EVENING OUT
He found Christine exactly as he had left her, in the same tea-gown
and the same posture, and on the same sofa. But a small table had
been put by the sofa; and on this table was a penny bottle of ink in
a saucer, and a pen. She was studying some kind of official form. The
pucker between the eyes was very marked.
"Already!" she exclaimed, as if amazed. "But there is not a clock
that goes, and I had not the least idea of the hour. Besides, I was
splitting my head to fill up this form."
Such was her notion of being exact! He had abandoned an important
meeting of a committee which was doing untold mercies to her
compatriots in order to keep his appointment with her; and she, whose
professional business it was that evening to charm him and harmonise
with him, had merely flouted the appointment. Nevertheless, her
gestures and smile as she rose and came towards him were so utterly
exquisite that immediately he also flouted the appointment. What,
after all, could it matter whether they dined at eight, nine, or even
ten o'clock?
"Thou wilt pardon me, monster?" she murmured, kissing him.
No woman had ever put her chin up to his as she did, nor with a glance
expressed so unreserved a surrender to his masculinity.
She went on, twining languishingly round him:
"I do not know whether I ought to go out. I am yet far from--It is
perhaps imprudent."
"Absurd!" he protested--he could not bear the thought of her not
dining with him. He knew too well the desolation of a solitary dinner.
"Absurd! We go in a taxi. The restaurant is warm. We return in a
taxi."
"To please thee, then."
"What is that form?"
"It is for the telephone. Thou understandest how it is necessary that
I have the telephone--me! But I comprehend nothing of this form."
She passed him the form. She had written her name in the space
allotted. "Christine Dubois." A fair calligraphy! But what a name!
The French equivalent of "Smith". Nothing could be less distinguished.
Suddenly it occurred to him that Concepcion's name also was Smith.
"I will fill it up for you. It is quite simple."
"It is possible that it is simple when one is English. But
English--that is as if to say Chinese. Everything contrary. Here is a
pen."
"No. I have my fountain-pen." He hated a cheap pen, and still more a
penny bottle of ink, but somehow this particular penny bottle of ink
seemed touching in its simple ugliness. She was eminently teachable.
He would teach her his own attitude towards penny bottles of ink....
Of course she would need the telephone--that could not be denied.
As Christine was signing the form Marthe entered with the
chrysanthemums, which he had handed over to her; she had arranged them
in a horrible blue glass vase cheaply gilded; and while Marthe was
putting the vase on the small table there was a ring at the outer
door. Marthe hurried off.
Christine said, kissing him again tenderly:
"Thou art a squanderer! Fine for me to tell thee not to buy costly
flowers! Thou has spent at least ten shillings for these. With ten
shillings--"
"No, no!" he interrupted her. "Five." It was a fib. He had paid half a
guinea for the few flowers, but he could not confess it.
They could hear a powerful voice indistinctly booming at the top of
the stairs. "Two callers on one afternoon!" G.J. reflected. And yet
she had told him she went out for the first time only the day before
yesterday! He scarcely liked it, but his reason rescued him from the
puerility of a grievance against her on this account. "And why not?
She is bound to be a marked success."
Marthe returned to the drawing-room and shut the door.
"Madame--" she began, slightly agitated.
"Speak, then!" Christine urged, catching her agitation.
"It is the police!"
G.J. had a shock. He knew many of the policemen who lurked in the dark
doorways of Piccadilly at night, had little friendly talks with them,
held them for excellent fellows. But a policeman invading the flat of
a courtesan, and himself in the flat, seemed a different being from
the honest stalwarts who threw the beams of lanterns on the key-holes
of jewellers' shops.
Christine steeled herself to meet the crisis with self-reliance. She
pointedly did not appeal to the male.
"Well, what is it that he wants?"
"He talks of the chimney. It appears this morning there was a chimney
on fire. But since we burn only anthracite and gas--He knows madame's
name."
There was a pause. Christine asked sharply and mysteriously:
"How much do you think?"
"If madame gave five pounds--having regard to the _chic_ of the
quarter."
Christine rushed into the bedroom and came back with a five-pound
note.
"Here! Chuck that at him--politely. Tell him we are very sorry."
"Yes, madame."
"But he'll never take it. You can't treat the London police like
that!" G.J. could not help expostulating as soon as Marthe had gone.
He feared some trouble.
"My poor friend!" Christine replied patronisingly. "Thou art not up
in these things. Marthe knows her affair--a woman very experienced in
London. He will take it, thy policeman. And if I do not deceive myself
no more chimneys will burn for about a year.... Ah! The police do not
wipe their noses with broken bottles!" (She meant that the police knew
their way about.) "I no more than they, I do not wipe my nose with
broken bottles."
