_Every time._
* * * * *
Monsieur Auguste Labotte adjusted his tie. Then he slid elegantly into
the pink dress-coat which the servant was holding, told the man
offensively to be gone and assumed a courtly pose before the pier-glass.
After a careful survey of his points, he clicked his heels, bowed low,
took on a jaunty air and, clasping an imaginary partner proceeded to
shake his shoulders with every circumstance of abandon. . .
He was in the act of kissing his finger-tips—a delicious, careless
gesture, by which the fragrant caress was apparently tossed into the air
to wreak who knows what havoc, when he observed that the symmetry of his
eyebrows left something to be desired. Simultaneously he remembered that
his aggrandizement of the left had been interrupted and never resumed.
He repaired the omission delicately. . . .
Again he reverted to the pier-glass, to be inspected.
This time his scrutiny could find no fault in him.
Here was Chivalry _allegro_. The rude paraphernalia of virility had been
doffed: the hardy victor of the field was turning to tenderer, more
luscious conquests.
With a happy sigh, Labotte reflected that, disguise it as he would, his
sportsmanship emerged always. No one could miss it. If anyone did—well,
that was what the pink coat was for.
He opened the door of his room and descended thoughtfully. . . .
The _salon rose_ was crowded.
Two pretty Englishwomen were sitting on the club-kerb, sipping cocktails
and exchanging back-chat with a handsome jolly-eyed Frenchman and a tall
Italian, whose manner suggested that he might adorn diplomacy. As a
matter of fact, he had. A Frenchwoman of great beauty was relating her
impressions of the Trooping of the Colour and lending both English and
ceremony a peculiar charm. Two Englishmen, soldiers, were listening
delightedly. A jovial, broad-shouldered Spaniard was vividly recounting
his prowess upon the tennis-court and throwing his hearers into
convulsions of mirth. A well-set-up Frenchman, one-armed, was lighting a
cigarette: this belonged to an Italian lady: between the two of them the
simple attention put on the courtly livery of a forgotten age. A tall
American girl, with grave grey eyes and a proud mouth, was standing
close to an alcove. A common, unhealthy-looking youth, with a loose lip
and an aggressive stare was expelling smoke from his nostrils and
languidly conversing with Count Boschetto, a stout, nervous little man,
with vacant eyes and an everlasting smile. The latter was most
deferential and was working extremely hard. Six or eight other guests
were about their striving host, listening greedily to the youth and
thrusting toothsome banalities into the discussion, as though in the
hope of attracting attention to themselves. From the alcove, heaving
with emotion, the Countess was surveying the scene with a beatific
smile. Her proportions were immense: her splendour, barbaric. Her
snow-white hair was almost hidden beneath an enormous tiara, while the
size and number of the pearls about her neck was almost frightening.
Bracelets flashed upon her tremendous arms: rings winked from every
finger. Her dress was of purple and gold. Her shoes were of gold, with
high purple heels.
The Duke of Culloden stood beside her, addressing her quietly from time
to time. She whimpered irrelevant replies, sometimes tremulously voicing
her thoughts. “Oll my gues-s-s,” she would falter. “Oll my deer
guess-s-s. They were so naize to make vull my salons—the salons of an
ole daungkih as me.”
It was pathetic.
Culloden felt as once he had felt in an asylum, watching a mad architect
gleefully supervising the construction of a new wing. The poor wretch
was intoxicated with his own importance, and the bricklayers were
calling him ‘Sir’ and laughing until the tears rolled down their cheeks.
The peer felt suddenly ashamed. He was subscribing to this tragic
pantomime, taking advantage of an idiot’s whim. He was—
Another picture rose up before his eyes. He saw the halls deserted, the
ball-rooms empty . . . saw his host and hostess in melancholy state, the
servants idle, yawning, kicking their heels . . . heard the bands
droning music to which no feet danced . . . perceived with a shock the
awful dreariness of riches with none to gather them.
Culloden decided that the woman beside him was no fool. It was her glory
to kill the fatted calf. She was labouring under no delusion. She knew.
She actually thanked her guests, begged them to batten upon her, meant
what she said.
