Maggy looked forward with immense eagerness to the luncheon at which
Woolf was to meet Alexandra. She had a double reason for desiring it.
In a sense, Alexandra's presence would mean that she no longer
disapproved of the connection: it would give it a certain sanction, an
authority it would otherwise lack. Her other reason concerned Woolf
himself. In spite of his assertions to the contrary, she was sure he
knew how to appreciate a woman of culture. Once he saw how different
Alexandra was from the girls he usually met, his regard for herself
would grow stronger, if only because she had the advantage of the
friendship of such a superior being.
She was not altogether wrong in her assumption that Woolf liked a lady,
although it must be admitted he seldom felt at ease with one. He was
only himself with declasse women, or a girl of Maggy's class, who had
few sensibilities to shock. All the same, he was contemptuous of the
women whose society he frequented, and he had a sneaking admiration for
the women of the more sedate world to which he did not belong. It was
likely that he would ultimately marry a lady, if he married at all,
since he considered that women, other than the class that will not give
itself away except in the bond of holy matrimony, were not worthy of any
such honor. He was a cad, of course, but a cad of ambitions and brains.
Maggy's rhapsodies about Alexandra left him cold. He did not credit
Maggy with being much of a judge concerning matters pertaining to the
aristocracy. He did not believe that Alexandra had the breeding Maggy
was always vaunting. He merely supposed that she was more subtle than
Maggy, one who could ape superior manners, much as an astute parlormaid
can.
The fact that this friend so exclusive, according to Maggy, should
overcome her scruples sufficiently to meet him, knowing perfectly well
in what relation he stood to Maggy, was sufficient confirmation that she
had never had any scruples of importance to overcome. He was amused
that Maggy could be so hoodwinked by one of her own sex. But then Maggy
was a little fool--pretty and taking, and that was all. He was too
egregious to appreciate that real friendship for Maggy, friendship which
overrode personal considerations, had induced Alexandra to accept the
invitation.
She turned up at the flat at the time appointed. They were to lunch in
the restaurant attached.
Woolf could not help being impressed with her appearance. He could not
deny that she was really exceedingly pretty. Her features were quite
perfect--white brow, small straight nose, well-shaped mouth. He saw all
this at a glance, the cool, scrutinizing glance of valuation with which
he favored every attractive member of her sex, whether a duchess in her
carriage in Bond Street or a shop-girl on her way to work.
Maggy introduced her friend and her lover with mutual pride. The tone
in which she did it left no doubt that what she would have loved to say
was:
"This is Lexie. Isn't she lovely? You know she is;" and then with a
certain dubiousness: "My Fred.... _Do_ like him. Surely you must think
him handsome."
"Delighted to meet any friend of Maggy's," said Woolf cordially. "Been
a long time coming round, haven't you?"
Alexandra instantly resented the unnecessary familiarity he put into his
tone, but for Maggy's sake she refrained from showing it. Woolf was no
better and no worse than she had expected to find him. He was merely
vulgar, from the salmon-pink handkerchief in his breast-pocket to the
too-valuable pin in his tie.
"I came as soon as I was asked," she answered equably. "Maggy and I are
old friends. There's no reason why I should keep away from her."
"Of course, there isn't. Only Maggy thought you didn't approve of--this
little show." He waved his arm round the room.
"It's a dear little flat. I like it very much."
Woolf laughed loudly. "The flat's all right. Perhaps I should have said
our little menage a deux. There's no harm in it. Everybody's doing it,
aren't they, Maggy? Come along to lunch, you girls."
If Alexandra could have run away then and there she would have done so.
She guessed what she was in for. Maggy was looking nervous. She wanted
Alexandra and Fred to "get on," to like each other. She had done her
best to make her lover avoid the sort of conversation Alexandra would
not like. She was dreadfully afraid he was going to spoil it all.
As Woolf led the way down to the restaurant she slipped behind and
whispered:
"Lexie, don't be shocked if Fred talks a bit. I've told him not to
because you don't like it; but if he forgets--"
Alexandra gave her arm a little squeeze. It heartened her. Her adoring
eyes went to the big figure, striding on in front of them.
"Doesn't he look a dear?" she asked. "Could I _help_ it? Fancy him
wanting me!"
Her abjectness was a revelation to Alexandra. She had not conceived it
possible that cheeky, masterful Maggy, could have surrendered her
independence so completely. In this man's company she was quieter, more
subdued, ever watchful to please, to laugh when he laughed--a little too
much perhaps, too ready to applaud his most commonplace remarks as
witticisms, his untasteful jokes as gems of wit. She had a mind of her
own. She hardly showed it. His assertive manhood seemed to have
swamped her personality. All the time she was considering him. He
scarcely considered her at all.
Conversation did not run freely during the first part of the meal.
Woolf wanted to shine in Alexandra's eyes as a good host. He showed it
by bullying the waiters over trivialities, until she began to feel quite
uncomfortable. His was not the quietly assertive tone of the man who
knows what he wants and how to order it. It was obvious to the very
attendants themselves that he blustered in order to draw attention to
his importance, just as he would tip excessively and yet argue over a
trifling item on the bill.
Over his coffee and a cigarette his manner showed some improvement.
Still, he had not taken Alexandra's measure. She was telling Maggy of
her sudden luck in obtaining an engagement, and that she was going to
stay with Mrs. Lambert. Maggy was delighted.
"Oh, I'm glad!" she said enthusiastically. "It's tip-top, Lexie. Fred,
did you hear that? Lexie's going on tour with Mrs. Lambert. Isn't it
splendid for her?"
"Splendid for Mrs. Lambert. Rather!" concurred Woolf, with heavy
gallantry. "You'll have plenty of opportunities of ingenue parts with
the lady," he went on, knowingly. "You'll suit her to a T. You'll play
propriety, of course! Dashed funny, that."