She was moved, indignant, stoutly defensive. G.J. grew self-conscious.
Moreover, her slang disturbed him. It was the first slang he had heard
her use, and in using it her voice had roughened. But he remembered
that Concepcion also used slang--and advanced slang--upon occasion.
The booming ceased; a door closed. Marthe returned once more.
"Well?"
"He is gone. He was very nice, madame. I told him about madame--that
madame was very discreet." Marthe finished in a murmur.
"So much the better. Now, help me to dress. Quick, quick! Monsieur
will be impatient."
G.J. was ashamed of the innocence he had displayed, and ashamed, too,
of the whole Metropolitan Police Force, admirable though it was in
stopping traffic for a perambulator to cross the road. Five pounds!
These ladies were bled. Five pounds wanted earning.... It was a good
sign, though, that she had not so far asked him to contribute. And he
felt sure that she would not.
"Come in, then, poltroon!" She cooed softly and encouragingly from the
bedroom, where Marthe was busy with her.
The door between the bedroom and the drawing-room was open. G.J.,
humming, obeyed the invitation and sat down on the bed between two
heaps of clothes. Christine was very gay; she was like a child. She
had apparently quite forgotten her migraine and also the incident of
the policeman. She snatched the cigarette from G.J.'s mouth, took a
puff, and put it back again. Then she sat in front of the large mirror
and did her hair while Marthe buttoned her boots. Her corset fitted
beautifully, and as she raised her arms above her head under the
shaded lamp G.J. could study the marvellous articulation of the
arms at the bare shoulders. The close atmosphere was drenched with
femininity. The two women, one so stylish and the other by contrast
piquantly a heavy slattern, hid nothing whatever from him, bestowing
on him with perfect tranquillity the right to be there and to watch
at his ease every mysterious transaction.... The most convincing proof
that Christine was authentically young! And G.J. had the illusion
again that he was in the Orient, and it was extraordinarily agreeable.
The recollection of the scene of the Lechford Committee amused him
like a pantomime witnessed afar off through a gauze curtain. It had no
more reality than that. But he thought better of the committee now. He
perceived the wonderful goodness of it and of its work. It really was
running those real hospitals; it had a real interest in them. He meant
to do his very best in the accounts department. After all, he had been
a lawyer and knew the routine of an office and the minutest phenomena
of a ledger. He was eager to begin.
"How findest thou me?"
She stood for inspection.
She was ready, except the gloves. The angle of her hat, the
provocation of her veil--these things would have quickened the pulse
of a Patagonian. Perfume pervaded the room.
He gave the classic response that nothing could render trite:
"_Tu es exquise_."
She raised her veil just above her mouth....
In the drawing-room she hesitated, and then settled down on the
piano-stool like a bird alighting and played a few bars from the
_Rosenkavalier_ waltz. He was thunderstruck, for she had got not only
the air but some of the accompaniment right.
"Go on! Go on!" he urged her, marvelling.
She turned, smiling, and shook her head.
"That is all that I can recall to myself."
The obvious sincerity of his appreciation delighted her.
"She is really musical!" he thought, and was convinced that while
looking for a bit of coloured glass he had picked up an emerald.
Marthe produced his overcoat, and when he was ready for the street
Christine gazed at him and said:
"For the true _chic_, there are only Englishmen!"
In the taxi she proved to him by delicate effronteries the genuineness
of her confessed "fancy" for him. And she poured out slang. He began
to be afraid, for this excursion was an experiment such as he had
never tried before in London; in Paris, of course, the code was
otherwise. But as soon as the commissionaire of the restaurant at
Victoria approached the door of the taxi her manner changed. She
walked up the long interior with the demureness of a stockbroker's
young wife out for the evening from Putney Hill. He thought, relieved,
"She is the embodiment of common sense." At the end of the vista of
white tables the restaurant opened out to the left. In a far corner
they were comfortably secure from observation. They sat down. A waiter
beamed his flatteries upon them. G.J. was serenely aware of his own
skilled faculty for ordering a dinner. He looked over the menu card at
Christine. Nobody could possibly tell that she was a professed enemy
of society. "These French women are astounding!" he thought. He
intensely admired her. He was mad about her. His bliss was extreme. He
could not keep it within bounds meet for the great world-catastrophe.
He was happy as for quite ten years he had never hoped to be. Yes, he
grieved for Concepcion; but somehow grief could not mingle with nor
impair the happiness he felt. And was not Concepcion lying in the
affectionate arms of Queenie Paulle?
Christine, glancing about her contentedly, reverted to one of her
leading ideas:
"Truly, it is very romantic, thy London!"