In the following months Peter realised to what extent his late devotion
to Lady Mary had filled him. Now that she was only one of his best
friends, he was at first vacant of enthusiasm. Then he began to discover
all kinds of neglected ties with people whom before he had hardly
noticed. Ostensibly Lady Mary was still supreme, but, curiously as it
seemed to Peter, though her sacrifice and the wonder of her great career
set her higher in his admiration, it had made this admiration less
tremulously personal. The ecstasy had gone out of it. It no longer shut
out the undistinguished world. He discovered now that he had other
friends; that he was liked by some of them; that their liking was
gratifying and merited some small return.
Since Haversham had been claimed by his public and hereditary life,
Peter had become attached to a frequent visitor at Arlington Street.
James Atterbury was a young and successful caricaturist who had also
written and produced several plays. His activities were financially
unnecessary, so that in a sense he was an amateur. He was socially
popular, and Peter met him everywhere. Gradually he had taken
Haversham's place. Like Haversham, he was tolerant and urbane. He had
long abandoned those visions which now were driving Peter restlessly
from day to day. He was a cheerful man of pleasure, living for all that
was agreeable and could be decently enjoyed. He had watched, with
respectful irony, Peter's absorbed devotion to Lady Mary, and had keenly
speculated as to how it would end. When the end came, Haversham plainly
hinted that Atterbury would do well to help Peter recover an early
interest in people and things.
"Certainly," Atterbury had said. "I'm rehearsing a new play at the
Vaudeville. Peter shall attend."
"Is that adequate, do you think?"
"Yes, Tony. Rehearsing a play is the most distracting thing in the
world."
So Peter, plunged into a new atmosphere, sat for hours upon the small
stage at the Vaudeville watching, with growing interest and amusement,
the pulling together of a mixed company.
"It's like a children's party," Atterbury told him. "At present we are a
little shy, but soon it will be a bear-garden. They will forget that I
am the author, to be loved and respected. By the time we are ready for
the public, I shan't be on speaking terms with anybody."
"Except Vivette," suggested Peter, looking towards Atterbury's principal
lady.
"You've noticed Vivette?"
"I've noticed you always give way to her."
"Not always."
"Usually, then."
"Usually she is right. She is really improving my play."
Peter looked with greater interest at the vivacious young woman now
holding the stage. She was full of vitality, which somehow she shared
with all who acted with her. As soon as she left the stage, life went
out of the performance.
"What is her name?" Peter asked.
"Formally you may call her Mademoiselle Claire."
"French?"
"Every country in the world."
At this point the rehearsal again became animated. Atterbury was soon
fighting to be heard. The dispute was at last arranged, and he returned
to Peter.
"Vivette has been looking at you, Peter," he said as the play began to
go smoothly again.
"How do you know?"
"Because she has told me."
"What did she say?"
"She asked for the name of my solemn friend."
"Anybody looks solemn beside you," Peter grumbled.
He resentfully examined his companion. Atterbury was roseate and
sanguine; but he looked at Peter as gravely as he could.
"I hope you are not hankering after the admiration of Vivette," he said.
"She isn't safe."
"What do you mean?" asked Peter.
"She looks upon everything nice in life as a sort of sugar-plum. If she
likes you, Peter, she will eat you."
"You mean she is a wicked woman?"
"Not at all," twinkled Atterbury. "I mean she is a small child who
happens to be greedy. She would think no more harm of making a hearty
meal of your ingenuous self than I should of swallowing an oyster."
Vivette slipped from the imaginary door of a room that did not
exist--they were rehearsing without scenery--and came to them before
they were aware.
"You have shocked your friend," she said to Atterbury, looking at Peter.
Peter angrily composed his protesting face, as Atterbury presented him.
"Peter Paragon is easily shocked," Atterbury said. "I hope you did not
hear what we were talking about?"
"No."
"It was harmless," Atterbury assured her.
"Do tell me," she pleaded. "I don't often hear anything harmless."
"Impossible."
"Wasn't it to do with oysters? Let's go to lunch. We shan't make any way
this morning."
They lunched together. It was an agreeable triangle; but Atterbury, with
amusement, saw he would soon be unnecessary. Peter, in reaction from the
emotional strain of his last adventure, found in Vivette a pleasant
holiday. Peter consented with Vivette to relieve the dignity and stress
of life upon the heroic plane. He came to delight in the quick gleam of
her eyes.
