Thursday was the opening night of the _New Babylon_, Pilling’s new night
club. The butler had been announcing arrivals:
“Lord and Lady de Jones.
“The Honourable Raymond and Mrs. Mosquito.
“Mrs. Frank Dickin.”
Then, flinging open the doors, the butler made a last belated
appearance: “Mr. Kerr, m’lord.”
“Now this is very, very nice. Come right in, Mr. Kerr!” from Lord
Ottercove.
At the long table presided over by Ottercove, Frank found himself seated
by the side of his own wife. After the long absence, she seemed
beautiful and enchanting, and her presence, new yet familiar, broke the
crust of ice in his heart and released rivers of rapture; and outside it
was spring, full of desires, and here was she, his lovely mate....
And yet? And yet? Looked at objectively, enquired into dispassionately,
was marriage a solution of one’s terrestrial difficulties? Be honest
now, he said to himself. One wife was both too much and not enough.
Fifty wives, renewable like water in a swimming pool, would be better.
He would sit there then, all lust gone, among them, a man of action
turned philosopher, and pass his hand dispassionately over this or that
wife’s hair, seeking solace in intellectual intercourse with some other
man who agreed that life was wanting! “What?” He was roused from his
reverie, and, not hearing the question, replied: “Rather!”
Indisputably, Cynthia was enchanting, and even Lord Ottercove singled
her out after dinner. “Are you the prettiest girl in London, Cynthia?”
He kissed her thoroughly on the mouth.
“No, Rex, no!”
An actress, jealous of Cynthia’s success, flung her champagne over her.
Cynthia, shocked beyond words, and followed by all her admirers, retired
to another room, where she was presently joined by the actress, who
lavished profuse apologies on her: “I am so frightfully sorry, darling!”
“It’s quite all right, darling.”
And all the women who hated each other, called one another thus:
“darling.”
It was, to all appearance, a brilliant party. Vernon Sprott was
there--Vernon Sprott, the foreman of British fiction, whose novel
entitled _The New Babylon Hotel & Restaurant_ had provided the
designation of Pilling’s night club, in consideration of which Mr.
Sprott received a royalty on the gross profits of the New Babylon Club
of 0.0000002 per cent. free of income tax and payable to him after
deduction of a commission of ten per cent. by Mr. Sprott’s Literary
Agent. And both he and his literary agent (who was there) could not take
their eyes off Cynthia, by common consent the special, the most
distinctive ornament of the evening. She looked a little pale,
dream-like, ravishing, romantic; and as she danced her eyes seemed to
say: “Do you remember?” and Frank could scarcely wait for the end of the
party to elope with his wife, to carry her away ... away.... She said
what Juliet had said before her: that it was too sudden!
Only Christopher de Jones seemed glum. He sat and watched how Eva danced
with an intent young man whose cleverness was in his feet; danced
confidentially, _giving_ him her pliable young body, every movement of
which seemed to say: “I am thine, thine....” For such is the melody of
the dance. He could see, it seemed to him, through all the souls of the
men and women, guests, musicians, waiters, and divine what the
headwaiter, the orchestra men, each individual thought to himself: how
each only suffered. Another little while, he thought, and it would all
be over....