MADDISON was not surprised at a visit from Squire early the next
morning; and if not armed he was at any rate forewarned.
He offered him a chair and a cigarette, both of which were curtly
refused.
“As you will,” Maddison said, seemingly careless and supercilious, but
in reality closely watching his opponent’s face. “I hope you will not
mind my both sitting and smoking; both are conducive to comfort, and
what’s life without comfort?”
“It will be better,” Squire said, shuffling awkwardly, “to talk simply
and without any remarks which are likely to be offensive. You know why
I’ve come?”
“Unless you tell me I shall never know. This visit seems as useless as
it is unpleasant. I can’t think what you have to say which wouldn’t be
better unsaid.”
“No, I suppose you cannot. I suppose we look at almost everything from a
different standpoint. I’ve come to say——”
“You are presuming, Mr. Squire, that I am willing to listen to you.”
“Naturally. You allowed your servant to show me in.”
“I beg your pardon, you’re _quite_ right. But I do wish you’d sit down;
it makes me feel so awkward to see you standing up.”
“I saw Marian last night,” Squire said, taking no notice of Maddison’s
remark; “I suppose she told you.”
“Yes. The meeting annoyed her very much. It was natural for you to
assume that I let you in because I was willing to listen to you. As a
matter of fact, it was because I must absolutely refuse to do so. But,
unless _you_ refuse to hear me, I’ve just this much to tell you. The
lady you mentioned is living under my care, and I will protect her
against annoyance. If you have any communication to make I will send you
my solicitor’s name and address. Now—you’d better go.”
“Even if she were not my wife, I’ve a right to do all I can to rescue
her from a life of sin.”
“Please don’t platitudinize to me.”
Squire reddened with anger and clenched his fists: recourse to brute
force suggests itself instinctively to the fighter who is mentally
weaker than his opponent.
“What right have you to say that?” he asked vehemently, “what right? I
believe what I say and do my best to act up to my beliefs.”
“Then live in charity, with all men, even with a sinner and a publican
like me, and judge not that ye be not judged. I don’t shove my beliefs
on you. You live in such an unpractical world that you do not realize
the stupidity of forcing yourself upon me. I’ve really no more to say.
The law gives you your remedy, but it won’t assist you to trespass here
or to force yourself upon your wife. Good morning.”
Squire realized that he was helpless against Maddison; denunciation
would achieve no good end; it would be equally useless to base an appeal
upon grounds of morality. But for Marian’s sake he was ready to humble
himself in a last endeavor.
“As man to man——”
“Oh, my dear sir!” Maddison exclaimed, “don’t talk that way. If you
tried to knock me down I could understand, if not respect, you. In these
affairs men don’t argue, they act, according to the law of nature or
preferably of man. Don’t let us indulge in a vulgar, unprofitable brawl.
Good morning.”
“Then I’ll go to her. Give me her address.”
“Certainly not. She does not wish you to know it.”
“Then I’ll watch.”
“As you please. But remember, you’ve no right to persecute her; though
many husbands think otherwise—that is not one of the privileges of
matrimony.”
Squire checked an angry retort and then abruptly went out.
Maddison spoke truly when he said that to him comfort was one of the
saving graces of life, indeed to him it was almost the only one. This
entry of Squire upon the scene and this turning a comedy into a domestic
drama vexed and annoyed him. It had not occurred to him that any man
would act so unconventionally as Squire had done. Marian had told him
that her husband would not divorce her, looking as he did upon marriage
as a sacramental bond which no man had a right to break; so Maddison had
thought that there might be an appeal to Marian if Squire discovered her
whereabouts, an angry scene very likely and then peace. But it had not
entered into his calculations that Squire would be so persistent; this
type of man was new and unknown to him, of a kind that he did not
understand how best to tackle. To discuss the situation with Marian
would be distasteful; there remained only Mortimer to whom he could
speak frankly, relying upon the good common sense of any advice he might
obtain from him.
At this hour of the morning Mortimer should be at his office, and there
Maddison rang him up.
“Is Mr. Mortimer in?”