After all, his visit was neither more nor less than a happy deal. It
suited the Countess’ book, and it suited his. What he found especially
pleasant was that for once in a way his title was cutting no ice. He was
not being named: no one was being introduced. Teddy Mandeville was
perfectly right—they really left him alone. He might have been Albert
Binks, of High Street, Clapham.
He had arrived at Chiennile that Tuesday afternoon—a day later than he
had said, but that was because there had raged a storm in the Channel
and the present expediency of humouring his stomach had been impressed
upon him. Upon his arrival he had found that Mandeville had left the
château. It seemed that the latter had been wired for on Sunday night.
His Grace considered, frowning, that, even if he could not advise, Teddy
might at least have left him a note. However. . . .
A major-domo had received him and had shown him his rooms. It was clear
that, for all his respect, the man had had no idea that he was not
conducting a commoner. Culloden was faintly surprised and immensely
relieved. The last thing he wanted was the carpet down. Still, it was
curious. None of the servants knew. Yet—‘They’re mad to have you.’
Possibly Teddy had paved this admirable way. . . .
Labotte entered the room.
For a moment he stood, looking round. Then he joined the circle about
Boschetto.
He at once perceived that the latter was doing his best to please and
decided to exploit the endeavour. He therefore directed attention to the
poor labourer by laughing and nudging his neighbours and presently
mimicking the manner of his host.
“Yess, yess,” cried Boschetto, by way of hearty agreement with the
unpleasant youth’s remarks.
“Yess, yess,” echoed Labotte, grinning.
“Yess, yess,” repeated Boschetto unconsciously.
“We ’af no bananas,” said Labotte.
His host flushed painfully, endeavouring to contribute to the laughter
in which his loose-lipped patron joined.
“You know,” continued Labotte, taking the stage and indicating his host,
“’e says to me one day, ‘Labotte, I ’af feer I am dull. I weesh that I
could mague my guess-s laugh.’ An’ I say to ’im, ‘My frien’, you do this
more better than you know.’” There was a shriek of laughter. Labotte
looked round grinning. “Am I not right—yes?”
Boschetto fell away, chuckling in a queer, strained way, while Labotte
engaged the youth in a discussion of the gaieties of Town.
Culloden stepped to Boschetto and began to admire the room.
“Indeed, it’s all so admirable. Not only the château, but the
establishment. It’s a privilege to be here. You think of everything. I
tell you, Count, I know some people in England who think they can
entertain, but if they could see this they’ld go and jump off somewhere.
Why are you so kind to us all?”
The Count blinked at him.
“Thank you,” he said tremulously. “Thank you.”
The American girl was speaking.
“To-day,” she said, “he took me for such a lovely drive. Didn’t you,
Count?”
Her host drew himself up.
“I’ af enjoy every minute,” he said most earnestly.
The girl appealed to Culloden.
“You see?” she said. “He won’t let anyone thank him. He gives us all the
very time of our lives——”
“I am dull,” said Boschetto.
The girl took his arm.
“What awful rot,” she said. She turned to Culloden. “You ought to hear
him on Europe. I wonder how many people in this room——”
“Yes, but you was an angel,” said Boschetto gravely.
He glanced at his watch, begged to be excused and made his way to a
servant with an anxious air. . . .
“Who,” said Culloden, “are the young chevaliers?”
The girl smiled.
“The one in pink,” she said, “is Monsieur Labotte—a man, as you have
seen, of singular taste and charm. The other—well, surely you know who
that is.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Aren’t you English?”
“I’m a Scotsman.”
“Worse and worse,” laughed the girl. “My good sir, that is the Duke of
Culloden.”
* * * * *
Two days and two hours had gone by, and Nicholas John Kilmuir was
enjoying himself very much.
He was royally lodged, admirably served, superbly fed. What was still
more to his taste, he went incognito. ‘Incognito’? No one had the
remotest idea who he was—except that he was _not_ the Duke of Culloden.
To turn to smaller mercies, the weather was brilliant, and his time was
his own. Moreoever, his conscience was clear—whenever Boschetto saw
him, a pleased light crept into the dull, strained eyes. . . .
