“I—I hope you’ll win,” said Giles uneasily. “I mean—I should like to
think that _’Ard an’ Bright_ was the only serious rival _Baladeuse_ ever
had. Besides . . . I’m sure _I_ shall win,” he added confidently. “You
can bet your little boots about that. You know. The patent-leather ones
I used to pull off after breakfast.”
Katharine rose to her feet.
“I’m going,” she said, “to the library. Remember me to the port and then
follow me in.” Her husband stepped to the door and held it open. As she
was passing, she stopped and laid a hand upon his arm. “Promise me one
thing, Gill.”
“Of course,” said Giles gallantly.
“Listen. If ever you hear someone bleat, don’t come and dine here with
me until—until the fight’s over.”
Her husband drew himself up.
“My darling,” he said, “I give you my precious word.” He hesitated.
“And—and you’ld put me off, wouldn’t you, if—if anything looked like
displacing _Baladeuse_?”
Katharine nodded.
* * * * *
Five crowded weeks had slipped by.
The Courts were over: Ascot had come and gone: another shining Henley
had floated into the past.
People were beginning to collect their wraps. The carnival was nearly
done.
Of late, the Festivals had not met nearly so much.
The reason for this is illuminating.
Each was declining a number of invitations.
Since, however, they never discussed their engagements, Katharine
imagined that Giles was still ‘going strong,’ while the latter, lying
wakeful in bed, pictured his wife dancing night after night into the
dawn.
Fantasy did not stop there.
They had made two of the house-party gathered at Castle Charing a
fortnight before. The weather had been inviting, and Katharine and Pat
Lafone had been inseparable. When they were not playing golf, they were
out in the car. On two out of three evenings they had been badly late
for dinner, arriving at the table breathless and simultaneously. And Pat
was twenty-seven and full of life. He was also most attractive in looks
and deeds. . . . Then the party had dispersed, and two days later Giles
had passed the pair, riding together in the Row. . . . His wife had
waved, and Pat had shouted joyfully, but Festival had winced.
There is an old superiority of horse over foot which, other things being
equal, may make itself felt. It is, I suppose, traditional. The knight
went mounted. It may, of course, be merely a matter of inches. The
ability of the equestrian to look down upon such as go walking is not to
be denied. His is a commanding position—of which the pedestrian may be
ridiculously conscious.
Wishing very much that he had been riding, Giles told himself not to be
a fool and, on reaching the Club, rang up Madrigal Chicele and asked her
to lunch. Afterwards, he drove her to Hurlingham, passing Katharine upon
the road.
Madrigal had been very civil at Castle Charing. Her husband had been
killed in the War, after a month of wedlock. That was six years ago, and
if Mrs. Chicele yet mourned, she mourned in secret. She was extremely
good-looking and had a delightful laugh. . . .
The next day, the four met in Bond Street—with two open taxis between
them. They exchanged appropriate banter. Katharine’s and Giles’
contributions were suspiciously bright.
The following Thursday morning Captain and Mrs. Festival received two
several communications by the same post.
_Wednesday Evening._
_Dear Gill_,
_I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I must put you off to-morrow.
I’ve had so many late nights lately that one more or less has
come to matter quite a lot._
_I’m sure you’ll understand._
_Yours_,
_Kate_.
Though she did not say so, Mrs. Festival had spoiled three sheets of
notepaper phrasing that note.
_Wednesday._
_Dear Kate_,
_Will you forgive me if I don’t come to-morrow? Jonah wants me
to play at Roehampton against the Red Hats, and they’re sure to
want me to dine and talk shop. You know._
_Yours_,
_Gill_.
That was Captain Festival’s third attempt.
Their reception of their respective bow-strings was anything but
cordial.
Staring at the familiar handwriting, Katharine went very white.
“So,” she said quietly. “Well, I’ve only myself to thank. I’ve whipped
off the finest husband that ever a woman had—with the most natural
result. . . . He’s turning elsewhere. Madrigal, of course.”
She bit her lip savagely.
Suddenly she remembered the letter she had written the night before.
“My God!” she cried, and clapped her hand to her mouth. “He’ll think I
meant it, of course. _I meant him to, and he will._ It’ll drive him into
her arms! I’ve cleared his way! He’ll have no compunction _now_. . . .”
She flung herself down on the bed and buried her face.
“Why did I write?” she wailed. “Why did I ever write? If only I’d waited
. . . if only . . .”
She began to weep passionately.
Giles, fresh from his bath, stared at his letter as at a death-warrant.
He read it through twice, carefully.
Then he sat down on his bed, sweating, and read it again.
Then he lowered the document to his knee and sat staring at his wardrobe
with eyes that saw nothing.
Finally, he gave a short laugh and, getting upon his feet, proceeded to
brush his hair, whistling softly. . . .
Half-way through the operation, he started violently.
“My God!” he cried. “_That blasted letter of mine._ . . .”
Brushes in hand, he gazed at his reflection in the glass.
“Oh, you poisonous fool!” he hissed. “You blundering, blunt-nosed idiot,
you’ve put the burning lid on and screwed it down. You’ve torn it—bent
it irreparably. Of course, she’ll think I meant it. _I meant her to._
. . . And now—I’ve put myself out of Court. I’ve told her to run away
and play. I’ve pushed her off!”
He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall.
“Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate! . . . What have I done, my sweet? What have I
done?”
* * * * *
Two hours had gone labouring, the second of which Captain Festival had
spent perambulating Lincoln’s Inn Fields and consulting his watch. His
nervous demeanour was such that by ten o’clock he was being observed by
the police. On the stroke of the hour, however, the suspect
disappeared. . . .