I
Mr. Naylor telephoned the next morning.
“I’m waiting downstairs in the hall,” he said. “I don’t care to come
up.”
Frances hurried into her hat and jacket and went down. She got into the
motor-car beside him, indescribably relieved to get away from the flat
for a while. She looked at him with a smile.
“Well!” she said.
“Well!” he repeated. “Upon my word, that was a jolly little party last
night! That German chap!”
“You don’t know how sorry I felt, bringing that on you. But, of course,
I never imagined----”
“You know, though, it’s no place for you, Miss Defoe. That woman’s
not----”
“Please! You really can’t understand her as I do. She--really,
she’s....”
She stopped, at a loss, but quite determined to protect the poor wretch
who had begged for pity the night before.
“She has so many good points,” she went on, “Oh, I’m not quite an idiot,
Mr. Naylor.... I see her as she is. Only--I’d rather dwell on her good
qualities. She’s been very kind to me.”
Not for worlds would she have told anyone of the two dreadful scenes.
She enlarged on Miss Eppendorfer’s friendliness and good humour and the
excellence of her work.
“That’s all very well,” said he, “but I stick to it that it’s no place
for _you_.”
They didn’t talk much more on the way down; Mr. Naylor was too much
occupied with his driving, which was minutely careful. He took no risks,
and he muttered furiously against those who did. He seemed to Frankie
unnecessarily prudent; she would have liked to go faster, as lots of
other cars did. However, a look at his frowning face reproved her; she
felt that this driving business must be more difficult, more perilous
than her inexperience imagined.
As soon as they reached the beach he proposed taking their swim at once,
and she very readily agreed. Poor girl! She hadn’t been in the sea for
years, since those long gone days, those happy days when she had been a
school-girl. She was, it must be admitted, rather eager to “show off” to
her Englishman, for she was a good swimmer, and not at all an unpleasant
object in a bathing suit. She came out of her bath-house and walked down
on to the beach, conscious of her splendid symmetry, her strong,
straight limbs, her face gay and boyish under a tight rubber cap. It was
obvious to both of them at once that Mr. Naylor was physically not at
all her equal. Gone his chic, his superiority; he was thin, fragile,
rather wretched. Within her stirred faintly an old, old instinct,
perverted and crushed out through generations of false training, the
instinct of the woman to seek for strength and beauty in her mate. Her
smile was artificial.
“Beastly cold!” he grumbled.
But Frances dashed by him, through the breakers, and began swimming out
in strong and beautiful strokes, her bare arms flashing up rhythmically,
her white teeth showing in a broad smile. She looked back, and saw Mr.
Naylor moving slowly near the shore; after ten minutes or so he came
out on to the sand, and lay in the sun watching her. And presently began
to wave.
She came inshore reluctantly.
“What is it?” she asked. “It’s glorious in the water to-day. I never
want to come out!”
“It’s time to come out now,” he said.
“Oh, it can’t be! I’ll _have_ to stop longer!”
“But, I say, I want my lunch. This isn’t much of a lark for me, you
know, roasting out here like this.”
“Why don’t you go back into the water again?”
“I can’t. It gives me a chill.”
“A chill!” said Frances, and couldn’t keep a faint contempt out of her
voice. “You’d better go and dress. I’ll be out presently.”
“I shouldn’t think of leaving you; you’re so rash. Go ahead, enjoy
yourself; I’ll wait.”
His good nature conquered Frances; she gave one more look at the
glittering sea and went back into her bath-house.
She had to wait quite twenty minutes for him.
“You’re quick, aren’t you?” he said, artlessly.
“Or is it that you’re slow?” she returned. Now he was his own self
again, the imperturbable, the superior. She wished to forget the
shivering, frail being who had for a time supplanted him.
He ordered an amazing lunch, in the old “Oriental,” which was still
standing then, with its unique flavour; he saw people whom he knew by
sight and could point out to Frankie. He ordered champagne, which she
had never before tasted. He was like a prince, or rather, like a
millionaire....
After this meal, which was nothing less than a banquet, Frances said she
would have to go home.
“The awful cook’s gone out,” she explained, “and I’ll have to help poor
Miss E. to get something ready.”
“What!” he cried. “Do you mean to tell me you’re going to _cook_!”
“And eat,” she answered, cheerfully. “Please don’t be mediæval.”
“I don’t like it. A girl of your class--and your ability----”
They were spinning along the road by the marshes, passed by an incessant
stream of motors going down.
“It’s a confounded shame to go home now anyway,” he said. “If we could
only have had the evening!”
“Another time,” she said, before she thought, and was rather confused at
her own forwardness.
“I hope so,” he answered gravely, “I can’t tell you how much I--like to
be with you. I--altogether--I’ve old Horace to see you.... Do you
suppose you could meet him some time? Without his wife, I mean? It’s
irregular, I know, but you’re not conventional.”
She said no, that she wasn’t.
“Could you set a time? Next Wednesday?”
And she said she thought that would do.