.
“Laura,” he said, “take Miss Marvell to the long gallery and show her
the pictures. Giton will bring some coffee and liqueurs. Mr. Plethern
and I will follow in a little while.”
The Marchesa rose obediently and, without a sound, sailed solemnly
toward the door. Viola followed. As she went, she felt that Rockarvon’s
eyes were on her, relishing her movements, appraising the lithe lines
of her figure. So strong was the feeling that, before she knew it, she
had turned at the doorway and looked back. Her guardian was lighting
a cigarette and so placed that he could not see her. Relentlessly the
strange eyes of the earl caught hers and held them. As though rooted to
the threshold, she paused an instant, giving him look for look. Then,
at an almost imperceptible gesture of his hand, the spell was broken;
easily she swung about and left the room.
When they were alone:
“And now for our little talk, Mr. Plethern,” said Rockarvon.
Charles shifted in his seat. Throughout luncheon discomfort had grown
upon him. He asked himself what folly had possessed him to come to
this fantastic creature’s home. His usual loquacity had deserted him;
unaccustomed to situations he could not dominate, he suffered the more
from the still, scented air of this luxurious house, from the sinister
finish of his host’s mannered grace. Now, directly addressed, he
shifted in his seat and struggled to rally his faculties.
“You wanted to ask about your house in Gloucestershire?” he muttered.
“I did,” replied the earl, “and yet I did not. Rather I wanted to make
you a proposition.”
He paused and Charles felt the blood coursing from his heart. At
the spur of ambition, all uneasiness left him. This man might be
a nightmare figure, but even nightmares bringing gifts--and such
gifts--were better than dreamless sleep.
“A proposition?”
“I will be quite frank with you, Plethern. I know pretty well that
you want that land of mine as badly as a man ever wanted anything.
Though I live out of the world, I have my sources of information, and
I can understand that Rockarvon, added to what I may be permitted to
call “the greater Morvane,” would make a very pretty stretch of solid
property. Well, Rockarvon is no good to me, except for what I can get
for it. Romantic nonsense about keeping a family skeleton, because
once the family lived with it in the cupboard, has no weight with me.
Further, between you and me, I shouldn’t be sorry to annoy my heir. I
don’t know him, but I believe he’s the usual pink-faced, beef-eating
Englishman. Have you ever felt the desire to annoy your heir?”
Charles smiled.
“I haven’t one,” he said, “not an official one--yet.”
“Yet? You think of marrying?”
“Good heavens, no!” said Charles crossly. “I didn’t mean that at all!
But please go on about Rockarvon.”
“Ah, yes, Rockarvon! Is it true what they tell me about your wishes?”
“More or less.” Charles was cautious now and spoke with an indifference
so studied that the earl immediately took it at its real value. “More
or less. I admit that the two estates would join nicely.”
“Very nicely,” said the other softly. “Very nicely indeed.”
There was a brief silence. Charles felt his uneasy restlessness
returning. Brusquely he sought to put a point to the discussion.
“What is the proposition?” he demanded a little roughly.
“The proposition,” said Rockarvon slowly, “is that I will exchange my
Gloucestershire lands for your Viola.”
For a moment Charles did not take in the significance of the words.
Then he stood up.
“If I were not your guest, Lord Rockarvon----” he began.
The earl waved an impatient hand.
“Sit down, man! Don’t be heroic. And don’t jump to conclusions. Perhaps
you will think calmly for a moment and then tell me why my suggestion
is so unacceptable to you.”
“Unacceptable!” cried Charles, and his voice was choked with fury.
“Unacceptable! God, man, do you think I’m a pimp?”
Rockarvon gave a low, sneering laugh.
“Bon Dieu, these English! Really, Plethern, how your mind runs to
melodrama! One asks oneself how English maidens ever contrive to marry,
if parents and guardians receive suitors so violently.”
Charles mastered his quivering nerves and with them his temper. He was
now cold and contemptuous, free of the baleful fog that had clouded his
understanding since first he set foot under Rockarvon’s roof.
“I forgot myself,” he said. “You must excuse me. Perhaps you would
explain in greater detail the honour you propose to do us.”
The earl seemed resentful of the other’s recovered ease of manner. He
spoke sulkily.
“I hardly think, after so insulting a welcome----”
“Come, come,” said Charles briskly. “I have asked pardon for my breach
of manners. You will realize that having gone so far, this thing must
go a little farther. You wish to exchange Rockarvon for my ward. On
what basis?”
“On a basis of legality and propriety,” replied the earl.
“You want to marry the girl?”
“If I marry your Viola,” parried the earl in his smoothest voice,
“I will settle Rockarvon on her. It remains for you to leave her
Morvane, so that ultimately the estates may be joined and your ambition
realized. I take it you are not so selfish as to wish yourself to own
the double property?”
“You want to marry Viola,” repeated Charles reflectively. Insolently he
looked the other up and down, seeking only to make evident his contempt
for the rotten emaciation of the limp, grey figure. “_You!_” Then,
after a moment’s pause: “I am sorry, Lord Rockarvon. Your proposal is
impossible.”
With a slight shrug, the earl pressed a bell at his side:
“Very well,” he said indifferently. “My delightful valley and its
surrounding fields remain with the house of Clavering--until I find
something else I want. Shall we join the ladies?”
But Charles was in no mood for further polite conversation.
“I think not,” he said harshly. “If one of your men could find a
cab...?”
To the negroes, who jointly answered their master’s bell, the earl
muttered the one word:
“Cab!”
He made no other sign of having heard Charles’ remark, nor did he
glance in his guest’s direction or speak another word to him. When one
of the huge, black servants returned and intimated that a cab was at
the door, Rockarvon still lolled immobile on his sofa.
“Tell the young lady,” he said.
The negro bowed and again disappeared. In a few moments Charles heard
his ward’s steps on the marble floor of the vestibule. He paused a
moment by the couch.
“I have to thank you for your hospitality,” he said stiffly. “I regret
that----”
But the earl, with an absent gesture of the hand, brushed the formality
aside. Head sunk on breast, he remained staring at the fire. Not by
word, look, nor movement did he show consciousness of his guests’
departure.
In the cab Viola questioned her guardian with anxious curiosity.
“What happened, Charles? Why are we running away like this? Why didn’t
you come upstairs? I was longing for you. That fat Marchesa would have
bored me to lunacy in another ten minutes. And I wanted to see that
charming man again.”
“Not a very charming man, Viola,” said Charles quietly.
“I think he is very charming,” she insisted pettishly. “He was very
polite to me and gave us a lovely lunch, and his house is beautiful. If
only you’d have come upstairs, we could have seen more of his things.
There were a few dingy pictures in the gallery, but I soon got through
with them and had to sit listening to that ghastly old woman drivelling
on and on....”
Charles knew enough not to attempt debate or explanation.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said placably. “We had an argument and didn’t
agree, and to stay longer would have been intolerably awkward.”
“I don’t see why I should suffer for your horrid old argument!” she
complained. “Did he ask us again? We shall be in Paris on our way home,
shan’t we? Can’t we go then?”
Charles did not reply. Foolishly she clung to her grievance, heedless
of danger signals.
“Charles, you _must_ answer me! When can we see Lord Rockarvon
again?”
He turned on her, suddenly furious.
“Never!” he shouted, and the old cab rocked with the violence of his
rage. Startled, scared and (in her heart of hearts) a little delighted
with his roughness, she shrank into her corner. For the remainder of
the drive, neither spoke a word. The same evening, by the night train,
they left for Rome.