“Which one?” was the brusque reply.
“Mr. Frederick.”
“Don’t know. Who is it?”
“Tell him Mr. Maddison wants to speak to him for a minute.”
“Hold the line.”
Mortimer gladly accepted Maddison’s invitation to lunch.
“But why on earth come down to this dreary part of town?” he asked.
“Don’t deprive me of a lovely excuse for leaving here early and coming
back late—if at all. Meet me outside the Palace, and I’ll take you to a
tidy little French restaurant I’ve just discovered and haven’t yet found
out. One o’clock—all right!”
Both were punctual, and Mortimer guided his friend through several small
and unsavory streets to a narrow court at the far end of which was
situated the humble restaurant bearing the high-sounding name La Palais.
“It’s not much to look at,” he said, as they went in through the swing
door, “like an ugly woman with a pretty wit. _Bon jour_, Madame.”
Madame, a stout, jolly-looking woman, greeted Mortimer cordially, and
nodded genially to his companion.
“Now, Madame, I’ve brought a friend with me and I’ve told him—well,
I’ve told him the truth about you. So don’t shatter my entirely
undeserved reputation for veracity. We’ll have this snug corner and
leave the menu to you. You know the kind of thing I like.”
The room was long and low; clean, neat, with little attempt at
decoration; the walls covered with plain, dark gray paper, the electric
light pendants severely simple; flowering shrubs stood upon the pay desk
near the entrance, and similar plants or cut flowers upon the tables.
“I can’t make out how this place pays,” said Mortimer, “there are never
more than a handful of people here. I suppose it will suddenly become
popular and then rapidly deteriorate. That’s the history of all these
places. Meanwhile let us rejoice. We’ll have some Chianti, but will not
drink it neat as do the barbarians, but judiciously tempered with
Polly.”
Lunch finished, coffee and cigars produced, Mortimer announced that he
was ready to talk seriously.
“What’s up?” he asked. “You shall have all the advice I can give and I
shan’t be in the least hurt if you don’t follow any of it. Your mind’s
sure to be made up already and you simply ask for advice in the hope
that my view will be your view.”
“No, I don’t, Fred. Not such an ass. I’m in a bad corner and I’m damned
if I know how to get out of it. I don’t know whether you know that Mrs.
Squire has a husband?”
“I didn’t. I imagined the prefix to be entirely ceremonial.”
“He’s a parson.”
“The devil!”
“Worse, a saint. He doesn’t believe in divorce and is obstinately
determined to persecute Marian. He says he won’t leave a stone unturned
to save her. Please laugh. There’s a comic side to it, I know, but it’s
turned away from me.”
“I know the type. I’ve met one or two of them,” said Mortimer,
reflectively watching the smoke of his cigar; “I bet he’ll give you a
deuced lot of trouble. Unreasonable people are most difficult to deal
with, they never know how unreasonable they are. And a man who doesn’t
play according to the rules—But, tell me all about it.”
Maddison told him all that he knew of Squire and of Marian’s and his own
meetings with him.
“Beastly awkward!” was Mortimer’s comment.
“You can pretty well guess I’m stumped,” said Maddison. “I don’t know
what’s best to do.”
“Excuse my asking, I must know all the facts of the case: you don’t want
to break off with Mrs. Squire?”
“No!”
“All right! Don’t blaze up, we’re talking politics, not poetry. It’s not
one of those cases in which you can sit still and let fate play your
cards. The man will stick at nothing. Eventually he must meet her again,
even if she doesn’t come to your place. He’ll haunt you. Perhaps catch
you together in some public place and kick up—the saints’ own delight.”
“Yes, yes, I can see all that. I know what I’ve got to face—but I don’t
want to face it.”
“I was mentally marking time. If I knew what to suggest I would have
told you at once. Let’s be practical; there are three parties to the
business: you—she—he. The question is how to avoid you and she, or, at
any rate, you, being brought into contact with him. Could you both go
away for a while?”
“Easily.”
“In a time you and she would be safe. What would he do? Hunt after
you—find that you had left town——”
“That’s all very well, but we can’t stay away forever.”