But that was not nearly all.
First, there was the spectacle of an impostor, whose arrival on Monday
had been taken for that of His Grace, deliberately exploiting the error,
accepting the fervent homage of a perfectly poisonous crowd and
generally playing such ‘tricks before high Heaven as make the angels
weep.’
Secondly, there was Susan Armitage Crail. . . .
“I should like,” said Nicholas John, “to ask you to dance. But a recent
bereavement. . . .”
Miss Crail raised her sweet eyebrows.
“I’ve heard some excuses,” she bubbled, “but that’s the very best. It
suggests shades of mourning of which the average relict never dreams.”
“He wasn’t a relation,” said Nicholas. “Only a—an intimate connection.
And I’m not really mourning. We got on admirably for many years, and
then at the last he got above himself. Indeed, he caused me much pain,
before—before he . . . passed over.”
Miss Crail frowned.
“Why not ‘died’?” she demanded. “Don’t say you’re——”
“Can appendices die?” said Nicholas.
Susan Crail stared and then fell into silvery laughter.
Kilmuir regarded her gravely.
There was about this girl a natural dignity which no manner of mirth
could subvert. The pride of her red mouth was gone: the grave eyes were
fairly dancing with merriment; she was unconscious of anything save that
she was amused. Yet—hers was the amusement of a great lady. And of such
was her charm. More. The girl had depth, quality: she did not require to
be amused. There seemed to be things other than dalliance which were
dreamt of in her philosophy.
“What should I do without you?” said Nicholas John.
“I expect you’ld play Bridge,” said Susan.
The man shook his head.
“I suppose I should read,” he said. “I’ve nothing in common here with
anyone else.”
“You haven’t tried,” said Susan. “That little French girl with the
glorious mop of hair. . . .”
“Can you see me?” said Nicholas John. “Do we look as if we should get
on? I tell you I can’t—er—chatter. I’ld like to tell you what
beautiful arms you’ve got, but I can’t put it into words.”
“Hush,” said Susan. “You mustn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
Steadily grey eyes met brown.
“Because they ring true. I know now that you think I have beautiful
arms. I haven’t, but that’s beside the point. I know you think I have.
If anyone else said so, I should know they were telling the tale. But
you—you mean what you say.”
“I hope so. But that’s no reason. Why shouldn’t I——”
“I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. Somehow it’s—it’s dangerous
ground. You see, to-day a man can say anything—at least, they do. I
hate it, but it’s the fashion . . . _anything_. But there’s always a
button on the foil. They don’t mean a word of it. If they did . . .
Well, I should take the veil. But they don’t. And that’s the saving
clause in an odious document. But you’re different. You mean what you
say. Your foil hasn’t got any button. And so—it’s dangerous.”
Kilmuir digested this, frowning.
“In a word,” he said, “I mustn’t make personal remarks?”
“That’s right,” said Susan. With a sudden, childish gesture she touched
his arm. “You don’t mind my telling you?” she said.
The sweet simplicity of heart that prompted gesture and word took
Kilmuir by the throat. She was a child—this great lady, an exquisite,
unspoiled child. Gentle, fair, wise—smothering up her nature because it
was not safe for her nature to be abroad. His impulse was to take her
hand and kiss it. He wanted to, immensely. But he mustn’t—because she
was a child.
In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, their positions had been
reversed. A moment ago he had been sitting at her feet. Now her hand was
in his, and she was looking up trustfully into his eyes. She was a
child.
“No,” he said, “I don’t. In fact, I’m much obliged. Let’s—let’s shake
hands, shall we?”
They shook hands gravely.
Locked together, two couples rocketed out of the ballroom, whirled past
Miss Crail and Kilmuir and, as the tune ended, crashed in a heap on a
divan. They sorted themselves uproariously.
“What about a little courage?” said ‘the Duke,’ drying his neck. “And a
mouthful of goose-grease, just to help it down?”
“Are you steel so thirsty?” queried his partner.
“I am when I look at you,” was the ducal reply.