"I don't understand," said Alexandra.
"Oh, come, we're none of us as good as we look. Of course you've heard
about Mrs. Lambert and Lord Chalfont? I told you everybody was doing
it."
Her crimson face and indignant eyes did not warn him of the blunder he
was committing. Maggy was playing nervously with the crystallized sugar,
afraid of angering Woolf by stemming the tide of his untactful
garrulity.
He bent forward, lowering his voice. "It's like this," he said, and
began to give details of a liaison which Alexandra had no reason to
credit, details which were offensive and unnecessary. She was genuinely
shocked. Involuntarily she pushed back her chair while he was still
talking and made the first excuse she could think of.
"I shall have to be going now, Maggy. I'm so sorry. I--I'm late for an
appointment as it is. I--I'll come and say good-by before I go on
tour."
"Must you really go?" asked Maggy weakly. She knew that Alexandra could
stand no more. It meant that her poor little attempt at concord between
the only two people she cared about had come to nought. "Fred, tell the
waiter to order a taxicab."
"I won't wait for that," said Alexandra. "I shall be too late. I ought
to go at once. I shall find one in the street."
She managed a reassuring smile to show Maggy that though her feelings
were outraged she meant to get over it, and let it make no difference to
their friendship. Now that she had met Woolf and learnt the sort of man
he was, nothing would have induced her to waver in allegiance to Maggy.
Maggy needed her though she might never say it. She knew she could not
bring herself to meet Woolf again, even for Maggy's sake.
He insisted on escorting her out of the restaurant and putting her into
a cab. He was aware now from her almost monosyllabic rejoinders that he
had made a mistake, spoken in bad taste. It was suddenly obvious to him
that she was a lady--the "real thing," and that he had offended her.
Simultaneously with this came the desire to know more of her.
"I believe you're annoyed," he said. "Have I been a bit too
plain-spoken?"
"Here's my taxi," she said, disregarding the question.
He helped her in, knowing that she disapproved of him. A natural
premonition told him that she would not be desirous of meeting him again
unless he could convince her he was aware of his error and regretted it.
He was distinctly taken with her, more now than ever that her
fastidiousness made her difficult. He leant toward her and spoke almost
anxiously.
"I'd like to meet you again. Can't you dine with me one night before
you go? I'm sorry if I've offended you.... I made a mistake. I
thought you were Maggy's sort."
The apology, so disloyal to Maggy, as well as insulting to herself,
inflamed her.
"You unspeakable cad!" she said.
Woolf returned to Maggy rather red in the face. She had left the
restaurant and was waiting for him in her sitting-room. She was afraid
to reproach him, and yet anxious that he should know he had blundered.
She was terribly disappointed.
"You shocked Lexie," she told him, and waited to see what he would say.
He made no answer.
"You thought her pretty?" she went on.
Woolf was biting his finger-nails savagely.
"Didn't you?" she persisted.
"Oh, yes. Very pretty."
He had been repulsed, snubbed, and was rankling under the smart of it.
It made him turn to the girl who had nothing but devotion for him for a
salve to his wounded vanity. The girl who had just gone was provokingly
desirable because of her cool eyes, her scornful mouth, her aloofness,
the disdain of her. But Maggy was all his, living for him.
He took her in his arms almost savagely.
"You're worth ten of her," he exclaimed; and in his irritation believed
what he said.
Her body relaxed submissively in the grip of his arms.
"Oh, my God, how I love you!" she murmured, trembling.
She laid her cheek against his and stroked his hand. "Will you do me a
favor, Fred?" she went on presently, unconsciously taking advantage of
what she regarded as a soft mood.
"What is it? A bit more money than I give you?"
"No. I don't want more money. I've got enough. I've never been greedy
that way, have I?"
"No. More silly you. Women should make hay while the sun shines."
She looked at him with soft eyes.
"When the sun shines some women only want to let it warm them through
and through."
"Well, what's the favor?"
She pointed at the basket containing Mrs. Slightly and her offspring,
which Woolf had not noticed.
"You asked me to have them drowned. I'd rather find homes for them.
Please, D.D.?"
"But, good Lord--why?"
She drew away from him, walked over to the basket, and leant over it, as
if communing with Mrs. Slightly.
"I had a dream last night," she said. "It's because of that I--I want
Mrs. Slightly's kittens to live. I dreamt that I was a mother cat, only
in my dream I had but one little kitty. But it was all mine and I loved
it. It had soft black hair with a white tuft in it--like its father."
She looked straight at the white lock that was so singular a feature of
Woolf's dark hair. "And one afternoon when I had come back from a
stroll I went to the basket to find that my Kitty was gone. I mewed for
it everywhere. There was nowhere that I did not look. I couldn't
possibly, as a cat, know that the human I looked up to, the giver of
food and all good things could do anything so evil as to make away with
the precious thing. It was a nightmare. In my dream, I was searching,
searching for hours. My cat-heart was breaking. When I woke up, I was
mewing! Don't laugh, Fred. And I made up my mind that I couldn't have
Mrs. Slightly's kittens drowned. Oh, the people who drown kittens and
take away calves from cows and lambs from sheep, must be hard-hearted
beasts. Why, if I had a baby, a little soft warm baby, and somebody
wanted to deprive me of it--Fred!" She caught at his arm.
Startled by the sharp note of appeal in her voice he put a startled
question.
Maggy had cast her arms protectively round the basket where Mrs.
Slightly and her kittens slept, all unconscious of issues concerning
their fate. Her shoulders were shaking. She was moved by some
extraordinary emotion. But when she turned to Woolf again she was calm.
"I am quite sure," she said.