“Forever!” murmured Mortimer, gazing sadly up at the ceiling. “Easy!
Easy! Leaving out of the question the possibility of your tiring of
her—he can’t spend the rest of his life chasing after you. Even if he
could, he wouldn’t. You don’t know the man as well as I do, although
I’ve never met him. It’s love—fleshly love—as well as duty that’s
urging him on now. Duty will regain the upper hand, and he’ll argue that
he has no right to leave undone the work that is _merely_ duty, in order
to pursue duty _plus_ personal interest. He’s actively engaged in trying
to save one particularly attractive soul now; he’ll soon swerve round
and work again on the multitude. As far as his wife is concerned, he’ll
fall back upon the masterly inactivity of prayer. I may be quite wrong,
but unless you can hit upon a better plan, I don’t see that you can do
better than—hook it. I have spoken.”
“I’ve still got the cottage down at Rottingdean; we could run down for a
month.”
“Where the stormy winds do blow! Poor, dear lady.”
“I can’t work in a racket.”
“Well, it’s as easy to leave as to go there. Three o’clock! by Jove, I
must get back. I’ve some letters to sign, and I’m going down to West’s
for dinner. She tells me you’re going to paint her portrait.”
“She tells the truth—although she draws upon her imagination. West
suggested my doing so, but I haven’t agreed yet.”
“Have you met Miss Lane?”
“Once, at dinner.”
“She’s worth studying. Worth painting too.”
“Oh!”
“Not I. I don’t even like her. A man never falls in love with a woman he
studies, but with the woman who studies him. I _must_ be off. See you
again soon. Let me hear from you if you run away.”
As he walked homeward, Maddison pondered over the problem, oblivious of
people and places. Squire’s intrusion into his life had brought home to
him that Marian and the joy of life were one for him. He had entered
into this intrigue to a certain extent deliberately, but had not
contemplated the possibility of Marian’s attraction for him becoming
anything stronger than a mere physical appeal to his sensuous nature. He
had always believed that art was the only impulse in his life, that in
all else he was governed by his reason. He did not drink too much,
because reason and experience told him that after a certain point wine
became a tasteless stimulant. He did not permit any woman entirely to
captivate him. Experience and reason—so he thought—taught him that
women were like wine.
But Marian had won a place in his life that no other woman had ever
approached. For a moment, the night before, Squire’s attack had made him
think that a temporary separation between himself and Marian might be
necessary, and the mere notion had struck him with a chill, sick fear.
Everything in his life belonged to her. All that he attempted or
accomplished in his daily round or in his work centered on her; she was
his motive power. Another matter had recently come home to him; he had
never been extravagant, but had always lived fairly up to his means. His
support of Marian had made heavy demand, not only upon his income but
upon the small amount he had saved, and he was now face to face with the
necessity of adding largely to his earnings.
He had never condescended to force his art, never painted for money
alone. Inspiration, not necessity, had been the mother of his invention.
Even in the painting of portraits he had held himself entirely free to
refuse any commission that was not entirely to his taste. Now, however,
he was no longer free; he must paint for money or curtail his
expenditure. To do the latter would mean depriving Marian of certain
pleasures and luxuries, the doing of which would be abhorrent to him.
Not for an instant did it occur to him to question Marian’s loyalty;
could he offer her only a cottage and country fare that would suffice
her. When she first came to him, he believed that his chief claim upon
her was that he offered her freedom. But he now felt assured that as his
love for her had grown deeper and deeper so had hers for him.
Therefore for more reasons than one, the idea of a country retreat
appealed to him strongly. While there he would be altogether with
Marian; he could at the same time work strenuously, he could live
inexpensively.
When he reached the flat he learned that Marian had gone out, but would
be home to tea, and he decided to wait for her return.
