As they drove from Luigi's to Knightsbridge, Louise leaned back in her
corner. Although her eyes were only half closed, there was an air of
aloofness about her, an obvious lack of desire for conversation, which
the others found themselves instinctively respecting. Even Sophy's
light-hearted chatter seemed to have deserted her, somewhat to John's
relief.
He sat back in his place, his eyes fixed upon Louise. He was so anxious
to understand her in all her moods and vagaries. He was forced to admit
to himself that she had deliberately chosen not to take any portion of
that drive home alone with him. And yet, as he looked back through the
evening, he told himself that he was satisfied. He declined to feel even
a shadow of discouragement.
After a time he withdrew his eyes from her face and looked out upon the
human panorama through which they were passing.
They were in the very vortex of London's midnight traffic. The night was
warm for the time of year, and about Leicester Square and beyond the
pavements were crowded with pedestrians, the women lightly and gaily
clad, flitting, notwithstanding some sinister note about their
movements, like butterflies or bright-hued moths along the pavements and
across the streets. The procession of taxicabs and automobiles, each
with its human freight of men and women in evening dress on their way
home after an evening's pleasure, seemed endless.
Presently Sophy began to talk, and Louise, too, roused herself.
"I am only just beginning to realize," the latter said, "that you are
actually in London."
"When I leave you," he replied, "I, too, shall find it hard to believe
that we have actually met again and talked. There seems to be so much
that I have to say," he added, looking at her closely, "and I have said
nothing."
"There is plenty of time," she told him, and once more the signs of that
slight nervousness were apparent in her manner. "There are weeks and
months ahead of us."
"When shall I see you again?" he asked.
"Whenever you like. There are no rehearsals for a day or two. Ring me up
on the telephone--you will find my number in the book--or come and lunch
with me to-morrow, if you like."
"Thank you," he answered; "that is just what I should like. At what
time?"
"Half past one. I will not ask either of you to come in now. You can
come down to-morrow morning and get the books, Sophy. I think I am
tired--tired," she added, with a curious little note of self-pity in her
tone. "I am very glad to have seen you again, Mr. Strangewey," she said,
lifting her eyes to his. "Good night!"
He helped her out, rang the bell, and watched her vanish through the
swiftly opened door. Then he stepped back into the taxicab. Sophy
retreated into the corner to make room for him.
"You are going to take me home, are you not?" she asked.
"Of course," he replied, his eyes still fixed with a shade of regret
upon the closed door of Louise's little house. "No. 10 Southampton
Street," he told the driver.
They turned round and spun once more into the network of moving vehicles
and streaming pedestrians. John was silent, and his companion, for a
little while, humored him. Soon, however, she touched him on the arm.
"This is still your first night in London," she reminded him, "and there
is to-morrow. You are going to lunch with her to-morrow. Won't you talk
to me, please?"
He shut the door upon a crowd of disturbing thoughts and fantastic
imaginings, and smiled back at her. Her fingers remained upon his arm. A
queer gravity had come into her dainty little face.
"Are you really in love with Louise?" she inquired, with something of
his own directness.
He answered her with perfect seriousness.
"I believe so," he admitted, "but I should not like to say that I am
absolutely certain. I have come here to find out."
Sophy suddenly rocked with laughter.
"You are the dearest, queerest madman I have ever met!" she exclaimed,
holding tightly to his arm. "You sit there with a face as long as a
fiddle, wondering whether you are in love with a girl or not! Well, I am
not going to ask you anything more. Tell me, are you tired?"
"Not a bit," he declared. "I never had such a ripping evening in my
life."
She held his arm a little tighter. She was the old Sophy again, full of
life and gaiety.
"Let's go to the Aldwych," she suggested, "and see the dancing. We can
just have something to drink. We needn't have any more supper."
"Rather!" he assented readily. "But where is it, and what is it?"
"Just a supper club," she told him. "Tell the man No. 19 Kean Street.
What fun! I haven't been there for weeks."
"What about my clothes?" he asked.