Labotte suspended his handkerchief as a curtain between the two girls,
as though to screen the speakers from inconvenient gaze. To do this, he
passed his arms upon either side of his partner. The latter, an English
girl, sought to duck beneath his sleeve. Instantly he lowered his arm.
In a moment the screen was forgotten, and the business became an affray
between Gallantry and Virtue.
“See, see,” cried Labotte, grinning. “I ’af catched a leedle mouze in a
gage. She will get oud, but she does not know ’ow.” The girl slid to the
ground, and her captor slid with her. “You see?” he announced. “It ees
no good at oll. You are a preesner for life.”
The pretty scene concluded with a violent struggle from which the lady
emerged with a torn dress—a mishap which occasioned shrieks of laughter
and a volley of innuendo.
The four departed hilariously in search of champagne. . . .
“D’you like all this?” said Nicholas. “I don’t mean the scene we’ve just
witnessed, but the manners of which it’s the fruit.”
“What d’you think?” said Miss Crail.
“I think you hate it. I think you like gaiety, and as this is the only
sort going you make the best of it.”
“You’re wrong,” said the girl. “I could live on a desert island and be
completely happy.”
“Then why do you stay here?”
“Well, for one thing, I haven’t an island. Secondly, I haven’t any
money. I live with an aunt, who keeps me and is at present on a yacht.
When I saw the passenger-list, I begged to be excused. So I’ve been left
here till she returns. If I’d the nerve, I’ld strike out a line for
myself, but I’ve always lived soft and I can’t type a letter, so what
can I do?”
Kilmuir regarded the end of his cigarette.
“How long have you done this?” he said.
“Nearly two years now. The idea is to get me married and out of the way.
But I don’t go very well. Two or three men have been kind enough to bid,
but one was married already and the others. . . .” She shuddered. “My
aunt says it’s my fault,” she added, “and so it is! I don’t push my
wares. . . . I’m not so bad as I was. At one time I was quite hopeless.
But I’m better now. At least I give people a chance—to be nice or nasty
according to how they feel. I’m afraid even now I’m not very good at
horse-play, but I shall probably learn.”
“Don’t,” cried Nicholas. “Don’t.”
The girl looked at him.
“All right,” she said. “I won’t. I promise I won’t again. I don’t know
why I did. Yes, I do,” she added abruptly. “I know why I did.”
“Why?” said Kilmuir.
Susan Crail started.
Then, suddenly, she fell into long strained laughter.
“From your curious tone,” she said, “I perceive that I have been
maudlin. You know. Not offensively blind, but sorry for myself. It’s
just that extra half-glass, you know. You think ‘I won’t drink it,’ and
then you get talking and——”
“Rot,” said Nicholas John.
“Oh, but how rude,” said Susan. “Never mind. You’ll believe me one day.
Didn’t I talk about a desert island? Yes, I thought so. I always do. But
I’ll bet you never said what the last man said. You’re much too solemn.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it wouldn’t be a desert island long, especially if I went in
for goatskin shorts.”
“My very words,” said Kilmuir steadily.
There was a long silence.
Susan was beaten and she knew it.
Hastily she shuffled her cards. These were frightening.
Without thinking, she had told him her story, because she valued his
esteem. She valued his esteem, because she loved him. She had told him
her plight and, without thinking, she had told him its
remedy—_marriage_. She had actually rammed it home—without thinking.
Suddenly she had realized. . . .
Horrified at what she had done, she had striven frenziedly to undo it
. . . somehow—_anyhow_ . . . no matter at what cost. And he had watched
her efforts and feinted and knocked them out.
There was nothing for it: she must begin again.
“I shall pinch you in a minute,” she said. “I tell you, the reaction has
set in. The muzzy feeling is passing and I’m beginning to feel ready for
anything. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Labotte arrived—a very _deus ex machina_.
He came straight to the two, stood before Susan, spread out anticipative
hands and began to oscillate to the one-step which had just commenced.
An impudence of raised eyebrows and the shadow of a superior grin argued
a confident familiarity which could afford to dispense with a formal
invitation to dance.
With a heart of lead, Miss Crail acceded brightly to the unspoken
request.
