“Till next week, Gill. Good-bye.”
One Thursday, half-way through June, such a meeting took place.
When coffee had been served, and the two were left to themselves,
“My dear,” observed Giles, “let me thank you for a most toothsome
repast.”
“It isn’t my fault,” said his wife. “‘Better is a dinner of herbs where
love is.’”
“Oh, ‘Cries of “Shame,”’” said Giles. “‘Cries of “Shame” and
“Withdraw.”’ ‘Dinner of herbs’! Why, each of those tournedos was a
stalled ox in itself. And no hatred, neither. That sole, too!” He sighed
memorially, raising thankful eyes. “You know, we’ve beaten the sword
into a fish-slice and the proverb into a cocked hat. Seriously, Kate,
we’ve shown considerable skill.”
“In reverting to the rank of private?”
Giles nodded.
“After being temporarily attached.”
His wife regarded the tip of her cigarette.
“Ducks take to water,” she said.
“And men take to drink,” said Giles, “if they happen to be born thirsty.
The point is——”
“Have another glass of port,” said Katharine.
“No, thanks,” said Giles. “Not that it isn’t excellent. It’s—it’s not
of this world. Uncle Fulke left it me. But let that pass. The point is,
you and I are naturally gregarious. Our instinct is to flock. I like
someone to talk to while I’m getting up. You like someone to obstruct
while dressing for dinner. Don’t think I’m being rude. The way in which
you used to call me to give you your towel, is among my most treasured
memories. Now, the curse of solitude has fallen upon our toilets.” He
spread out eloquent hands. “Yet, our personalities survive. The first
two or three days, while shaving, the bath seemed a bit empty, but——”
“They do more than survive,” said Katharine, tilting an exquisite chin.
“To judge from the quantity and quality of our invitations, we cut more
ice than before. In fact, Fate’s been properly stung. By rights, we
ought to be outcastes. As it is . . .”
She let the sentence go and inhaled luxuriously.
“Exactly,” said Giles. “It’s because we sink our feelings. Instead of
bleating——”
“Are you sure we’re gregarious?” said Katharine.
“Of course we are,” said Giles. “We bleated because we were alone. We
heard each other bleating, and—and forgathered. We were lonely, and
hated the state. We were and are gregarious. I repeat that the way in
which we have harked back to celibacy does us infinite credit.”
“Honour to whom honour is due,” said Mrs. Festival. “I’m not gregarious.
I thought I was. I thought I would like a confidant—someone to cry my
thoughts to without having to think what I said, someone who’ld give me
my towel and—and generally understand.”
“In fact, a blinkin’ soul-mate?”
“And towel-horse combined. Exactly. Well, _I was wrong_.”
“But you bleated,” protested Giles. “I heard you. You advertised for a
soul-mate, and I applied for the place. A waster by nature, I presently
let you down, but that’s irrelevant.”
“It’s also untrue,” said his wife. “And you know it. You never let
anyone down. Never mind. Gill, I’m afraid I married in much the same
frame of mind as I try a new scent.” The other started. “I’ve always
used _Baladeuse_, and always shall. But now and again I go mad and waste
your substance on a bottle of something else. Then, when I’ve used it
twice, I give it to Beatrice.”
Considerably taken by surprise, her husband regarded his ash-tray with
an offensive stare. Presently he sighed.
“At least,” he murmured, “I escaped that odious depository. . . .”
Katharine began to shake with laughter. “I see. Not to put too fine an
edge upon it, you married out of pure curiosity. In a mad moment you
ventured out of spinsterhood just to see what coverture was like. And I
was under the impression that—— Never mind. It’s a pretty simile.
Perfume. I suppose I was a sixpenny flask of _’Ard an’ Bright_. . . .
Oh, _très intéressant_.” Releasing the ash-tray, he shifted his gaze to
the ceiling and, drawing at his cigarette, meditatively expelled the
smoke. “Supposing,” he added slowly, “supposing—to preserve the
parable—you had another—er—_lapsus cordis_ . . . got momentarily sick
of _Baladeuse_ and, forgetful of jolly old _’Ard an’ Bright_, felt
impelled to try _What are the Wild Oats Saying_, or some other
frankincense?”
Katharine shot her husband a lightning glance.
Then she raised her sweet eyebrows.
“And you?” she said. “Supposing you hear someone bleating . . . and
. . . and the flocking instinct once more asserts itself?”
Deliberately, Giles extinguished his cigarette.
“I shall put up a fight,” he said coolly, “the deuce of a fight. I shall
stick in my elegant toes and put up a fight.”
Katharine leaned forward.
“And I,” she said slowly, with a dazzling smile, “shall do precisely the
same.”
For a moment the two looked into each other’s eyes.