"You'll be all right," she assured him. "You're quite a nice-looking
person, and the manager is a friend of mine."
The cab stopped a few minutes later outside what seemed to be a private
house except for the presence of a commissionnaire upon the pavement.
The door was opened at once, and John was relieved of his hat and stick
by a cloak-room attendant. Sophy wrote his name in a book, and they were
ushered by the manager, who had come forward to greet them, into a long
room, brilliantly lit, and filled, except in the center, with
supper-tables.
They selected one near the wall and close to the open space in which, at
the present moment, a man and a woman were dancing. The floor was of
hardwood, and there was a little raised platform for the orchestra. John
looked around him wonderingly. The popping of champagne corks was almost
incessant. A slightly voluptuous atmosphere of cigarette-smoke, mingled
with the perfumes shaken from the clothes and hair of the women, several
more of whom were now dancing, hung about the place. A girl in fancy
dress was passing a great basket of flowers from table to table.
Sophy sat with her head resting upon her hands and her face very close
to her companion's, keeping time with her feet to the music.
"Isn't this rather nice?" she whispered. "Do you like being here with
me, Mr. John Strangewey?"
"Of course I do," he answered heartily. "Is this a restaurant?"
She shook her head.
"No, it's a club. We can sit here all night, if you like."
"Can I join?" he asked.
She laughed as she bent for a form and made him fill it in.
"Tell me," he begged, as he looked around him, "who are these girls?
They look so pretty and well dressed, and yet so amazingly young to be
out at this time of night."
"Mostly actresses," she replied, "and musical-comedy girls. I was in
musical comedy myself before Louise rescued me."
"Did you like it?"
"I liked it all right," she admitted, "but I left it because I wasn't
doing any good. I can dance pretty well, but I have no voice, so there
didn't seem to be any chance of my getting out of the chorus; and one
can't even pretend to live on the salary they pay you, unless one has a
part."
"But these girls who are here to-night?"
"They are with their friends, of course," she told him. "I suppose, if
it hadn't been for Louise, I should have been here, too--with a friend."
"I should like to see you dance," he remarked, in a hurry to change the
conversation.
"I'll dance to you some day in your rooms, if you like," she promised.
"Or would you like me to dance here? There is a man opposite who wants
me to. Would you rather I didn't? I want to do just which would please
you most."
"Dance, by all means," he insisted. "I should like to watch you."
She nodded, and a minute or two later she had joined the small crowd in
the center of the room, clasped in the arms of a very immaculate young
man who had risen and bowed to her from a table opposite. John leaned
back in his place and watched her admiringly. Her feet scarcely touched
the ground. She never once glanced at or spoke to her partner, but every
time she passed the corner where John was sitting, she looked at him and
smiled.
He, for his part, watched her no longer with pleasant interest, but with
almost fascinated eyes. The spirit of the place was creeping into his
blood. His long years of seclusion seemed like a spell of time lying
curiously far away, a crude period, mislived in an atmosphere which,
notwithstanding its austere sweetness, took no account of the human cry.
He refilled his glass with champagne and deliberately drank its
contents. It was splendid to feel so young and strong, to feel the wine
in his veins, his pulse and his heart moving to this new measure!
His eyes grew brighter, and he smiled back at Sophy. She suddenly
released her hold upon her partner and stretched out her arms to him.
Her body swayed backward a little. She waved her hands with a gesture
infinitely graceful, subtly alluring. Her lips were parted with a smile
almost of triumph as she once more rested her hand upon her partner's
shoulder.
"Who is your escort this evening?" the latter asked her, speaking almost
for the first time.
"You would not know him," she replied. "He is a Mr. John Strangewey, and
he comes from Cumberland."
"Just happens that I do know him," the young man remarked. "Thought I'd
seen his face somewhere. Used to be up at the varsity with him. We once
played rackets together. Hasn't he come into a pile just lately?"
"An uncle in Australia left him a fortune."
"I'll speak to him presently," the young man decided. "Always make a
point of being civil to anybody with lots of oof!"