As she launched herself, she flung out the words of the melody in the
approved darkie fashion.
_And you never know whether she will,_
_And you never know whether you may,_
_But hold her tight,_
_With all your might,_
_By the small of her back,_
_On a moonlight night,_
_And you won’t be left,_
_’Cause you must be right—_
_THOWAT-T-T’S the way!_
They flashed the short length of the salon, whirled through the open
doors and disappeared. . . .
There is an old saying that you cannot have it both ways. If you decide
to discourage heaven, then you must be prepared to encourage hell.
Whether or no Susan had offended Kilmuir, she had exalted Labotte—a
supererogatory and rather dangerous elevation.
He began to improve the occasion almost at once.
“I do not know why I ’af not resgue you more soon. I think I am a gread
fool. There is the nices’ leedle ’orse in oll the place sidding with a
gread dull fellow an’ I ’af lose my dime in tryin’ to school so many
mules. _Tant pis!_ I tell you, we are goin’ to ’af a good dime now. We
are goin’ to go well this evenin’—my naize leedle ’orse an’ I.”
His buoyant tenderness was hideous, but Kilmuir was standing in the
doorway, and they were dancing towards him.
Susan threw back her head and laughed wildly.
“Your horse?”
Labotte tightened his hold.
“From the firs’ dime I ’af see you, you ’af been my naize leedle ’orse.
Bud olways before, you ’af been shy from me. ‘Ah,’ I ’af say, ‘bud thad
is a good fault.’ You know, a man like much bedder when a girl is not
oll over ’im at once. An’ so I say, ‘Gently, my frien’, tread gently
your naize leedle ’orse: an’ one day she shall whinney when she shall
’ear your face——”
“And eat out of your hand?”
It is doubtful whether the sage heard what she said.
Intoxicated with the triumph of his compelling personality, dazzled by
the richness of the pasture his brilliancy had won, considerably
affected by the elegance with which his imagery had betrayed at once the
sportsman, master and swain, Labotte was out of earshot.
He whirled her past Nicholas in an eloquent dithyramb of motion to which
she deliberately subscribed.
“My naize leedle ’orse,” he crooned, “oll while I ’af make spord with
the mules I ’af see olways my leedle ’orse in the dail of my eye. An’ ad
night I ’af dream about ’er, an’ now. . . ’Af I not say that we shall go
well this evening? Eh? An’ do we not? Eh? Was I nod righd then,
sweet-bit?”
Craning his neck, he leered into her eyes.
As they swung round, Susan was able to see that the doorway was empty.
Kilmuir had gone.
“Now then I will teach you ’ow. You mus’ turn your ’ead sweet-bit, and
our leaps shall brush themselves. It will, of gourse, be an agsiden’. I
shall not ’af know that you were to move. An’ no one shall know neither
. . . But we shall know an’ be ’appy—my leedle——”
“Let’s stop,” said Susan, suiting the action to the word.
Labotte wagged his head.
“I know a leedle salon,” he chanted rhythmically, “’alf-way on the
stairs.”
As the girl turned, he laid hands upon her. It was his way. He always
smeared his prey. The suggestion of an embrace appealed to him. For one
thing, it looked so well. It argued a certain proprietorship—a
seignory, such as other men did not enjoy; it suggested the existence of
a familiarity which, short of a scene, his victim could seldom rebut: it
enhanced his reputation as an irresistible dog. For another, he found it
agreeable.
He slid an arm about her shoulders and squeezed her hand, as though by
way of shepherding her in the required direction.
“D’you mind not touching me?” said Susan.
Labotte started, and the greasy hands fell away.
Then he rapped his knuckles.
“Ah, then,” he simpered, “you mus’ be more gareful, block-face. You mus’
nod go to frighden your leedle ’orse.”
Susan passed out of a door and sat down in the hall. This was empty, but
it was not remote.
Labotte stared.
“Bud,” he blurted, “we ’af arrange to go——”
“I sit here,” said Susan.
Labotte sat down by her side and took out a cigarette. His grin had
faded into a supercilious and rather unpleasant regard which sat
uneasily upon his insignificant face.
