"I didn't think of your minding, dear girl. You know that I wouldn't be
discourteous to you for anything."
"Never mind about it now, Sidney. I can telephone to Mrs. Anderson, and
it will be all right," she answered more gently, for she felt the
contrition in his tone and it softened her momentary resentment at his
calm way of adjusting her convenience and happiness to his plans.
"Mother said Bobby is coming, and possibly Sally Van Osdel. She wanted
the four of us to go there for an impromptu dinner such as we used to
have."
"I am sorry, dear." There was a real note of regret in Lorimer's voice.
"She should have telephoned us earlier."
"She waited for Bobby's decision. He is the only one of us, you know,
who makes even a pretence of being busy. Besides, as late in the season
as this, it is generally safe to count on people."
"Apparently not," Lorimer returned lightly. "At least, I seem to be the
unlucky exception that proves the rule. I am sorry, for I know your
mother's dinners of old. I would break most engagements for them."
"Why not this?" she urged.
"Impossible. I promised, a week ago."
Her face flushed.
"How does it happen you haven't mentioned it?"
His answering laugh was frank and free from any taint of bitterness.
"Because I knew you didn't like Dudley, dear girl, and I didn't see any
use in discussing a matter on which we were bound to differ." He
evidently had had no intention of saying more; but, as he saw her
downcast face, he went on, "Truly, Beatrix, I couldn't decently refuse
the fellow, without any good reason."
She raised her eyes to his face a little haughtily.
"But it seems to me you had a good reason."
Lorimer laughed again. It was plain that he was determined not to be
jarred out of his genial mood.
"A good reason; but not one that was very tellable. You really don't
want me saying to a man that I can't eat his dinner because my wife
dislikes him."
Lorimer had no notion that his words could sting his wife, and he was
surprised at her heightened color and at the sudden aggressive poise of
her head. Then swiftly she controlled herself.
"Next time, you can concoct some more specious reason," she answered,
with forced lightness.
In his turn, Lorimer felt himself irritated by her calm feminine
assumption that his acceptance or refusal of invitations in future was
to be bounded by her dislikes.
"Next time, we will hope you will have annulled the reason," he
retorted. "Dudley isn't a bad fellow. Moreover, he has the saving grace
of knowing how to order a good dinner and get together a good crowd."
She felt the half-veiled hostility of his tone, and it cut her. She had
received similar cuts before, during the past three or four months.
Instead of rendering her callous, they had left a sore sensitiveness in
their scars. She battled against the soreness bravely. The Danes were a
race with level nerves, trained by generations of self-control to look
upon moods and lack of breeding as synonymous terms; and Beatrix had had
no conception of the swift alternations of feeling which marked and
marred the temperament of Lorimer. Often as they had been together
during their rather long engagement, he had been able to maintain a
moderately even mood whenever Beatrix was within reach. On one or two
occasions, he had betrayed the fact that he was gloomy and depressed;
but it was not until they came into the every-day and all-day contact
which follows upon the heels of the marriage ceremony that she had
supposed he could be either irritable or petulant. By the time they had
come home from Europe, she was quite aware of both characteristics; yet
they were alternated with hours of passionate devotion, of a tender
chivalry which took away much of their sting. Lorimer loved his wife
loyally; nevertheless, the very traits which most won the admiration of
his better hours, were the first ones to antagonize him when his moments
of irritation were upon him.
If Beatrix had been of the same temper, the danger for the future would
have been infinitely less. Flash would have answered to flash; and then
the quiet current would have run on as if the perfect contact had never
been broken. Instead of that, her quieter, better-controlled nature
received his flashes and made no outward sign of the shock. In the end,
she remained painfully sensitive to his petulance, while his real love
for her left her unbelieving, cold and apathetic. She had proof of the
one; the other was mainly negative, in so far as practical results were
concerned.
"Who are to be there?" she asked, as soon as she could trust her voice
to be properly inexpressive.
"Austin, and Tom Forbes, and Lloyd Avalons, and two or three men you
don't know, and Thayer."
"Mr. Thayer?" Her accent was incredulous.
"Certainly. Why not?"
"I didn't know that he ever had anything to do with Mr. Dudley, and I
really can't imagine his caring to make a table companion of Lloyd
Avalons."
Lorimer's answering laugh was slightly bitter.
"What a social Philistine you are, Beatrix! Thayer is not so narrow."
"Does that mean I am narrow?" she asked resentfully.
"Yes, for a woman who frowned disapproval upon Sally Van Osdel's late
utterances."
"Sally was talking of Mrs. Lloyd Avalons. Mrs. Lloyd Avalons is not bad,
only foolish: Mr. Lloyd Avalons is both." She drew a long breath, as she
paused with her teeth shut upon her lower lip. Suddenly her chin began
to quiver, and two heavy tears slid down her cheeks. Then she rallied
swiftly, for she knew that all men hate domestic tears. "Sidney," she
said slowly and with an evident effort towards steadiness; "let's not
discuss this any more. I will go to mother's, and you may come for me
there, after your dinner is over. I wish you could go with me; but never
mind. Only, Sidney,--next time, please tell me a little sooner when you
make a dinner engagement, and then I shall know just how to fit my plans
into yours. And--?" She raised her eyes to meet his squarely.
He understood.
"Yes, dear girl, I will be careful," he said, as he drew her to his
side.
For a moment, she stood there, passive. Then she went away out of the
room.