"I expect he'll be glad to meet you again," Sophy remarked. "He doesn't
know a soul in town."
The dance was finished. They returned together to where John was
sitting, and the young man held out a weary hand.
"Amerton, you know, of Magdalen," he said. "You're Strangewey, aren't
you?"
"Lord Amerton, of course!" John exclaimed. "I thought your face was
familiar. Why, we played in the rackets doubles together!"
"And won 'em, thanks to you," Amerton replied. "Are you up for long?"
"I am not quite sure," John told him. "I only arrived last night."
"Look me up some time, if you've nothing better to do," the young man
suggested. "Where are you hanging out?"
"The Milan."
"I am at the Albany. So-long! Must get back to my little lady."
He bowed to Sophy and departed. She sank a little breathlessly into her
chair and laid her hand on John's arm. Her cheeks were flushed, her
bosom was rising and falling quickly.
"I am out of breath," she said, her head thrown back, perilously near to
John's shoulder. "Lord Amerton dances so well. Give me some champagne!"
"And you--you dance divinely," he told her, as he filled her glass.
"If we were alone," she whispered, "I should want you to kiss me!"
The stem of the wine-glass in John's fingers snapped suddenly, and the
wine trickled down to the floor. A passing waiter hurried up with a
napkin, and a fresh glass was brought. The affair was scarcely noticed,
but John remained disturbed and a little pale.
"Have you cut your hand?" Sophy asked anxiously.
"Not at all," he assured her. "How hot it is here! Do you mind if we
go?"
"Go?" she exclaimed disconsolately. "I thought you were enjoying
yourself so much!"
"So I am," he answered, "but I don't quite understand--"
He paused.
"Understand what?" she demanded.
"Myself, if you must know."
She set down the glass which she had been in the act of raising to her
lips.
"How queer you are!" she murmured. "Listen. You haven't got a wife or
anything up in Cumberland, have you?"
"You know I haven't," he answered.
"You're not engaged to be married, you have no ties, you came up here
perfectly free, you haven't even said anything yet--to Louise?"
"Of course not."
"Well, then--" she began.
Her words were so softly spoken that they seemed to melt away. She
leaned forward to look in his face.
"Sophy," he begged, with sudden and almost passionate earnestness, "be
kind to me, please! I am just a simple, stupid countryman, who feels as
if he had lost his way. I have lived a solitary sort of life--an
unnatural one, you would say--and I've been brought up with some
old-fashioned ideas. I know they are old-fashioned, but I can't throw
them overboard all at once. I have kept away from this sort of thing. I
didn't think it would ever attract me--I suppose because I didn't
believe it could be made so attractive. I have suddenly found out--that
it does!"
"What are you going to do?" she whispered.
"There is only one thing for me to do," he answered. "Until I know what
I have come to London to learn, I shall fight against it."
"You mean about Louise?"
"I mean about Louise," he said gravely.
Sophy came still closer to him. Her voice was as soft as the lightest,
finest note of music, trembling a little with that one thread of
passion. She seemed so dainty, so quiet and sweet, that for a moment he
found himself able to imagine that it was all a dream; that hers was
just one of those fairy, disquieting voices that floated about on the
summer breeze and rippled along the valleys and hillsides of his
Cumberland home. Then, swift as the fancy itself, came the warm touch of
her hand upon his, the lure of her voice once more, with its trembling
cadence.
"Why are you so foolish?" she murmured. "Louise is very wonderful in her
place, but she is not what you want in life. Has it never occurred to
you that you may be too late?"
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"I believe what the world believes, what some day I think she will admit
to herself--that she cares for the Prince of Seyre."
"Has she ever told you so?"
"Louise never speaks of these things to any living soul. I am only
telling you what I think. I am trying to save you pain--trying for my
own sake as well as yours."
He paid his bill and stooped to help her with her cloak. Her heart sank,
her lips quivered a little. It seemed to her that he had passed to a
great distance.
"Very soon," John said, "I shall ask Louise to tell me the truth. I
think that I shall ask her, if I can, to-morrow!"