“And,” continued Miss Crail, “I’ld be glad if you wouldn’t refer to me
as ‘your little horse.’ It suggests an intimacy which does not exist
between us; it’s vulgar and it’s bad form. I don’t suppose that any of
those reasons will appeal to you, but you can take my word for it
they’re pretty sound.”
Labotte regarded her open-mouthed.
After a moment the blood began to pour into his face. Very soon this was
completely suffused and glistening. The scarlet of his ears suggested
that they were on fire. As for his eyes, these had become small slits of
grey-green flame.
He shut his mouth with a snap.
“What?” he breathed through his teeth. “I—_I_ am vulgar?”
“Intensely vulgar,” said Susan, producing a cigarette. “Get me a match.”
For a second Labotte hesitated.
Then he rose, crossed to a table and returned with a box of matches.
“Thank you,” said Miss Crail. “Now you can go.”
Labotte drew himself up.
“I ’af nod the use to be commanded,” he said. “I am a gennelman,
an’——”
“Don’t be silly,” said Susan. “Because it suited me to dance with you,
that doesn’t make you a gentleman. And now, if you take my advice,
you’ll run away and play—while there is time. Otherwise, I may be
tempted to put you where you belong.”
The macaroni appeared to have lost the power of speech.
His world was rocking before him.
A woman—a fury, of course—had had the hideous presumption to turn him
down. His advances had been rejected: his condescension had been
actually flung in his face: he had been offered gross, gratuitous
insult. The dove he had deigned to nourish had turned serpent. The
female he had demeaned himself to favour had turned and rent him—_him_,
Labotte, knight and sportsman. . . .
The indecency of the affair made his brain reel.
Dazedly he put a hand to his head.
“No one ’as never speak to me so—nevare,” he announced dramatically.
“Eef you was a man——”
“Be thankful,” said Miss Crail, “that I am not. Why, you wouldn’t ride
for weeks,” she added pleasantly.
Labotte blenched. The reflection, however, that sex cannot be changed at
will steadied him almost at once.
He took a pace backward and bowed.
“I go,” he said stiffly, “bud nod begauze you ’af say so. No.” Susan
began to shake with laughter. “The only reason wot I ’af got ees that I
will blease myselve. Oh, yes. Eet ees very fine to laugh,” he added
violently. “It ees a gread jork to make slaps when you are very safe
that they cannot be render: but eet ees you shall waid, Mees Crail, an’
fin’ whether you shall ’af make these blace too ’ott for you to ’old.”
He turned and sauntered away with such nonchalance as he could muster.
When he was out of sight, Susan went to her room, sank into a chair,
buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.
Upon the next floor Nicholas was pulling his moustache and covering his
third mile upon an Aubusson carpet of great beauty.
Three rooms away Labotte was savaging a pillow.
“_Sapristi!_” he mouthed. “_Mais je vous montrerai, Speet smoke, qu’on
ne gagne rien à insulter un sportsman._”
* * * * *
Nicholas very nearly returned to Town.
The man was shocked. At one and the same moment he had made two striking
discoveries—severally harmless enough, but jointly corrosive. The first
was that Susan Crail was a waster: the second, that he loved her very
much. What made things infinitely worse was that, as women go, she was a
queen. Spotted silk is so much worse than stained sackcloth. Unearthing
more bitterness, he reflected that never again would he be offered the
blessed opportunity of wooing without his title to promote his suit.
He avoided Susan but watched her, taking care to conceal his
disappointment and wearing it on his sleeve.
Susan could have wept, was careful to appear blithesome and got away
with it.
Labotte was as good as his word.
His vanity had been outraged. Very well. All the chivalry of the man
rose up in condemnation of the foul deed. His hate had to be served.
After surveying his dirty armoury with a malevolent stare, he turned his
attention to his opponent’s harness.
Almost immediately he perceived a vulnerable spot.
Miss Crail was a lady, and ladies had an aversion to figuring in scenes.
Indeed, to avoid a scene they would endure almost anything. . . .
Labotte licked his lips.
