_Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival have arrived at Evian-les-Bains._
This was misleading.
By the time the paragraph appeared, Giles was in Scotland. . . .
For the time, however, the _suggestio falsi_ effectually throttled any
inkling of the truth.
Indeed, it was not until the end of May that people began to appreciate
that what they had regarded as a fiction was a stubborn _fait accompli_.
That such an estrangement should create a profound sensation was natural
enough. People could hardly believe their eyes or ears. Friends and
acquaintances stared at the astounding truth, like stuck pigs. The
projected divorce of an archbishop would not have occasioned one quarter
of such amazement.
Again, it was natural enough that, having recovered her breath, Mayfair
should prepare to let out a perfect squeal of dismay. Her sparrow was
dead. The bear was robbed of its whelps.
The bellow, however, died on Society’s lips.
Having rammed home the punch, Giles and Katharine proceeded to apply the
healing balm.
In the first place, the linen they were washing in public was spotlessly
clean. Secondly, the two laundered comfortably, without the slightest
embarrassment. Thirdly, their cheerful disregard of the traditions of
Separation turned the tragedy into _opéra bouffe_.
The general feeling of disappointment was still-born, to be immediately
succeeded by a sense of bewildered relief.
Captain and Mrs. Festival became more popular than ever.
Isolated efforts to brand them died an inglorious death.
Mrs. Soulsden Clutch, who faithfully attended Divine Service at St.
Paul’s, Knightsbridge, and had nagged and bullied her husband into
another world, announced that words failed her, and then spoke long and
authoritatively upon the advertisement of indecency and of contempt for
marriage vows.
Mrs. Busby Shawl, surnamed ‘The Comforter,’ went further and cut the two
in the Park, afterwards broadcasting her achievement with the innocent
air of one who, blinded with integrity, has shamed the Devil and is now
uncertain whether it was a Christian thing to do.
But the findings of such censors of morality were coldly received: and,
after exchanging malice for the inside of a week, the latter reviled one
another and elbowed and fought their way into what they had lately
described as ‘the House of Rimmon.’
The fun became fast and furious.
Joint invitations which had been jointly declined were re-issued
severally and severally accepted. Invitations which had not been sent
were hastily extended. The dates of parties, dances, week-ends became
actually contingent upon the Festivals’ ability to attend.
The pets had become lion-cubs.
Katharine gave a dance.
Giles was invited, and gave a dinner beforehand, taking his guests on.
He danced twice with his hostess, enjoyed champagne he had chosen, sat
out in his own library.
Giles gave a luncheon, inviting eleven guests. Of these his wife made
one, and, taking her proper precedence, sat on her husband’s left.
Afterwards, the Rolls being there, he dropped her at Sloane Street and
was deliciously thanked.
That night they met at a ball in Belgrave Square, and the next week-end
in Hampshire, as two of the Pleydells’ guests.
On five days out of seven they junketed side by side.
On Derby Day they went to the Daneboroughs’ dance—a brilliant affair,
which blazed till nearly five on the following day. Its remembrance was
slightly marred by Mrs. Festival’s omission to take her latchkey and
subsequent inability to ‘make her servants hear.’ Necessity knows no
law. Giles, who had left early, was roused from a refreshing slumber by
the night-porter of his Club and apprised of the facts. . . . There was
only one thing to be done. He did it gallantly, with a suit over his
pyjamas and pumps on his naked feet. The aggravated assault which he
presently committed upon his own front door was audibly condemned by
several infuriated residents in Berkeley Square. His butler, who had
just got to sleep again, also condemned it with great savagery, but,
after hoping against hope that the reinforcement his mistress had
unearthed would also lose heart, himself at last succumbed to Captain
Festival’s importunity. . . . His work over, the latter returned to his
Club, wondering whether he could with decency suggest that a duplicate
latchkey should be kept at the nearest police station. He need not have
troubled his head. The following day, a gong the size of a soup-plate
was installed beneath the butler’s bedstead. Upon observing its
dimensions, the butler was greatly moved, but, while declaring in the
servants’ hall that Katharine was no lady, he was forced to admit to
himself that his mistress was no fool.
Out of the flood of their engagements, the two were careful to save one
evening a week, upon which they dined together at their own house.
Afterwards they sat in the library until eleven o’clock. Then Giles
would get up, and Katharine come to the door to see him out. Arrived at
the threshold, her husband would kiss her fingers.
“Good night, sweetheart. Sleep well.”