“Heaven forbid that I should guess!” Millicent replied. “Men are frail
creatures.”
“He was speaking,” I continued, “of women as a domestic institution. No
home, he said, was complete without one. Considered decoratively, she
gave an air of brightness----”
Bassishaw must have been as busy in his pedipulations as an organist,
for Caroline peremptorily held out her glass to be replenished. I
continued:
“As a companion, he said, much could be forgiven her. And she had
admirable managing gifts.”
Millicent bowed across the flowers.
“The sex thanks you, Arthur,” she said. “It is quite the proper point of
view for a young man. As for this belated bachelor,”--myself--“he never
did, nor ever will, think rightly on the subject.”
Bassishaw looked at me reproachfully.
“I didn’t mean--what you think I meant,” he said uncomfortably.
“Forgive me. You meant much more than I say I think you meant.”
“I meant--I meant----” he replied; and then, apologetically, “well, you
_are_ getting on, you know, and you’ve missed so much, really, Rollo. If
you _like_ being alone----A man who’s never--you don’t mind my saying
it?--well, he doesn’t know, that’s all.”
Bassishaw subsided rather incoherently, but applied himself to his plate
with conviction. I looked at Millicent, who glanced sidelong fun under
her lids.
“What you say is perfectly convincing as a proposition, Arthur,” she
remarked. “The man who’s Never--never does know; but the application is
another matter. From report, there were hopes for Rollo Butterfield that
he has failed to justify. He flirted notoriously.”
“Thank you, gracious lady,” I replied complacently, leaning back at my
ease. “That is the name the world gives it.”
“Your conduct with Dolly Hemingway was shameless.”
“Marriage would certainly have been an illogical conclusion,” I
admitted.
“And Violet Mellish told me herself----”
“Dear little Vi,” I approved. “Her conversation never did lack the
relish of revelation. You must not suppose, Arthur, that I have not had
the normal past that my years would guarantee. You appear to think so.”
Bassishaw didn’t seem to see it at all. He fumbled with his fork.
“I expect you’ve had your fancies, of course,” he replied. “But I don’t
mean just fancies--that’s only flirting.”
The man who cannot flirt never sees that the power to do so is a gift of
the gods. Arthur held by negative constancy.
“Flirtation,” I replied, “is not the simple affair you think, Arthur. It
is not necessarily a matter of twilights and conservatories, and does
not even always demand privacy. For a flirtation with zest there is
nothing like having an audience. Is that not so, Millicent?”
“Spare me the revelation of my ignorance,” Millicent returned, moving
her chair an inch or two from the now importunate fire, and looking over
her shoulder. “It is possible.”
“The only requisites are a woman, a secret, and as many spectators as
have not the use of their eyes,” I continued; “those granted, you may
riot in innuendo, and your reputation go scatheless. It is the very
button on the cap.”
Bassishaw could think of nothing more original to say than that it was
playing with edged tools. Carrie was directing the removal of plates; I
devoted my attention to Millicent.
“I had one very serious fancy, though, Millicent,” I remarked. “Shall I
tell you?”
“I trust it is not unfit for the children,” she replied, looking this
time beneath the flowers at Bassishaw. “The knowledge of good and evil
from your point of view might not be of advantage to them.”
Caroline looked round curiously.
“Oh, Rollo, what was that?” she said. “You never told me.”
“No?” I inquired incredulously. “And you my sister, too! Ah, well, it
was this. Summer mornings, at seven, I used to go across the fields with
a bathing-towel; on my return I was generally met by--I never mentioned
her name.”
“It would be indiscreet,” said Millicent.
“Discretion,” I answered, “is the better part of flirtation. They were
lovely mornings, and there was a stile--a rather high stile--a distinct
opportunity.”