Fanny's husband came in shortly after Lucinda and her guests had settled
down to coffee and cigarettes in a Palm Room now rapidly regaining its
legitimate atmosphere of a lounge, as the extemporized tables were
vacated, dismantled, and spirited away.
He fitted so neatly into the mental sketch of Lucinda's unconscious
preconception, that she was naturally prejudiced in his favour. She
liked Englishmen of that stamp, even if the stamp was open to criticism
as something stereotyped, liked their manner and their manners and the
way they dressed, with an effect of finish carelessly attained, as
contrasted with the tight ornateness to which American men of the same
caste are so largely prone.
Tall and well made, Lontaine had the good colour of men who care enough
for their bodies to keep them keen and clean of the rust that comes of
indoor stodging. The plump and closely razored face seemed perhaps a
shade oversize for features delicately formed, and the blue eyes had
that introspective cast which sometimes means imagination and frequently
means nothing at all more than self-complacence. He affected a niggardly
moustache, and when he spoke full lips framed his words noticeably. His
habit was that of a man at ease in any company, even his own, who sets a
good value on himself and confidently looks for its general acceptance.
He talked well, with assurance, some humour, and a fair amount of
information. He had lived several years in the States, off and on, and
on the whole approved of them. In fact, he might say there were only two
sections of the country with which he was unacquainted, the South and
the Pacific Coast; defects in a cosmopolitan education which he hoped to
remedy this trip, as to the Coast at least. He had pottered a bit with
the cinema at home, and it was just possible he might think it worth his
while to jog out to Los Angeles and see what was to be seen in that
capital of the world's motion-picture industry. England, he didn't mind
admitting, had a goodish bit to learn from America in the cinema line.
They were far too conservative, the cinema lot at home, behind the times
and on the cheap to a degree that fairly did them in the eye when it
came to foreign competition. On the Continent, too, the cinema was
making tremendous strides, while in England it was merely marking time.
If you asked Lontaine, it was his considered belief that the really
top-hole productions of the future would come of combining American
brilliance of photography and investure with European thoroughness in
acting and direction.
This by no means unintelligent forecast was uttered with an authority
that impressed even Lucinda, elaborately uninterested as she was.
Conscious of a rather pleasing deference in Lontaine, who was addressing
himself to her more directly than to any of the others, she maintained a
half-smile of amiable attention which would have deceived a sharper man,
and let her thoughts drift on dreary tides of discontent.
Hour by hour the conviction was striking its roots more deeply into her
comprehension that life with Bel on the present terms was unthinkable.
And yet--what to do about it? She hadn't the remotest notion. Obviously
she would have to arrive somehow at some sort of an understanding with
Bel. But how? The one way she knew had failed her. And she knew no one
to confide in or consult.
Her father had died several years before her marriage, her mother soon
after. Of her immediate family there remained only an elder sister,
married and living in Italy.
She saw herself a puny figure, with only her bare wits and naked need
for allies, struggling to save her soul alive from a social system like
a Molock of the moderns, a beast-god man has builded out of all that he
holds hateful, all his fears and lusts and malice, envy, cruelty and
injustice, and to which, having made it, he bows down in awe and
worship, sacrificing to it all that he loves best, all that makes life
sweet and fair....
A losing fight. One were mad to hope to win. Already Bel was lost,
caught in the mad dance of the system's bacchants, already drunkard and
debauchee.... Nor might all her love redeem him.... And O the pity!
Aware of pain welling in her bosom, a sense of suffocation, tears
starting to her eyes, she jumped up hastily lest her friends should see,
mumbled an excuse, and made her way out to the foyer, turning toward the
women's cloak-room.
A few moments alone would restore equanimity, a little rouge and powder
mend the wear of her emotions.
The foyer was still fairly thronged; she was almost in Bel's arms before
she saw him, so near to him, when she stopped in shocked recognition of
his grimace of affection, that she caught, as she started back, a heavy
whiff of breath whiskey-flavoured.
She heard him say, "Why, hello, Linda! what's the hurry?" and cut in
instantly with a gasp of indignation: "What are you doing here?"
"Thought I'd look in on your party. You know, you asked me----"
She could not trust her tongue. If she said more in her anger, she would
say too much, considering that time and place, lose what poor vestiges
of self-control remained to her, make a scene. She cried all in a
breath: "Well, go away, then! I don't want you, I won't have you!"--and
pushing past Bel, fled into the cloak-room.
He lingered half a minute, with perplexed eyes meeting the amused stares
of those who had been near enough to catch an inkling of the
altercation; then drew himself up sharply and ironed out all indications
of his embarrassment, assuming what he believed to be a look of haughty
indifference.
But he was hurt, stricken to the heart by Lucinda's treatment. He
couldn't think what he'd done to deserve it, he felt sure she couldn't
have noticed the few drinks that had constituted luncheon for him. But
whatever had been the matter, obviously it was up to him to find some
way to placate Linda. He was through with Amelie and all such
foolishness, from now on he was going to be good to Linda; and it
wouldn't do at all to begin his new life by getting on the outs with
her.