Smoking cigarette after cigarette, he paced up and down, from room to
room. Every detail seemed to bear the impress of her personality. He
stopped more than once before the pastel on the easel by the drawing
room window. He pulled back the curtain as far as it would go so as to
let in the full strength of the waning light. Striking as was the
likeness, he felt that he had failed to catch the whole charm of her
face; the beauty was there, but not the pleading fascination. He tried
to imagine how much he would suffer if she were to die. Drops of
perspiration broke out upon his forehead as he realized overwhelmingly
that perhaps he might have overestimated her love for him, and that
perhaps she would one day again take her freedom. The thought of it was
agony. He stood before the picture wrought into a tumult of emotion. She
came in, stood beside him unheard, until she spoke:
“What a loyal lover! When he can’t worship the original——”
“I do worship you,” he exclaimed, turning fiercely, seizing her hands
and crushing them between his own. “I do, that’s the only word for it,
that’s the very truth. Look at me—straight—you’re everything to me;
what am I to you?”
“You’re hurting my hand——”
“_I_ hurting you!” he said, loosening his hold, “and I am ready to do
anything to save you one moment’s pain. You haven’t answered me; am I
everything to you?”
“Do you need to ask?” she answered, looking boldly back at him, so that
as he gazed into her eyes, he seemed to see deep into her soul. “I never
asked you. You show me how much you love me, and I’ve tried to show you.
I suppose”—she faltered and turned away—“I suppose I’ve failed.”
“You’re right, Marian,” he said, catching her in his arms, turning her
face to him, and kissing her passionately again and again; “but I do
like to hear you say it. Would you like it if I never _told_ you how
much I love you?”
“No, no, dear, of course I shouldn’t. Somehow it’s not my way to _say_
it; I’ll try to sometimes, but don’t make me do so now. Let me say it
when it comes to my lips.”
“All right, dearie, you’re right.”
“Now, come along. We’ll have tea. I felt sure you were coming to-day, so
I ran out to get some of those cakes you liked so much.”
It was a fancy of his that she should always make the tea herself. The
room was growing dark. She looked very graceful, tenderly delicate, as
she knelt on the hearth-rug, the firelight playing hide-and-seek in her
hair and the folds of her dress. Her eyes looked dreamy as she stared
into the blaze, waiting for the kettle to boil up, which she had set on
the fire, too impatient to wait for the spirit-lamp to do its work.
It was not until she had settled herself cozily into the deep armchair
that he broke the silence.
“How would you like to spend a month or so down at Rottingdean? I’ve got
a small cottage there; very comfortable, very lonely and very quiet.”
The unexpected question startled her. The proposal upset all her
schemes, and the call for an immediate reply tried her skill.
“What made you think of it?” she asked, temporizing.
“Well, I thought it might be—pleasanter, if we kept out of sight for a
while.”
“Oh, I see! I see! Do you like the idea?”
“I rather do. I’d like anywhere with you; best of all, anywhere, we
should always be together.”
“Until——”
“Until what?”
“Until you’re tired of me.”
He did not answer, and she went over to him and sat down at his feet,
her head resting on his knee. It was preferable to her to sit so, her
face hidden from him; eyes are traitors oftentimes.
“Always together,” she went on, “how good that would be for me; for me.
But, George, I don’t think it would be good for us both.”
“You mean what?”
“Why this, dear. The woman depends upon the man, always wants him near
her if not actually with her. Men, I think, are different; they only
depend upon us sometimes, and then they come to us.”
“Then you don’t know what I know, dear. You’ve taught me to depend upon
you—always, altogether, all day long. While I was waiting for you just
now, I was mad because the thought entered my head that perhaps you did
not really love me very much, after all.”
“What a silly thought! But I’m glad it hurt you; isn’t that horrid of
me?”
He leaned down and kissed her upturned face.
“Well,” he said, “what about Rottingdean?”
“George—before I tell you what I think—tell me right out, what put the
notion into your head? You think we should be safer there than here?”
“Why, of course——”
“I don’t agree with you. Your being there is sure to get into the papers
one way or another. He will see it there, or some dear, kind friend will
tell him, and he’d come down.”
“It’s funny we didn’t think of that!”
“We?” she asked quickly. “Who’s we?”
“Why, I—er—met Mortimer. He’s often done my thinking for me, so I
chatted my difficulty over with him.”
