Mary's "headache" had continued for two days, but Clavering came to her
house by appointment that same afternoon at five o'clock. She kept him
waiting fully ten minutes, and wandered back and forth in her room
upstairs with none of her usual eagerness to welcome him after even a
brief separation. The violence of her revulsion had passed, but she
was filled with a vast depression, apathetic, tired, in no mood for
love-making. Nor did she feel up to acting, and Clavering's intuitions
were often very inconvenient. He would never suspect the black turmoil
of these past two days, nor its cause, but it would be equally
disconcerting if he attributed her low spirits to the arrival of
Hohenhauer. What a fool she had been to have made more than a glancing
reference to that last old love-affair, almost forgotten until that
night of stark revelation. She must have enjoyed talking about herself
more than she had realized, unable to resist the temptation to indulge
in imposing details. Or self-justification? Perhaps. It didn't
matter, and he must have "placed" Hohenhauer at once this morning, and
would imagine that she was depressed at the thought of meeting him.
There was no one on earth she wanted to meet less, although she felt a
good deal of curiosity as to the object of his visit to Washington.
She heard the maid in the dressing-room and was visited by an
inspiration. She called in the woman, gave her a key and told her to
go down to the dining-room and bring her a glass of curacoa from the
wine-cupboard.
The liqueur sent a glow of warmth through her veins and raised her
spirits. Then, reflecting that Clavering never rushed at her in the
fashion of most lovers, nor even greeted her with a perfunctory kiss,
but waited until the mood for love-making attacked him suddenly, she
took a last look at her new tea-gown of corn-flower blue chiffon and
went down stairs with a light step.
"Shocking to keep you waiting," she said as they shook hands, "but I
came in late. You'll stay to dinner, of course. I had an engagement
but broke it, as I'm still feeling a little out of sorts."
"Never saw you look better. Nor in blue before. You look like a lily
in a blue vase, or a snow maiden rising from a blue mist. Not that I'm
feeling poetic today, but you do look ripping. What gave you a
headache? I thought you scorned the ills of the flesh."
"So I do, but I had spent three hours in Judge Trent's office that
morning, and you know what these American men are. They keep the heat
on no matter what the temperature outside, and every window closed. On
Tuesday the sun was blazing in besides, and Judge Trent and the two
other men I was obliged to confer with smoked cigars incessantly. It
gave me the first headache I'd had for twenty years. I felt as if I'd
been poisoned."
She looked up at him, smilingly, from her deep chair as he stood above
her on the hearthrug. He didn't believe a word of it: he was convinced
she had been advised of Hohenhauer's coming, and that for some reason
the news had upset her; but he had no intention of betraying himself.
Moreover, he didn't care. He was too intent on his own plans.
"The rest has done you good," he said, smiling also. "But as you were
looking rather fagged before you came down with that two-days'
headache, I made up my mind that you needed a change and dropped Din a
hint to open his camp in the Adirondacks and give you a farewell
house-party. He jumped at the idea and it's all arranged. You'll have
eight days of outdoor life and some sport, as well as a good rest.
He's got a big comfortable camp on a beautiful lake, where we can boat
and fish----"
"But Lee----" She was almost gasping.
"No buts. Not only do you need a rest before that long journey but I
want these last days with you in the mountains where I can have you
almost to myself. It seems to me sometimes that I do not know you at
all--nor you me. And to roam with you in the woods during the day and
float about that lake at night--it came to me suddenly like a foretaste
of heaven. I couldn't stand the thought of the separation otherwise.
Besides, here you'd be given a farewell luncheon or dinner every day
until you sailed. I'd see nothing of you. And you'd be worn out. You
must come, Mary dear."
Mary felt dimly suspicious, but it was possible that he had read his
morning papers hastily, or that in his mental turmoil that night she
had told him her story he had paid little attention to details, or
forgotten them later. He certainly had never alluded to the man since.
And this sudden impetuous plan was so like him that he needed no
foreign impulse.
But she answered with some hesitation: "I'd like it, of course. And
Judge Trent has nothing more for me to sign until the last minute.
But--a woman always has a thousand things to do before going on a
journey----"
"Your maid can do all that. And pack your trunks. She goes with you,
doesn't she? And you'll only need warm sweaters and skirts up there.
We never dress. You'll not need a maid."
"Well--but--do you mean to tell me that the whole thing is settled?"
"To the last detail. There'll be twelve of us, including Din."
"Really, Lee, you _are_ high-handed. You might have consulted me
first."
"No time to waste on argument. We'll only have a little over a week
there as it is. It takes a day to go and another to return, and you'll
need one day here in New York before you sail. I made up my mind you
should go if I had to take you by force. I _will_ have those last days
in the Adirondacks."
Her faint resentment vanished and she felt a languid sense of
well-being in this enveloping atmosphere of the tactless imperious
male, so foreign to her experience; of freedom from the necessity for
independent action; and the prospect was certainly enchanting.
Moreover, she would be able to avoid seeing Hohenhauer in surroundings
where this strange love-affair of hers had obliterated the past (for
the most part!), and she had found, for a time at least, happiness and
peace. She would see him in Vienna, of course, and she had no wish to
avoid him there; no doubt they would work together and as impersonally
as they had sometimes done in the past; but to see him here, even in
the drawing-room, which held no sacred memories, would be but another
and uglier blot on her already dimming idyl; and a subtle infidelity to
this man whose every thought seemed to be of her in spite of all he had
to inflame and excite his ego.
And if she remained and Hohenhauer wished to see her she could hardly
keep on making excuses for nearly a fortnight. So she merely smiled up
at Clavering, who was gazing down at her intently, and said softly: "Of
course I'll go. I always have sport things in my wardrobe and I think
it a wonderful idea. Now tell me who is going. Miss Dwight, I
suppose--and hope. And the De Witt Turners?" Madame Zattiany had no
respect whatever for the Lucy Stone League, and invariably forgot the
paternal names of the emancipated young wives of the men she found
interesting.
"They can't get away. Gora, yes; and Rolly Todd, the Boltons, the
Minors, Eva Darling, Babette Gold, Gerald Scores."
"Miss Darling is rather a nuisance. She flung her arms round me the
other night at the Minors' and left a pink kiss on my neck. She was
very tight. Still, she is amusing, and a favorite of Din's."
"I would have submitted the list to you in the first place, darling,
but I knew I should have to take what I could get on such short notice.
The only two I really care about are Gora and Todd. But there wasn't a
moment to lose. I wish to heaven I'd thought of it before, but that
play had to be finished, and it looked as if the date of your sailing
might be postponed, after all."
He had no intention of letting her suspect that the wonderful plan was
just eight hours old.
"I understand," she said. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow morning. Eight-thirty. Grand Central."
"Tomorrow morning!" She looked almost as dismayed as Mr. Dinwiddie had
done, then laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "Of course it can be
done--but----"
"Anything can be done," he said darkly. And then, having got his way,
he suddenly felt happy and irresponsible, and made one of his abrupt
wild dives at her.