He awoke at noon. His first impression was that a large black bat was
sitting on his brain. The darkened room seemed to contain a visible
presence of disaster. He sprang out of bed and took a hot and cold
shower; hobgoblins fled, although he felt no inclination to sing! He
called down for his breakfast and opened his hall door. A pile of
letters lay on his newspapers, and the topmost one, in a large envelope,
addressed in a flowing meticulously fine hand, he knew, without
speculation, to be from Madame Zattiany.
He threw back the curtains, settled himself in an armchair, read his
other letters deliberately, and glanced at the headlines of the papers,
before he carefully slit the envelope that had seemed to press his
eyeballs. The time had come for self-discipline, consistently exercised.
Moreover, he was afraid of it. What--why had she written to him? Why
hadn't she telephoned? Was this a tardy dismissal? His breath was short
and his hands shaking as he opened the letter.
It was sufficiently commonplace.
"Dear Mr. Clavering:
"I have been in Atlantic City for a few days getting rid of a cold. I
hope you have not called. Will you dine with me tomorrow night at half
after eight? I shall not ask any one else.
"Sincerely,
"MARIE ZATTIANY."
So her name was Marie. It had struck him once or twice as humorous that
he didn't know the first name of the woman who was demanding his every
waking thought. And she had been out of town and unaware that he had
deliberately avoided her. Had taken for granted that he had been polite
enough to call--and had left his cards at home.
Should he go? He'd have his breakfast first and do his thinking
afterward.
He did ample justice to the breakfast which was also lunch, read his
newspapers, cursed the printers of his own for two typographical errors
he found in his column, then called up her house. Feeling as normal and
unromantic as a man generally does when digesting a meal and the news, he
concluded that to refuse her invitation, to attempt to avoid her, in
short, would not only be futile, as he was bound to respond to that
magnet sooner or later, but would be a further confession of cowardice.
Whatever his fate, he'd see it through.
He gave his acceptance to the butler, went out and took a brisk walk,
returned and wrote his column for the next day, then visited his club and
talked with congenial souls until it was time to dress for dinner. No
more thinking at present.
Nevertheless, he ascended her steps at exactly half-past eight with the
blood pounding in his ears and his heart acting like a schoolboy's in his
first attack of calf love. But he managed to compose himself before the
footman leisurely answered his ring. If there was one point upon which
he was primarily determined it was to keep his head. If he gave her a
hint that she had reduced him to a state of imbecility before his moment
came--if it ever did!--his chances would be done for--dished. He looked
more saturnine than ever as he strode into the hall.
"Dinner will be served in the library, sir," said the footman. "Madame
will be down in a moment."
A tête-à-tête by the fire! Worse and worse. He had been fortified by
the thought of the butler and footman. An hour under their supercilious
eyes would mean the most impersonal kind of small talk. But they'd
hardly stand round the library.
However, the small table before the blazing logs looked very cosy and the
imposing room was full of mellow light. Two Gothic chairs had been drawn
to the table. They, at least, looked uncomfortable enough to avert
sentiment. Not that he felt sentimental. He was holding down something
a good deal stronger than sentiment, but he flattered himself that he
looked as saturnine as Satan himself as he warmed his back at the fire.
He hoped she had a cold in her head.
But she had not. As she entered, dressed in a white tea gown of chiffon
and lace, she looked like a moonbeam, and as if no mortal indisposition
had ever brushed her in passing. Instead of her pearls she wore a long
thin necklace of diamonds that seemed to frost her gown. She was smiling
and gracious and infinitely remote. The effect was as cold and steadying
as his morning's icy shower.
He shook her hand firmly. "Sorry you've been seedy. Hope it didn't lay
you up."
"Oh, no. I fancy I merely wanted an excuse to see Atlantic City. It was
just a touch of bronchitis and fled at once."
"Like Atlantic City?"