“Two great, clever men of the world, and one, wee, little foolish idea!
Why didn’t you come and talk it over with me?”
“Somehow—I didn’t like to.”
“Well, let’s forget clever Mr. Fred. Don’t you agree with me, it
wouldn’t do?”
“Ye-es, I do. We could go abroad?”
“That would only make his journey after us longer. He’s a saint, which
means one part of lunacy to nine parts of obstinacy. It’s this
pig-headedness that makes them martyrs. Who was it said that a ‘martyr
is a persecutor who has got the worst of it?’ Edward will persecute me
until I give in, or he dies.”
“He shan’t!” Maddison interjected angrily.
“Oh, no, he _shan’t_ indeed,” she continued, laughing, “because—I won’t
let him. Now, while you two wise men of the West End have been talking,
I’ve been thinking. Part of your plan fits in with mine. You must go
away——”
“Not without you!”
“If not without me, you may as well stay here. Don’t you want me to be
happy?”
“Of course I do. That’s the only want I have.”
“Then you must make me unhappy for a little while, so that I may be
quite happy by and by. If you go down to Rottingdean alone, I’ll manage
that Edward shall hear of it. He’ll watch you, find out that I’m not
with you, and leave you alone. I’ll stay here; I shan’t bother to hide
away; I don’t mind if he does find me out, and come to see me. I don’t
think he’ll do it twice. Besides, obstinate as he is, he must have some
pride somewhere, and some other woman may catch hold of him: I never
believed the story St. Anthony told. And there’s this hope too: he may
begin to think he’s neglecting his real work in hunting after me.”
“That’s what Mortimer thought.”
“Did he? Now—don’t you see that my way is the better?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. I won’t leave you.”
“Don’t you know I hate the mere thought of it? But, George, I won’t
sacrifice the future to the present, as you’re so ready to do. It isn’t
as if you were going millions of miles away. You can easily run up to
town every now and then—you needn’t go near the studio, just stop here
a night or two. I can run down to Brighton. You mustn’t be obstinate.”
“I shall hate it.”
“So shall I!” she exclaimed, jumping up, “so shall I. But it’s the best
way. Do you love me so little, George, that you don’t know that I’m only
thinking of how we can be happiest in the end? We must buy the future at
the expense of the present.”
Then, sitting on his knees, she took his face between her warm hands,
looked into his eyes, slowly put her lips to his, slowly kissed him.
“You witch!” he said. “You always have your own way!”
“How untrue! But, George,” she added quickly, laying her head on his
shoulder, “don’t misunderstand me, _don’t_. I want you, want you always,
and I shall be miserable while you are away. I shall just count the
days. But you’ll come up to see me and I’ll come down to see you; it
might be worse. And how lovely it’ll be when you come back.”
Maddison was dining out that night, and she made him resist the sudden
temptation to telegraph to his hostess, pleading illness as an excuse
for not keeping his engagement. They talked on until at the last he was
compelled to hurry off, the leave-taking abruptly ended by her
laughingly pushing him out.
Then she danced back to the drawing room, overjoyed that fate had played
so well into her hands, offering her the opportunity for which she had
been longing, of being free upon occasion to go whither she liked and to
do what she willed.
“If only all men were as easy to fool!” she thought; “perhaps they are,
when one knows them and they don’t know us.”
She picked up her hat which she had flung on the sofa, and pinned it on
quickly. Then she went out, closing the hall door quietly behind her,
but instead of going down, ran upstairs to the top floor, where Ethel
Harding lived, as she said, nearer heaven in this world than she was
likely to be in the next.
“Hullo, it’s you!” she said, answering herself to Marian’s ring. “Come
along in. The girl’s out and I’m all alone and lonely.”
She led the way into a small sitting room, comfortably but somewhat
gaudily furnished and decorated; a bright fire burned in the small
grate; an incandescent gas light glared on each side of the overmantel;
on the round table in the center were a dilapidated flower in a crimson
pot; an ash tray, full to overflowing with cigarette ends and ashes;
and, on a dirty cheap Japanese tray, a half-empty siphon of soda water,
a bottle of brandy three parts full, and a tumbler.
