An exclamation from William made us all turn and look at him.
'I must have been mad,' he groaned, sinking into a chair and covering
his face with his hands.
'That's what I thought myself just now when I caught sight of your
waistcoat,' said Henry, staring at him. 'What is the meaning of all
this--why the flawless trousers, the immaculate morning coat?'
'I--I--put on a morning coat because you said I wasn't to get into
evening dress,' he replied. 'I know it isn't the correct thing for
dinner, but you've only yourself to blame.'
Henry continued to stare at him. 'I was quite right. Your brain is
unhinged, William. When I last saw you, you appeared fairly
normal--and now I come in and discover you arrayed like the lilies of
the field and kissing my wife.'
William gave a cry like a wounded animal. 'Your indictment is only too
true. Henry, it is terrible. I can never even hope for your
forgiveness for such a heinous offence. The only reparation I can make
is to go forth from your house, shake from my feet the dust of your
hospitable roof----'
'That metaphor's wrong, William,' I interposed.
'--and pass out of your lives for ever.'
'What on earth are you talking about, old chap?' inquired Henry.
'Have I not betrayed the trust you always reposed in me?'
'I wouldn't put it as strong as that,' replied Henry, eyeing him up and
down, 'though you certainly have made a bit of a guy of yourself. Who
created those trousers?'
'I--I--was not referring to my change of apparel, Henry, but to that
most unfortunate aberration on my part, when I was impelled by some
strange uncontrollable impulse to bestow a labial salute on your wife.
Heaven only knows that I----'
'As for that, I expect she egged you on,' calmly rejoined that horrid
Henry. 'I know her. You did flirt with him, didn't you, Netta?'
Before I could reply William sprang to his feet and placed himself
before me. 'Stop, Henry!' he exclaimed, 'You have no right to suggest
such a thing. If I took a gentle unsuspecting woman unawares, then I
am willing to stand by the consequences of my rash act. Never for one
moment, I can assure you, did such a thought enter Mrs. Warrington's
head. She was wholly unprepared----'
'I'm not so sure of that,' put in Marion, with a sniff.
I began to feel somewhat of a martyr. 'Yes, it _was_ rather a
surprise,' I remarked.
'Only a moment before,' continued William, 'Mrs. Warrington had said to
me, "If you do kiss me, I shall never forgive you!"' Oh, clumsy,
clumsy William!
'Then you had been discussing it,' commented Marion, who seemed
unusually chilly about the innocent affair.
'Well, I'm hungry, so let's have dinner now,' suggested Henry, 'and we
can settle the discussion afterwards.'
But William strode to the door. 'No, no, Henry, I cannot break bread
in your house again after this distressing incident. I have imposed on
your kindness and good faith, disturbed your trust in me----'
'Well, I forgive you this time if you promise never to bestow any of
those, what d'ye call 'em--labial salutes on Netta again. Now let's
have dinner.'
'No, no, old man, you may forgive me, but I shall never forgive myself.'
Henry began to look irritated. 'For Heaven's sake, Netta, tell him the
truth and admit it was your fault, or we shall never get anything to
eat to-night.'
I sighed, and going up to William gently pulled back his retreating
form by the coat tails. 'You are young, Father William,' I said, 'and
innocent in the wiles of women. You've only been born a few hours as
far as they are concerned--I don't think it's quite safe for you to go
about without your beard just yet. I will tell you nothing but the
truth. I incited you to kiss me.'
'I knew it!' snapped Marion.
'Henry, as you see, has treated me under the First Offenders Act and
forgiven me. And now, William, I will kiss you once again (with
Henry's full consent) for your youth and innocence.' And I suited the
action to the word. 'So will Marion, won't you, dear?'
At this William started as if shot. 'Never, never!' he
exclaimed, staring at Marion with a hunted look, 'it would be
preposterous--infamous.'
The situation was decidedly awkward, especially as Marion, going
suddenly pale, gave a little hysterical sort of cry and ran out of the
room.
The meal that followed was a silent one. Marion did not speak at all,
and when she was not casting furtive glances in William's direction,
kept her gaze fixed on her plate. William was monosyllabic, partly, I
gathered, on account of recent events, and partly because one of his
patent leather boots was obviously causing him anguish. I noticed that
he occasionally lifted his foot (as an animal raises a wounded paw) and
then set it down again with a sort of half moan.
For one reason I was rather grateful that my guests were so abstracted.