"No. It is merely an interminable line of ostentatiously rich hotels on
a _board walk_! None of the grace and dignity of Ostend--poor Ostend as
it used to be. The digue was one of the most brilliant sights in
Europe--but no doubt you have seen it," she added politely.
"Yes, I spent a week there once, but Bruges interested me more. I was
very young at the time."
"You must have been! Don't you like to gamble? The Kursaal could be
very exciting."
"Oh, yes, I like to gamble occasionally." (God! What banal talk!)
"Gambling with life, however, is a long sight more exciting."
"Yes, is it not? Atlantic City might do you good. You do not look at
all well."
"Never felt better in my life. A bit tired. Generally am at this time
of the year. May take a run down to Florida."
"I should," she said politely. "Shall you stay long?"
"That depends." (Presence of servants superfluous!) "Are you fond of
the sea?"
"I detest it--that boundless flat gray waste. A wild and rocky coast in
a terrific storm, yes--but not that moving gray plain that comes in and
falls down, comes in and falls down. It is the mountains I turn to when
I can. I often long for the Austrian Alps. The Dolomites! The
translucent green lakes like enormous emeralds, sparkling in the sun and
set in straight white walls. A glimpse of pine forest beyond. The roar
of an avalanche in the night."
"New York and Atlantic City _must_ seem prosaic." He had never felt so
polite. "I suppose you are eager to return?" (Why in hell don't those
servants bring the dinner!)
"I have not seen the Alps since two years before the war. Some day--yes!
Oh, yes! Shall we sit down?"
The two men entered with enormous dignity bearing plates of oysters as if
offering the Holy Grail and the head of Saint John the Baptist on a
charger. Impossible to associate class-consciousness with beings who
looked as impersonal as fate, and would have regarded a fork out of
alignment as a stain on their private 'scutcheon. They performed the
rite of placing the oysters on the table and retired.
Madame Zattiany and Clavering adjusted themselves to the Gothic period.
The oysters were succulent. They discussed the weather.
"This was a happy thought," he said. "It feels like a blizzard outside."
"The radiator in the dining-room is out of order."
"Oh!"
She was a woman of the world. Why in thunder didn't she make things
easier? Had she asked him here merely because she was too bored to eat
alone? He hated small talk. There was nothing he wanted less than the
personalities of their previous conversations, but she might have
entertained him. She was eating her oysters daintily and giving him the
benefit of her dark brown eyelashes. Possibly she was merely in the mood
for comfortable silences with an established friend. Well, he was not.
Passion had subsided but his nerves jangled.
And inspiration came with the soup and some excellent sherry.
"By the way! Do you remember I asked you--at that last first-night--if
you wouldn't like to see something of the Sophisticates?"
"The what?"
"Some of them still like to call themselves Intellectuals, but that
title--Intelligentsia--is now claimed by every white collar in Europe who
has turned Socialist or Revolutionist. He may have the intellect of a
cabbage, but he wants a 'new order.' We still have a few
pseudo-socialists among our busy young brains, but youth must have its
ideals and they can originate nothing better. I thought I'd coin a new
head-line that would embrace all of us."
"It is comprehensive! Well?"
"A friend of mine, Gora Dwight--at present 'foremost woman author of
America'--is giving a party next Saturday night. I'd like enormously to
take you."
"But I do not know Miss Dwight."
"She will call in due form. I assure you she understands the
conventions. Of course, you need not see her, but she will leave a card.
Not that it wouldn't be quite proper for me merely to take you."
"I should prefer that she called. Then--yes, I should like to go. Thank
you."
The men arrived with the entrée and departed with the soup plates.
Once more he had an inspiration.
"Poor old Dinwiddie's laid up with the gout."
"Really? He called a day or two after the dinner, and I enjoyed hearing
him talk about the New York of his youth--and of Mary's. Unfortunately,
I was out when he called again. But I have seen Mr. Osborne twice.
These are his flowers. He also sent me several books."
"What were they?" growled Clavering. He remembered with dismay that he
hadn't even sent her the usual tribute of flowers. There had been no
place in his mind for the small amenities.