“I’m in an awful mess, I always am!” Mrs. Harding exclaimed, as she
picked a newspaper and a novel out of an armchair and flung them on the
sofa. “There, do sit down. Look at me too, but this old tea gown is
comfy. I hope you’ve had your tea?—Eh?”
“Just finished it.”
“Good, for there isn’t a drop of hot water ready. I’m not much of a tea
fighter myself—a B. and S. is more in my line. Have one? No? Well,
smoke anyway. Here’s a new sort the old man brought along: they’re not
bad; they’re like him, not bad but might be better. Though I mustn’t
grumble at him now, for he just ran up to give me these and to say he’s
off for a week.”
“Is he? Then I’m in luck, for I’m alone too. Can’t we go out and dine
somewhere?”
“Why, yes. We’ll go to the Inferno, as I call it; we’re sure to meet
some pals; at least I shall, and I’ll introduce them if you like.”
“Of course I should. I haven’t been there for an age, and I do want some
fun.”
“Getting tired of Georgie? He is a bit serious.”
“Well, I think I shall appreciate him all the more if I don’t see too
much of him.”
“And he’ll like you all the longer if he don’t see too much of you. That
sounds jolly rude, don’t it? But men are all alike in some things, and
one of them is that they’re always singing ‘When _other_ lips.’ And just
you beware when they begin to protest that they can’t get on without
you: that’s always a sign of the beginning of the end to my mind.
Right-oh! Have a B. and S.? No—well, daresay you’re right. I’ll have
one more and then I’ll dress and we’ll be off. The Inferno’s crammed
always and I hate sitting at a table with other people, unless I’m one
and _he_ the other,” she added, laughing.
There was something bold and free about the figure of the woman as she
stood beside the table with her hand raised to put the glass to her
mouth, the clinging folds of the slight tea gown showing clearly the
outline of her stalwart figure, her broad shoulders and shapely breasts.
Marian felt slight and fragile by comparison.
Something of the difference between them had evidently struck Mrs.
Harding at the same moment, for she said as she put down the empty
glass:
“We make a good couple, we shall never interfere with each other’s game.
I suppose you’re just about as tall as me, but you’re slight and I’m
big—quite big enough; I’m black and you’re golden. Are you going to
change? I shouldn’t if I were you—that’s right—we can chat while I get
on my togs. Where’s Georgie off to?”
“Only dining out.”
“Oh! Coming along later on?”
“I expect so.”
“What a nuisance; you’ll have to be back early, and I was counting on
having some fun and perhaps bringing a couple of boys home with us.
Well, you must make the best of a short time and hope for better luck.”
Marian made no response, though she was disappointed and wished that she
were free for adventure, any that would break the dull monotony of her
present way of living. The license of this woman’s life made hers by
comparison all the more strait.
Pausing for a minute at her flat to put on her furs, Marian and her new
friend went down.
“Shall we bump it in a motor, or go comfy in a hansom?”
“Whichever you like,” Marian answered. “I’ve not much choice, but I feel
rather ‘hansomy’ this evening, don’t you?”
“I always do. I was born with the itch of spending. The only thing that
I shall do cheap will be my funeral, and I don’t worry about that.
Here’s one, with a horse that don’t show too many of his ribs. Jump in
and I’ll climb sedately after—not that there’s anyone about who’d
admire my tootsies if I did show ’em and a trifle more.”
Comparatively early as they were, the big grill room was nearly full,
and they had to content themselves with a small table in a far corner,
where, however, they could see, even if not much seen.
“It does make me laugh,” said Mrs. Harding, as she rolled back her
gloves, “to see the calm cheek of some fellows. See that bald-headed old
Jew just over there? That’s his wife with him. Last night he was sitting
at the same table with Florrie Kemp. You don’t know her?”
“No.”
“She’s a devil. Drinks like a fish. Now what are we going to eat and
drink?”
