She went on: "On the whole I'm rather glad Geoffrey talked last night as
he did. I wouldn't like Terry to be really influenced by Geoffrey, but
still, Geoffrey's rather good at shaking foundations. And Terry's
foundations _need_ shaking."
"Were they shaken?"
"Just a little, I think. But _I_ did most of the shaking." She added
very quietly: "I'm going to be perfectly frank with you and tell you the
whole truth. I'm in love with Terry. There now--what do you make of
that?"
What _could_ I make of it? You are sitting over a cup of tea in a
fashionable café when your companion, a pretty married woman, tells you
quite calmly that she is in love with one of your greatest friends. What
is the correct thing to say? Should you exclaim: "Really? How
thrilling!" or adopt an attitude of commiseration?
I did neither. I put into words the thought that came straightway into
my head. I said: "Being in love's bound to happen, I suppose. If you
keep cool about it, it isn't frightfully important."
"How do you know?"
"Well ... I've always been very slightly in love with you."
"How nice of you!" she exclaimed, with genuine appreciation of what is,
after all, the extremest compliment a man can pay a woman. "It's a most
wonderful thing to tell me, but I'm afraid it's not much use as a
comparison. For you've only got it slightly, whereas I'm in love with
Terry just ... just tremendously."
"Are you really?"
"Yes."
It was then that I realized how lovely she was. The admission had
brought a heightened colour into her cheeks, and as she sat there,
waiting for me to say something, I saw in her again that utmost beauty
that includes and yet is beyond the merely physical--a challenge rather
than a statement.
She smiled at me suddenly. "Don't look so serious. Have some more
tea.... That's right.... I'm glad I've told you, anyway. Do you think
it's _very_ awful?"
"It may be--for you," I answered.
"For _me_?" She laughed. "Why, I'm not a bit afraid. It's so wonderful
and interesting--so far--that I wouldn't give it up whatever happened.
Do you know--" her eyes glowed with sharp excitement--"since it began
to--to happen--all life seems to have caught fire.... Do you know what I
mean? Everything is so--so _different_--so _splendid_...."
There were bright tears in her eyes as she spoke. She went on: "But of
course you're thinking of Geoffrey. Well, you needn't worry--_he'll_
never need to know anything about it. He's so sure of his own powers of
fascination that he'd want a lot of convincing that I could possibly be
interested in anybody else."
I nodded. That was shrewd and very probably true. "Well, anyhow," I
said, after a pause, "what are you going to do about it?"
"_Do_ about it?" she repeated. "_Do_ about it? Why, there's nothing to
do, except to go on being in love for the first time in my life."
"The _first_? You mean that----"
Yes, she meant it. She had begun by being frank with me, she said, and
she might as well continue. No doubt I would be surprised to hear that
her marriage hadn't been an affair of love--not on her side, at any
rate.... She had been a _midinette_ in the Rue de la Paix, and Severn a
chance customer. He had taken her about as he would have taken about any
girl if he had fancied her sufficiently. "He dazzled me--he was so very
charming and delightful, and I liked him because he wasn't a snob...."
After the marriage there had been trouble with the Severn family,
and--"He was splendid then. I liked him most of all when he hadn't more
than five pounds in the world and he _would_ insist on taking me to
Claridge's. He was always like that--he never feared to do what he
wanted. And, of course, you know how marvellously--how _terribly_
successful he's been." She smiled and continued: "The quaint part of it
is that most people must think me the luckiest person in the world.
Geoffrey's so generous--I've nothing very much to complain of. It's just
that as soon as I met Terry I knew--" She shrugged her shoulders and
added: "Well, you know what I knew, don't you?"
She took a chocolate éclair and delicately pierced it with her fork.
"You aren't saying very much," she went on, "but I hope you're
understanding.... Try to understand how terrible it is to be married to
a man who always gets what he wants. Everything that he said last night
was perfectly true--he doesn't believe there's anything very much worth
while in the world, except to do what you like and have a good time....
And then, on the other hand, there's Terry...."
"Yes?"
She went on, after a pause: "What seems to me so strange and fine is his
way of doing his work very quietly because he thinks it's worth doing,
and not because of money or fame or anything like that at all. Just
think of it--Geoffrey's made out of this Roebourne case in three weeks
as much as Terry may earn in ten years.... It's a shame."
It was, I admitted, but I pointed out that Terry himself would probably
disagree. He didn't want a lot of money, and consequently he wasn't
disappointed about not getting it. He had often said that three hundred
a year would completely satisfy him. To which she replied: "Yes, I told
that to Geoffrey not long ago, and he said he'd settle three hundred a
year on him if he'd accept it."
"Of course he wouldn't," I answered. "But it was rather decent of
Geoffrey to make the suggestion."
"Was it?" She spoke rather sadly. "I suppose it was. But at the time, it
just made me feel that the whole world was hopeless."
She meant, she explained, that it hurt her to think that what meant so
much to Terry could be bestowed by Geoffrey as a mere whim of the
moment. "But there it is," she went on, enjoying her éclair, "Terry's
happy, and I'm happy, and Geoffrey's happy, so I suppose it's all right.
Being in love--even tremendously in love--seems to be quite a harmless
luxury if you keep your head about it. And I'm not likely to lose
mine.... Besides, I want to help Terry. I want to make him a little more
at home in the world."
"Which is happening faster," I asked, "your conversion of him, or his of
you?"
She didn't answer. There wasn't time, for at that moment we saw Terry
coming towards us.