"A verboten romance called 'Jurgen.' Why verboten? Because it is too
good for the American public? 'Main Street.' For me, it might as well
have been written in Greek. 'The Domesday Book.' A great story. 'Seed
of the Sun.' To enlighten me on the 'Japanese Question.' 'Cytherea.'
Wonderful English. Why is it not also verboten?"
"Even censors must sleep. Is that all he sent you?"
"I am waiting for the chocolates--but possibly those are sent only by the
very young men to the very young girls."
He glowered at his plate. "Do you like chocolates? I'll send some
tomorrow. I've been very remiss, I'm afraid, but I've lost the habit."
"I detest chocolates."
Squabs and green peas displaced the entree. The burgundy was admirable.
Once more he was permitted to gaze at her eyelashes. He plunged
desperately. "The name Marie doesn't suit you. If ever I know you well
enough I shall call you Mary. It suits your vast repose. That is why
ordinary Marys are nicknamed 'Mamie' or 'Mame.'"
"I was christened Mary." She raised her eyes. They were no longer wise
and unfathomable. They looked as young as his own. Probably younger, he
reflected. She looked appealing and girlish. Once more he longed to
protect her.
"Do you want to call me Mary?" she asked, smiling.
"I hardly know whether I do or not. . . . There's something else I
should tell you. I swore I'd never ask you any more questions--but
I--well, Dinwiddie kept on the scent until he was laid up. One of the
Thornhills verified your story in so far as he remembered that a cousin
had settled in Virginia and then moved on to Paris. There his
information stopped. . . . But . . . Dinwiddie met a Countess Loyos at
dinner."
"Countess Loyos?"
"Yes--know her?"
"Mathilde Loyos? She is one of my oldest friends."
"No doubt you'd like to see her. I can get her address for you."
"There is nothing I want less than to see her. Nor any one else from
Austria--at present."
"I think this could not have been your friend. She emphatically said--I
am afraid of being horribly rude----"
"Ah!" For the first time since he had known her the color flooded her
face; then it receded, leaving her more pale than white. "I understand."
"Of course, it may be another Countess Loyos. Like the Zattianys, it may
be a large family."
"As it happens there is no other."
Silence. He swore to himself. He had no desire to skate within a mile
of her confounded mysteries and now like a fool he had precipitated
himself into their midst again. But if she wouldn't talk. . . .
"Suppose we talk of something else," he said hurriedly. "I assure you
that I have deliberately suppressed all curiosity. I am only too
thankful to know you on any terms."
"But you think I am in danger again?"
"Yes, I do. That is, if you wish to keep your identity a secret--for
your own good reasons. Of course, no harm can come to you. I assume
that you are not a political refugee--in danger of assassination!"
"I am not. What is Mr. Dinwiddie's inference?" She was looking at him
eagerly.
"That you really are a friend of Countess Zattiany, but for some motive
or other you are using her name instead of your own. That--that--you had
your own reasons for escaping from Austria----"
"Escaping?"
"One was that you might have got into some political mess--restoration of
Charles, or something----"
She laughed outright.
"The other was--well--that you are hiding from your husband."
"My husband is dead," she said emphatically.
He had never known that clouds, unless charged with thunder, were noisy.
But he heard a black and ominous cloud gather itself and roll off his
brain. Had that, after all, been . . . Nevertheless, he was annoyed to
feel that he was smiling boyishly and that he probably looked as
saturnine as he felt.
"Whatever your little comedy, it is quite within your rights to play it
in your own way."
"It is not a comedy," she said grimly.
"Oh! Not tragedy?" he cried in alarm.
"No--not yet. Not yet! . . . I am beginning to wish that I had never
come to America."
"Now I shall ask you why."
"And I shall not tell you. I have read your Miss Dwight's novel, by the
way, and think it quite hideous."
"So do I. But that is the reason of its success." And the conversation
meandered along the safe bypaths of American fiction through the ices and
coffee.