“I feel,” said Fairfax, “that I must marry you.”
His partner threw back her head and laughed delightedly.
“I warn you,” she flashed, “I’m very rich.”
“Oh, but why ‘warn’?” said Fairfax, swinging her off her feet and then
subsiding abruptly into a step of which the progressive nature was
almost imperceptible. “Besides, I knew it before. Besides, if you had
been poor, I shouldn’t have spoken.”
“Are you seriously asking me to be your wife?”
“I am. So far as you’re concerned, the advantages of such a course may
not be obvious. To be perfectly frank, I can hardly see them myself.
Still, you might do worse. At least, I’m clean, honest and sober.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Athalia Choate.
The man raised his eyebrows. Then he laid hold of the lady and started
to dance.
It was a superb performance.
The floor was crowded, but, for all the notice of others that Fairfax
seemed to take, it might have been empty. The two passed as one through
the press, whirling, side-stepping, poising, translating every whim of
the capricious measure into a masterpiece of motion. Athalia found
herself treading as she had never trod before, yet making no mistake.
The firm pressure upon her back became a powerful government, urging her
to right or left, turning her, keeping her clear of collision, lifting
her into the very spirit of the dance. The pace of the music grew
hotter; the fury of the band, madcap. All about them people were
labouring hilariously in a feverish endeavour to keep abreast of the
rhythm. Fairfax’s feet moved like quicksilver . . . the two swam the
length of the ballroom with a clean rush . . . he was doing another
step, and she was late . . . she was off her feet, and he was thrusting
again into the very heart of the crowd . . . her head——
Then the music stopped, and she was released.
“Am I sober?” said Punch Fairfax.
Miss Choate took a deep breath.
“Indubitably,” she said.
They made their way downstairs to a dim library, and Fairfax drew two
chairs to the slow wood fire. Then he gave her a cigarette, lighted it,
and took one himself.
“Will you do me a favour?” he said.
“Try me,” said Miss Choate.
“Be perfectly honest with me for a quarter of an hour.”
The lady knitted her brows.
“What do you mean?”
“That will appear,” said Fairfax. “The best way to learn a game is to
start playing it. Now then. Are you averse to wedlock?”
Miss Choate started.
“I—I never agreed to play,” she said uneasily.
Punch pulled his moustache.
“It’s a very good game,” he said. “I have to answer, too—any question
you ask.”
Athalia subjected the toe of a ridiculously tiny slipper to a prolonged
scrutiny. At length—
“The answer,” she said, “is in the negative.”
“Good,” said Fairfax, marking the excellence of her instep. “I’m seven
years older than you. As a matter of fact, I think that’s just about
right. Do you agree?”
“I don’t disagree,” said Miss Choate slowly. “Anything between five and
ten years. . . . When do I start?”
“When you please,” said Fairfax, comfortably exhaling smoke. “What a
sweet pretty leg you’ve got! Do you like my style?”
Miss Choate swallowed.
“You are quick,” she said. “Of course, I’ve never played this before,
so——”
“Neither have I,” said Punch. “I give you my word. Er, do you?”
The lady stared into the fire.
“Yes,” she said, “I do. If I had been poor, you wouldn’t have spoken,
would you?”
“I should not.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t enough to keep you—us as we should be kept.”
Athalia laughed.
“‘I could not love thee, dear, so much,’” she quoted, “‘loved I not
_comfort_ more.’”
“My dear,” said Punch, “that was most admirably put. It exactly
represents my point of view, your point of view and the point from
which, furiously as they would deny the impeachment, every rational male
and female in this edifice views the rich vale of matrimony.”
Miss Choate raised her sweet eyebrows.
“We are a topping lot of wash-outs, aren’t we?” she said.
Fairfax shook his head.
“Not at all. We’re just wise. We have the sagacity to avoid the steep
and narrow path which leads to heroism, because we blinkin’ well know
that we should never get there.”
“But——”
“One moment. If Fortune puts us upon that path, as she may, that’s
another matter. We get to heroism then. But if we choose it of our own
free will—never. Never. Because, sooner or later, we always regret our
choice. And there ain’t no admittance to ’eroism for gents wot regrets
their choice.”
“I seem to know that line,” said Miss Choate. “Isn’t it out of _His Sin
against Her Love_?”
Fairfax appeared to wince.
“Tennyson, dear, Tennyson. Hiawatha’s address to the Boy Scouts.”
There was a pregnant silence.