If he approached her privately, he would be told to go away. Very well.
Supposing he approached her publicly—short of a scene, she would have
to submit to his approach. More. If he addressed her, sat by her side,
made loud, innocent conversation—no one would see anything inconsistent
with courtesy in that. Everybody would think that he was dancing
attendance. But he and she would know that she was being whipped. . . .
Susan’s luck was clean out.
Five times in three days he contrived to sit next to her at meat: twice
he had managed to be driven in the same car: seven times he had asked
her to dance. She had not done so, but it was not too pleasant—this
pestering. Labotte’s attentions would have been odious at any time: now
they were nothing less than a direct insult. When upon the third day at
dinner he steered the conversation to the points of a ‘naize leedle
’orse,’ mentioned nice clean legs, a soft mouth and well-rounded
quarters as essential features and then asked Susan if she did not
agree, the latter felt cold with rage.
Most of the women saw there was something amiss and, reluctantly
respecting Susan, were faintly amused. The more quick-witted of the men
began to smell trouble. The jolly-eyed Frenchman looked very hard at
Labotte: the Spaniard had frowned and lost the thread of his discourse:
the tall Italian had stared and then asked Susan to dance. But that was
all. The way of a man with a maid had to be patently outrageous to
warrant intervention. . . .
Deep in a shadowy corner of the _salon vert_ Susan was contemplating her
state and wondering, if she fled, how far four hundred and fifty francs
would go.
Six feet away two Englishmen were talking.
For a moment or two she listened idly, too much depressed to care at all
for their words.
Then her brain leapt.
“Sponge knows who he is.”
“He would”—contemptuously.
“He didn’t go so far as to claim his acquaintance, but he says he’s
Kilmuir of Kilsay. He added that he knew his wife intimately—spoke of
her as ‘Kitty Kilmuir.’”
“And I bet if she came here she wouldn’t know him. What a sweep the man
is!”
The two moved away, and the voices faded.
_His wife. . . . Kitty Kilmuir._
Wondering why she had assumed that Nicholas John Kilmuir was unmarried,
halting curiously between relief and dismay, Susan started to her
feet. . . .
Then she sank down again and stared at the floor.
Her impulse had been to find Kilmuir at once and tell him the truth. Not
all of it, of course, but enough to make him her friend—a present help
in her trouble. But Susan Crail was no fool. Life was a stern creditor.
If she invoked the sympathy of the man she loved, touched his strong
hand, called up the kindness of his steady brown eyes—these things
would have to be paid for in blood and tears. As it was, even if Labotte
vanished, she would still have to try to forget. . . . Nicholas Kilmuir.
There was a scourge waiting. Was it worth her while, for the sake of a
little relief, deliberately to load the cords? Wasn’t it better to——
“No,” said Susan suddenly. “It isn’t better. What is better is to take
what you can get. I can’t take him, because somebody else has done that.
But I can be with him and see him and hear his blessed voice. Damn what
the future holds. The present’s the thing.”
She rose and stepped out of the shadow—almost into the arms of ‘the
Duke of Culloden’ and Labotte.
The latter bowed low.
“Good evening, Miss Susan Crail.”
“Good evening.”
‘His Grace’ stared. Then—
“Oh, ’elp,” he said. “Any more for the throne-room?” He bowed
grotesquely. “Good sunset, sweeting. What doth the night-light say?”
“Too late,” said Susan pleasantly. “I’ve a letter to write.”
“Splendid,” said ‘the Duke.’ “We’ll tell you what to say, shall I?” He
linked her arm in his and turned to Labotte. “If I’m not back in half an
hour, Saddle-soap——”
Labotte raised his eyebrows.
“I do nod think,” he announced, “you will be zo long.” Suddenly his eyes
gleamed. “But there,” he added, “I do nod know. Perhaps . . . I tell
you, when she was naize, she was vairy, vairy naize.” He closed his eyes
and vented a happy sigh.
Susan felt rather sick.
“O-o-oh,” said ‘the Duke,’ approaching a face which appeared to have
been recently buttered. “And how does he know?”