That reason was Elizabeth. Her behaviour during dinner, to put it
mildly, was disturbing and abnormal. Every time she entered the room
to change the plates or hand round the dishes she went through
remarkable pantomimic gestures behind the unconscious William's back.
She drew my attention to him by nods, winks, and significant gestures.
Once or twice she was impelled to clap her hand over her mouth and dash
from the room in a spasm of uncontrollable mirth. It was most
unnerving; and what with William's gloomy looks, Marion's abstraction,
and my constant fear that Elizabeth would spill gravy, custard or
something of an equally clinging character, over William during her
contortions behind him, I was relieved when the meal was ended.
[Illustration: She dashed from the room in a spasm of mirth.]
William at once retired to the study with Henry, presumably for a chat,
but chiefly, as I afterwards discovered, to remove his right boot for
an hour's respite. He left early, limping heavily.
'It is really most curious about William,' I said to Marion as we sat
alone in the drawing-room--Henry having remained in the study to finish
some work. 'One can hardly conceive a reason strong enough to induce
him to renounce his aboriginal mode of living and become so highly
civilized almost in a day.'
Marion lowered her head, and I thought she looked self-conscious. 'A
man might do a thing like that for--for love,' she murmured.
I blushed slightly. 'I scarcely think it's more than a passing
infatuation.'
'I feel convinced it's stronger than that,' she replied tensely.
'I hope not,' I said in an alarmed tone. 'It would be horrid to see
the poor fellow in the throes of a hopeless passion.'
'Perhaps after all it might not be quite hopeless,' rejoined Marion
softly.
I raised my head sharply. 'I don't think you are justified in that
remark,' I said stiffly, 'what you saw between him and me was only a
little harmless fun. As if, indeed, there is any man living who could
make me forget dear old Henry for a minute----'
'You!' exclaimed Marion with a start. 'I wasn't thinking of you,
Netta.'
'Then who----?'
'I--I--was referring to--myself.' She put down her knitting on her
knee and looked at me half defiantly, her cheeks flushed.
'But, my dear Marion, when has he shown you the slightest attention?' I
was impelled to remark. 'You have always professed the profoundest
contempt for him.'
'Not contempt, Netta. I have remarked that he was untidy.'
'You said the other evening that you considered him to be the last man
on earth a woman could like.'
'No doubt, dearest, but that was before I had discovered a woman
kissing him.'
'Perhaps you regret it was not yourself in that enviable position,
darling?'
'No, my love. I don't think the position of a married woman discovered
kissing a man other than her husband _is_ enviable; do you?'
Marion's obtuse and unreasonable attitude puzzled me. I am quick
tempered, and was about to reply hotly, when the door opened and
Elizabeth entered.
'Miss Marryun,' she said, nodding mysteriously in the direction of my
sister-in-law, 'I bin lookin' at the cards for you an' I see a warnin'
in 'em. You'll 'ave to keep an eye on 'im if you want to keep 'im.'
Marion did not look so mystified as I expected at this unusual
outburst. 'Thank you for the warning, Elizabeth,' she said in an
affable tone.
'You gotta rival for 'is affeckshuns,' continued Elizabeth.
Marion raised an eyebrow in my direction. 'No doubt,' she commented.
'What is all this nonsense?' I asked, a little testily.
'Elizabeth is, as you know, a fatalist,' explained Marion. 'She places
her faith in cards, which, I am repeatedly telling her, is utter
nonsense.'
'It aint nonsense,' expostulated Elizabeth in an injured tone. 'You
gotta fair rival acrost your parth----'
'I'm glad I'm dark,' I murmured.
'Fair an' false she is,' continued the soothsayer, 'the words of 'er
mouth are like 'oney an'----'
'I tell you I consider all this rubbish,' interrupted Marion briskly.
'You would be far better not to believe in such foolish things,
Elizabeth. They do you no good.'
Elizabeth retired in some indignation, muttering, 'Well, don't say you
wasn't told.'
We sat in strained silence--for it was the first occasion there had
been any hint of a tiff between us--and after a time Marion rose to go.
When Henry had put on his overcoat to accompany her home she was
nowhere to be found. Hearing voices proceeding from the kitchen, I
went in that direction. It was then I heard Marion remark in a casual
tone--the casualness a little overdone: 'You might let me hear if he
says any more about it.'
'Right-o, Miss.'
'And, oh, by the way, Elizabeth, what was that you said about a
rival--are you quite sure that she is fair?'