Thayer was the last guest to arrive, that night, and when he entered the
room, he found that both host and _chef_ were anxiously awaiting his
coming. He had spent the past two hours with Arlt, listening to scraps
of the completed overture, suggesting, praising, criticising it with an
acumen which surprised even the young composer, though he was fast
learning to attribute omniscience to his friend. After the shabby room
with its half-light, after the intent earnestness of Arlt, Thayer felt a
passing dislike of the gorgeousness and glare and frivolity of the
dinner. He was the last man to assert that good art can only associate
itself with homely origins, that prosperity is a deadly foe to its
growth. Nevertheless, he was fully conscious that Arlt in his meagre
surroundings was much nearer to his own ideals than were the immaculate
guests of the evening. Thayer loved luxury; but it must not be
accompanied by empty-headedness.
Thayer had had a definite purpose in accepting his invitation, that
night, a purpose which was quite alien to his mental estimate of his
host. Dudley, to his mind, was in some respects a shade or two better
than Lloyd Avalons, yet many shades worse in that his caddishness came
from deliberate choice, not from lack of training. In any case, Thayer
prayed that he might be remote from either of them, at table.
He quickly discovered that his prayer had been unavailing. He found
himself at the host's right hand, with Lorimer directly opposite. Lloyd
Avalons was next to Lorimer, and, as the dinner progressed by easy
stages, Thayer became aware that his purpose in coming was about to be
put to the test. The dinner was good and abundant; the wines were better
and yet more abundant, and Lloyd Avalons, who appeared to be constructed
of some material which alcohol was powerless to attack, saw to it that
Lorimer's glass was filled as often as his own. The result was
inevitable. Before Lloyd Avalons felt the slightest exhilaration,
Lorimer's brown cheeks were stained with red, and his voice was mounting
by semitones, then by whole tones, while his accent took on a curiously
insistent note which was quite foreign to the trivial subjects of
discussion.
"How did it happen that you were at Eton, Lorimer?" Dudley asked, at the
end of an unnecessarily long story.
"My father took me over. He was at St. James, you know, and he thought I
would find more fellows of my own class at Eton than up here at
Andover."
"That's modest of you, Lorimer," someone called, from the foot of the
table. "But please remember that I'm an Andover man."
"And even then wouldn't they accept you for the ministry?" Lorimer asked
promptly.
The man laughed with perfect good-temper. Already he was two glasses
ahead of Lorimer; but no outward sign betrayed the fact.
"I am willing to bet that they kept you more strict at Eton than the
Doctor kept us."
Lorimer set down his glass and gave a knowing wink which, at another
time, he would have been swift to condemn in his left-hand neighbor.
"They tried; but they couldn' do much about it. Besides, there was
college, you know."
"We all have experienced university discipline," Dudley suggested. "It
is swift and powerful, and nobody ever knows where it will hit next."
Lorimer appeared to be pondering the matter. Then he turned to Lloyd
Avalons.
"D' you ever 'sperience university discipline?" he demanded, with grave
anxiety.
Lloyd Avalons flushed angrily, and Thayer judged that it was time to
interpose.
"University discipline is more a matter of theory than of fact," he said
lightly. "If you want real discipline, you'd better go through a course
of voice training. How much was my allowance, the last of the time in
Berlin, Lorimer? My salamanders were mere tadpoles."
Lorimer caught at the familiar word.
"_Ein! Zwei! Drei! Salamander! Salamander! Salamander!_" he cried
gayly. "It makesh me homesick for the good ol' days in Berlin."
"You were over, in January; weren't you?" Lloyd Avalons asked.
"Yes, aft' a fashion; but 't wasn' the ol' fashion. A studen' an' a
married man's two differen' things. I took Mrs. Lorimer everywhere an'
to show her grat'tude she took me in han'." And Lorimer's own laugh rang
out merrily at what seemed to him a superlatively good joke.
The next moment, Thayer's level voice, low, yet so perfectly trained
that it reached the farthest corner of the room, broke in upon Lorimer's
mirth and quenched it. There was no bitterness in his voice, no
excitement; he spoke as quietly as if he had been wishing his friend
good-morning.
"It's a pity she isn't here to take you in hand now, Lorimer," he said,
with a smile. "As long as she isn't, I think perhaps I'll do it,
myself."
The deliberate, even tone steadied Lorimer somewhat. He pulled himself
together and stared haughtily at Thayer.
"What do you mean?" he demanded. "I don't understand you."
There was a short silence while it pleased Lorimer to imagine that he
was measuring his puny strength against the power of the other. Then,
before Thayer's gray eyes, his own eyes drooped.
"I think you do understand, Lorimer," Thayer said calmly. "If not, we
can talk it over outside. You know we are due at Mrs. Dane's at ten, and
it is almost that, now. Dudley, I am sorry that this is good-by for so
long. Don't let us break up the party." And, rising, he nodded to the
other guests and took his departure without a backward glance.
He had reckoned accurately, for experience had taught him to know his
man. Lorimer sat still for a moment, then hesitated, and rose. He bade
an over-cordial good-night to Dudley and Lloyd Avalons, exchanged with
the others a jesting word or two of which the humor was obviously
forced; then he sullenly followed Thayer out of the room and out of the
club.
Once safely in the street, Thayer freed his mind, forcibly and tersely
according to his wont.
"It's bad enough to fall into temptation, Lorimer; but the fellow who
deliberately canters into it comes mighty near not being worth the
saving. Some day, you'll wake up to find the truth of that fact; and
then Heaven help you, for there may not be anyone else willing to take
the trouble!"