“I don’t think he does,” said Susan, seeking to disengage herself.
“Please let me go.”
“And why was she ‘vairy naize’?” continued ‘the Duke,’ detaining her.
“You’d better ask him,” said Susan, trying to pass it off. “He seems to
know. And now let me go, please. I’ve got this letter to write.”
‘His Grace’ skipped to a doorway and spread out his arms.
“Block the other one, Saddle-soap: and we’ll give her a run,” he cried,
and, with that, he switched off the lights.
Then curtain rings rasped, and, except for the rosiness of a dying fire,
the room was black.
Susan stood paralysed.
She was going to be kissed, of course. That went without saying. She
wondered dully whether she was going to be scratched. Labotte. . . .
Perhaps he would only pinch her.
With a shock she realized that she had better move. To stay where she
was would be fatal. If she could change her position . . .
With a beating heart, she began to steal to one side, straining her
ears.
Suddenly she stood still as death.
Something—someone was almost touching her. She could hear his
breathing. She was right under his hand. And she was trapped. Her knee
was against a chair, and she could not move. Any second now . . .
The form sheered off. Whose-ever it was, he had missed her by a hair’s
breadth.
Trembling all over, Susan began to edge away from the chair. . . .
A piercing scream of agony shattered the silence—the sort of scream
which is associated with torture—the scream of a human being under the
pain of hell.
Susan’s heart stood still.
The scream slid into a flurry of howled oaths, the nature of which
suggested that Labotte was out of action. If he was, there was a doorway
clear. . . .
Susan was there in a flash.
She and Kilmuir passed out together.
“Steady,” he said quietly. “Now turn round, get behind me and appear to
be looking in. Then they won’t connect us with this little play.”
As he parted the curtains, the lights in the room went up, and four or
five guests and servants appeared in the other doorway.
Labotte was sitting on the parquet, rocking himself to and fro, nursing
his bridle-hand and addressing ‘the Duke of Culloden,’ who was leaning
against a sofa convulsed with laughter.
“I tell you I ’af not see why jus’ begozz you are duke that ’as nod give
you the raighd to starm’ to my ’and laike there was fifdy tousan’ dun of
storns in your boode an’ then you gannot bray bardon bud mus’ laugh
laike you gry an’ make that you ’af nod starm’ to no one’s ’and. I
suppose it is I wot ’af march oll over my own ’and—yess! Bah! I make
myself to be your frien’, I let you to call me Zaddle-zorp an’ show you
the rorpes of these place, an’ then you starm’ to my ’and and when I
say, ‘See ’ow you ’af done,’ then there was a gread forny jork that I am
’urt. I tell you I do not gare ooze duke you are . . .”
By one consent Miss Crail and Nicholas turned and made their way out of
the press.
“So perish all traitors,” said the latter. “As the actual executioner,
my use of that pious expression is traditionally becoming.”
Susan stared.
“You?”
Kilmuir nodded.
“I was there all the time,” he said. “None of you saw me. I was
wondering where I came in, when the lights went out. I happen to be able
to see rather well in the dark, and just as I passed you I saw our
little red-back making for where you stood on his hands and knees. . . .
I admit I’m not very proud of myself. I should have preferred to thrash
him in daylight and a public place, but you—you had to be
considered. . . . I was going to harry the—er—Duke of Culloden also,
but Saddle-soap made such a noise that I hadn’t time. That he should
credit his accomplice with the assault is sheer good fortune. I never
dreamed of such an elegant _dénouement_.” He led the way to a closet at
the end of the _salon gris_. This was deserted. “And now, why did you
rush upon your fate three days ago? Why did you try to discredit
yourself in my eyes? We’d only just made friends.”
“Did I succeed?”
“To a certain extent. Won’t you sit down? That’s right.” He took his
seat by her side. “I’ve changed my mind now.”
“What d’you think now?”
“I think you wanted to put me off,” said Nicholas. “And I want to know
why.”
“You remember what I told you—about my life?”
“Every word.”
“Well, I spoke without thinking, you know. I don’t know why. I’ve never
done it before. And suddenly I realised that. . . .”
“Yes?”