For a short while Marian seemed out of tune with the scene and with her
comrade, but the heat of the room, the swirl of the music and the buzz
of voices, the rich food and the wine warmed her, and she fell in with
the spirit of her companion.
“Hullo! There’s Nosey Geraldstein staring at you as if he’d like to eat
you. He hates me, so let’s have him over. He’s mean as Moses, and it’ll
be fun to make him pay the bill and then say ‘Good night’! He’s coming!
He’s the ugliest man in London and—always gets any girl he wants. So,
look out for yourself. Hullo, Sydney, you tried to look the other way;
yes, you may join us, if you promise to behave nicely. Let me introduce
you to Mrs. Squire.”
Marian thought that the description of Geraldstein as the ugliest man in
town was, at any rate, no gross exaggeration; his heavy, dark face,
black and lusterless eyes, lusterless, lank, black hair, and gross,
prominent chin, were far from prepossessing. To her surprise his voice
was soft, pleasant and refined; she almost laughed, it was so
unexpected: a voice that to a handsome man would have been an added
attraction, came as if contrary to the course of nature from one so
grotesquely, almost bestially, ugly.
“I never look for anyone here,” he said. “If a friend sees me and says,
‘Hail, fellow,’ all right, but in a crowd I’m lost. This is a nice,
secluded haven of refuge you’ve found, and it’s very good of you to let
me share it.”
“These are his ‘just-introduced-to-a-stranger’ manners, Marian. Sydney’s
got more soft soap at his command than all the washerwomen in London.”
“But not enough to cleanse the reputations of some of my friends,” said
Geraldstein. “Why drink Burgundy? It’s a dull, stupid wine. There are
only three wines worth drinking: Rhine wine when I want to be inspired;
claret when I want to be stimulated; and champagne when I want to
remember the days when we were all young and innocent. So—shall we have
a bottle of—fizzy wine?”
“It’d take several bottles to make you forget yourself,” said Mrs.
Harding, who had flushed uneasily under his open sneer.
“Ah, Ethel, you’ll never make a conversationalist; you should learn to
give and never take. Here’s Francis—I call all waiters Francis, it
reminds me of the Boar’s Head—he’s one of my tame waiters. It pays to
have a tame waiter everywhere.”
The time went by quickly, Geraldstein exerting himself to please Marian,
who for her part enjoyed herself thoroughly. The good talk, the good
wine and good food, the atmosphere of gayety, the sense of freedom,
intoxicated her senses, and Geraldstein congratulated himself that he
had thought it worth while suffering Ethel Harding for the sake of an
introduction to the pretty woman with her. He wondered who she could be
and what—evidently not an ordinary woman of the town.
The wine heated Marian, who usually drank sparingly, calling a splendid
glow to her cheeks and brilliancy to her eyes; many of the men there
envied Geraldstein. She listened to his gay chatter and to Ethel
Harding’s coarser talk, joining in gayly herself, not caring what she
said, uttering every quip and innuendo that came to her lips, and taking
the meaning of his delicately-veiled impudences with laughter and
railing rejoinders. A woman to go mad about for a time at any rate,
thought Geraldstein. But a peculiarly broad remark of Mrs. Harding’s
grated on her, and chilled her spirit. She suddenly realized that
Geraldstein was examining her points as he would those of a horse or a
dog the purchase of which he was considering. She seemed to hear the
chink of his gold as he bid for her favors, and the thought sickened
her. She could understand the drunkenness of indiscriminate passion or
the joy of purchasing power by the pretense of passion, but cold-blooded
bargaining with coins disgusted her.
It was now past ten o’clock, and she made the hour an excuse for moving.
“Don’t let me break up the party; you’re in no hurry, Ethel!” she said,
using the Christian name as Mrs. Harding had used hers, “but I must be
off.”
“Off?” said Geraldstein. “What a pity! It’s quite early.”
“Yes, quite early,” Marian answered. “I like being quite early. You
settle the bill, Ethel, and I’ll square up with you to-morrow.”
“You’ll let me see you into a cab?” Geraldstein protested.
“No, thanks. I can look after myself quite well.”
Geraldstein did not press the point, and Marian went away alone.