The eyes of Vivette were brown, easily lighting, but shallow. They
flickered into fun, and went suddenly out. They could never be
passionate or deep, but they talked with him, and drew him to admire the
play of her lips, slightly full, the life and light of her face; the
sudden tale of her blood which came and went at a word or gesture.
She did everything with an equal enthusiasm. She had the mimic soul to
catch at every mood. She was born a player. Life was a quick succession
of happy parts. She stepped from her rôle on the stage into the rôle she
happened to be playing in the world.
Soon she was playing the happy comrade of Peter. He soon attended
rehearsals regularly without prompting from Atterbury, and Atterbury
usually made excuses to send them away to a friendly lunch. Atterbury
was unable to resist the comedy of seeing them together. They inspired
the most famously cruel of his social caricatures. Peter looked
forlornly innocent beside her. Cytherea's Pilgrim, Atterbury named him.
His simplicity and perpetual fervour aggravated the lightness of
Vivette. In Atterbury's penetrating eye, each made a caricature of the
other. It was a sense of this which threw them more and more closely
together. Each was determined to touch the other and to make a
proselyte. Peter wanted to be taken seriously by Vivette. Vivette wanted
to see Peter come down from his golden throne.
Peter watched the first performance of the play from a box with his
mother. Later he attended, without his mother, a supper party in the
rooms of Vivette--a rambling flat among the chimneypots of Soho. She was
bright with laughter and success, and Peter frowned to observe how
easily she caught the mood of her company. He felt he would like to say
or do something to bring depth into her eyes.
Peter and Atterbury were the last to leave, and they sat for a while to
enjoy a friendly conversation. Vivette curled herself up.
"This is heavenly," she purred. "I simply love peace and quietness."
"I've noticed it," said Peter bitterly, surveying a litter of empty
champagne bottles on the table behind them.
"Don't, Peter. You are spoiling the beautiful silence. Besides, your
views are all wrong. The only people who really understand peace and
quietness are people who also like a jolly good racket. We get it both
ways."
"You always do," said Atterbury. "Life is the art of getting it both
ways--eh, Vivette?"
"Not worth living," grunted Peter.
"That's your ignorance, Peter," said Vivette. Her eyes suggested a
wicked godmother. "I don't know what's going to become of Peter," she
added confidentially to Atterbury.
"You are really anxious?"
"Naturally. Peter's a temptation to all of us. He is so aggressively
pure."
"You, at any rate, are safe," Atterbury audaciously hoped.
"For the time being," Vivette reassured him, "if Peter will only smile
now and then. But he mustn't go on wearing his beautiful character like
a medal."
Peter had bounded to the far end of the sofa. Now he rose, offering to
go.
"You want to discuss me," he said.
"It doesn't matter, thank you; but if you really must--" Vivette held
out her hand politely. Peter smacked it suddenly. Then he sat down
again.
"What a wicked child," said Vivette, turning again to Atterbury. "Did
you ever see such a temper? It's a curious thing about me," she added,
discussing an interesting problem in character, "every man I have
anything to do with sooner or later wants to hit me."
"Men like to be taken seriously."
"You never want to be taken seriously, do you, Jimmy?"
"I am not a typical man," retorted Atterbury.
"My men are never typical," said Vivette. "I hate typical men. I'm sure
Peter isn't typical."
"He'll get there some day," Atterbury assured her.
"Not as far as that," she quickly hoped.
For the first time Peter detected a note of sincerity in her. He turned
and found her jealously perusing him. He faintly coloured, and this time
he really went.
After he had left them, Vivette and Atterbury looked intelligently at
one another.
"I really mean it," she said at last. "I shouldn't like Peter to be a
typical man."
"It will depend on his luck."
"You mean he must fall into the right hands?"
"When he does fall."
He looked at her keenly, and she coloured under his inspection.
"He mustn't fall into the hands of a nasty woman," she said.
"You would rather take him yourself?" Atterbury thoughtfully suggested.
"Sometimes, Jimmy, you are too familiar."
"I'm sorry," said Atterbury, beginning to look for his hat. "Let me
thank you again for your beautiful acting. You saved my play to-night."