His gaze focused intelligently upon the glass case that displays the
wares of the hotel florist. Women liked flowers. But there were four in
Linda's party, her guests would think it funny if he joined them
bringing flowers for his wife only.... A tough problem. He decided to
step round to the club and mull it over....
He had disappeared by the time Lucinda felt fit to show herself again.
Inwardly still forlorn and disconsolate, but outwardly mistress of
herself, she resumed her chair; and had hardly done so when she saw
Richard Daubeney pass by with his luncheon party, pause at the door and
take leave, then turn back and make directly for her corner. And
instantaneously Lucinda experienced a slight psychic shock and found
herself again the individual self-contained, the young woman of the
world whom nothing could dismay.
Dobbin knew everybody except the Lontaines; and when the flutter created
by his introduction had subsided, he found a chair by Lucinda's side and
quietly occupied himself with a cigarette until the conversation swung
back to the pageant; whereupon he took deft advantage of the general
interest in that topic to detach Lucinda's attention.
"I couldn't resist the temptation to butt in, Cinda. Hope you don't
mind."
"I do, though, fearfully. It's always nice to see you."
"Many thanks. Appreciation makes up for a lot of neglect."
"Poor old soul: somebody been neglecting you again?"
"Somebody's always neglecting me and my affectionate disposition. That's
why I've wiggled to your side, wagging a friendly tail, ready to lick
your hand at the first sign of an inclination to adopt me."
Lucinda eyed him in grave distrust. "Dobbin: are you trying to start
something? I thought we'd settled all that last night, agreed I wasn't
in a position to adopt stray men, no matter how nice."
"That was last night. You've had time to sleep on it. Lots of things can
come up overnight to change a woman's mind. Don't tell me: I can see
something unusual has happened."
"Oh! you can?"
"Don't be alarmed: you're not wearing your heart on your sleeve. I can
see you're troubled about something, simply because I know you so much
better than anybody else. Oh, yes, I do. You never knew how thoroughly I
studied you in the dear, dead days of yore. I'll lay long odds no one
else has noticed anything, but to my seeing eye you've been flying
signals of distress all during luncheon. That being so, it wouldn't be
decent of me not to give you a hail and stand by in case I'm needed--now
would it?"
Momentarily Lucinda contended against temptation. Then, "You are a dear,
Dobbin," she said almost regretfully. "But it isn't fair of you to see
too much. If it's true I have secrets I don't want to share, it would be
kinder to let me keep them--don't you think?"
"Lord bless you, yes! But it's my observation the human being in trouble
has got to talk to somebody, and will to the wrong body if the right
isn't handy. Not only that, but you'll find most people will listen to
your troubles only to get a chance to tell you their own; whereas I have
none except the one you know all about. So you needn't fear reprisals."
She pondered this, sweetly serious, then in little better than a whisper
said: "At least, not now...."
Jean Sedley was claiming her attention. "What do you think of that,
Cindy? Isn't it a ripping idea?"
"Afraid I didn't hear--I was flirting with Dobbin."
"Yes, I know. But Mr. Lontaine has just made a priceless suggestion
about the pageant. He says we can have moving-pictures taken as we enter
the ball-room and shown before the evening is over."
"But is that possible?"
"Oh, quite," Lontaine insisted--"assure you. It's really extraordinary
how they do these things, three or four hours is all they require to
develop and prepare a film for projection. Say your pageant starts at
ten: by one you can see yourself on the screen."
"Everybody would adore it!" Nelly Guest declared with deep conviction.
"And you could arrange it, Mr. Lontaine?"
"Easily, Mrs. Druce--that is to say, if I'm still in New York."
"What do you think, Cindy?" Jean urged. "Almost everybody is
moving-picture mad. We could sell twice as many tickets on the strength
of such a novelty. And it is a charity affair, you know."
"Meaning to say," Dobbin put in, "you're rather keen about it yourself."
"Of course--crazy to see myself as others see me. So is every
woman--Fanny, Jean, Cindy----"
"I don't know," Lucinda demurred. "It must be a weird sensation."
"Not one you need be afraid of," Lontaine promised. "If you don't mind
my saying so, you would screen wonderfully, Mrs. Druce."
"You think so, really?"
"Oh, no doubt about it, whatever. You're just the type the camera treats
most kindly. If you wanted to, you could make a fortune in the cinema.
No, seriously: I'm not joking."
"I'm glad of that," Lucinda returned soberly. "It wouldn't be at all
nice of you to trifle with my young affections. Still, I will admit I'm
skeptical."
"Tell you what," Lontaine offered eagerly: "Suppose you take test, what?
No trouble at all to fix it up for you--chaps I know--only too
glad--anything I say. I'd like to prove I know what I'm talking about.
Take us all, for that matter, just as we are. What do you say?"
"I say it's perfectly damn' splendid!" Jean Sedley declared. "We'd all
love it. When can you arrange it?"
"Any time you like--this afternoon, if that suits everybody. Only have
to telephone, and in half an hour they'll be all ready for us. Shall I?"
Lontaine got out of his chair. "Do say yes, all of you. Mrs. Druce? I
know the others will if you do?"
"I don't mind...."
"Right-O! Give me five minutes...."