Mrs. Sherwood was completely right. Keith had _seen_ Mrs. Morrell. The
glamour had fallen from her at a touch. He did not in the least
understand how this had happened, and considered that it was his own
fault. Mrs. Morrell had not changed in the least, but he had, somehow.
He looked upon himself as fickle, disloyal, altogether despicable. Yet
for the life of him he could not get up the slightest spark of
enthusiasm for musical evenings, Sunday night suppers, or week-end
excursions into the country. They had fallen dead to his taste; and
with the sudden revolt to which such temperaments as his are subject,
he could not bear even the thought of them without a feeling of
incipient boredom. The blow administered to his self-respect put him
quite out of conceit with himself and the world in general. If he had
followed his natural instinct, he would instanter have thrown,
overboard all the Morrell episode, bag and baggage.
But that was, of course, impossible. Keith felt his obligations; he was
a man of honour; he had respect for the feelings of others; he could
not make friendly people the victims of his own outrageous freaks. That
was out of the question!
Mrs. Morrell sent for him. She had been puzzled by the episode of the
evening before. It would have been absolutely incredible to her that a
hundred words from a woman who was not her rival could have destroyed
her influence over this man. She had considerable knowledge of men, and
she had played her cards carefully. But she realized that something was
the matter; and she thought that the time had come to use the power she
had gained. A note dispatched by the Chinaman would do.
Keith obeyed the summons. He knew himself well enough to realize that
the intimacy, such as it was, must come to a pretty abrupt termination.
Otherwise, he would shortly get very bored; and when he got very bored
he became, in spite of himself, reserved and self-contained to the
point of rudeness. For the exact reason that he saw thus clearly, his
conscience was smiting him hard. Mrs. Morrell had done nothing to
deserve this treatment. He was a dastard, a coward, ashamed of himself.
If she wanted to see him, it was her due that he obey her summons
promptly. He went with the vague idea of making amends by doing
whatever she seemed to require--for this once.
She entered the dim sitting-room clad in a flowing silken negligée,
which she excused on the ground of laziness.
"I'm still a little tired from last night," she said, with a laugh.
The soft material and informal cut clung to and defined the lines of
her figure, showing to especial advantage the long sweep of her hips,
the pliancy of her waist, the swell of her fine bust. A soft lilac
colour set off the glint of her fair hair. She was, in fact, feeling a
little languid from the reaction of the ball and in a sudden rush of
emotion she admired Keith's crisp freshness. Her eyes swam a little and
her breast heaved.
But the preliminary conversation went by jerks. Keith answered her
advances with an effort toward ease and cordiality, but with a guarded,
unnatural manner that sent a sudden premonitory chill to the woman's
heart. Her instinct warned her. As the minutes passed, her uneasiness
grew to the point of fear. Was she losing him? Why? This was no time
for ordinary methods.
She arose and went to sit by his side.
"What's the matter, dear?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Why are you acting in this manner? What have I done?"
"I'm not; you haven't done anything--of course."
She suddenly leaned forward, looking into his eyes, projecting all the
force of her magnetism. She had before seen him respond, felt him
quiver to her tentative, mischievous advances.
"Kiss me," she breathed.
Poor Keith was having a miserable enough time. He clung to his first
thought--that this evening was her due, that he was in some way bound,
in ending everything, to pay whatever coin he had left. He obeyed her,
touching her lips lightly and coldly with his own. Never was chaster
caress bestowed on melting mood!
She flung him violently aside, her face writhing and contorted with
fury. She was enlightened, completely, as she could have been
enlightened in no other manner.
"You can go!" she cried hoarsely. "Get out! Don't dare enter this house
again!"
He made some sort of spiritless, feeble protest, trying his best to put
some convincing quality into it. But she did not even listen. The
ungoverned tiger-cat part of her nature was in the ascendant, the
fierce pride of the woman living near the edge of the half-world. She
would gladly have killed him. At length he went, very confused,
bewildered, miserable--and relieved! He left behind him a bitter enemy.