But a devil of defiance had entered into me. With a face as snakily
sweet as I could make it, I made my daintiest bow to Mrs Monnerie's
guests--to Lord Chiltern, a tall, stiffish man, who blinked at our
introduction almost as solemnly and distastefully as had Mrs Bowater's
Henry, and to Lady Diana Templeton. A glance at this lady reminded me
spitefully of an old suspicion of mine that Mrs Monnerie usually invited
her duller friends to luncheon and the clever to dinner. Not that she
failed to enjoy the dull ones, but it was in a different way.
A long, gilded Queen Anne mirror hung opposite my high chair, so that
whenever I glanced across I caught sight not only of myself with cheeks
like carnations above my puffed blue gown, but also of Adam Waggett.
Ever and again his red hand was thrust over my shoulder--the hand that
had held the wren. And I was so sick at heart--on yet another wren's
behalf--that I could hardly repress a shudder. Poor Adam; whenever I
think of him it is of a good, yet weak and silly man. He has found his
Eden, so I have heard, in New Zealand now, and I hope he has forgiven my
little share in his life.
Throughout that dull luncheon my tongue went mincing on and on--in sheer
desperation lest any one should detect the state of mind I was in. With
pale eyes Percy sniggered over his soup. Susan was silent and
self-conscious. Captain Valentine frowned and nibbled his small
moustache. Lady Diana Templeton smiled like a mauve-pink snapdragon, and
Mrs Monnerie led me on. It was my last little success. Luncheon over, I
was helped down from my chair, and allowed "to run away."
What was it Lord Chiltern was saying? I paused on the threshold: "An
exquisite little performance. But isn't it a little selfish to hide her
light under your admirable bushel, Mrs Monnerie? The stage, now?"
"The stage!" exclaimed Mrs Monnerie in consternation. "The child's as
proud as Lucifer. She would faint at the very suggestion. You have heard
her deliciously sharp little tongue, but her tantrums! Still, she's a
friendly and docile little creature, and I am very well satisfied with
her."
"And not merely that"; paced on the rather official voice. "I was
noticing that something in the eyes. Almost disconcertingly absent yet
penetrating. She thinks. She comes and goes in them. I noticed the same
peculiarity in poor Willie Arbuthnot's. And this little creature is
scarcely more than a child."
"I think it is _perfectly_ sad, Lord Chiltern," broke in a reedy,
vibrating voice. "In some circumstances it would be _tragic_. It's a
mercy she does not realize ... _habit_, you know...."
Listeners seldom hear such good things of themselves. Why, then, was it
so furious an eavesdropper that hastened away with a face and gesture
worthy of a Sarah Siddons!
No: my box remained locked. Yet, thought I, as I examined its contents,
any dexterous finger could have opened that tiny lock--with a hairpin.
And how else could my secret have been discovered? Fleming or Fanny--or
both of them: it maddened me to think of them in collusion. I would take
no more risks. I tore Mr Anon's letter into fragments, and these again
into bits yet smaller, until they were almost like chaff. These I
collected together and put into an envelope, which I addressed in
sprawling capitals to Miss Fanny Bowater, at No. 2.
Then for a sombre half-hour I communed intensely at the window with my
Tank. It was hot and taciturn company--not a breath of air stirred my
silk window-blind--yet it managed to convey a few home truths, and even
to increase the light a little in which I could look at the "bushel."
There _were_ "mercies," I suppose. Out of the distance rolled the vague
reverberation of the enormous city. I watched the sparrows, and they me.
When the time came for my afternoon walk, I put on my hat, with eyes
fixed on my letter, and, finally--left it behind me.
Was it for discretion's sake, or in shame? I cannot say, but I remember
that during my slow descent to the empty hall I kept my eyes fixed with
peculiar malignity on the milk-white figure of a Venus (not life-size,
thank Heaven), who had been surprised apparently in the very act of
entering the water for a bathe. Why I singled her out for contempt I
cannot say; for she certainly looked a good deal more natural and
modest than many of the fine ladies who heedlessly passed her by. It was
merely my old problem of the Social Layers over again. And my mind was
in such a state of humiliation and discomfort that I hadn't the energy
even to smile at a marble goddess.
Fanny was awaiting me on my return. A strand of hair was looped demurely
and old-fashionedly round each small ear; her clear, unpowdered skin had
the faint sheen of a rose. She stood, still and shimmering, in the
height of pleasant spirits, yet, I thought, watchful and furtive through
it all. She had come, she said, to congratulate me on my "latest
conquest."
Mrs Monnerie, she told me, had been pleased with my entertainment of the
late First Commissioner of--was it Good Works? But I must beware. "Once
a coquette, Midgetina, soon _quite_ heartless," she twitted me.
To which I called sourly, as I stood drying my hands, that pretty
compliments must be judged by where they come from.
"Come from, indeed," laughed Fanny. "He's a positive Peer of the Realm,
and baths, my dear, every morning in the Fount of Honours. You wouldn't
be so flippant if ... hallo! what's this? A letter--addressed to Me!
Where on earth did this come from?"
Heels to head, a sudden heat swept over me. "Oh," said I hollowly,
"that's nothing, Fanny. Only a little joke. And now you are here---- But
surely," I hurried on, "you don't really like that starched-up
creature?"
But Fanny was holding up my envelope between both her thumbs and
forefingers, and steadily smiling at me, over its margin. "A joke,
Midgetina; and one of your very own. How exciting. And how bulgy. May I
open it? I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Please, Fanny, I have changed my mind. Let me have it. I don't feel
like jokes now."
"But honestly, _I_ do. Some jokes have such a deliciously serious side.
Besides, as you have just come in, why didn't this go out with you?" To
which I replied stubbornly that it was not her letter; that I had
thought better of it; and that she had no right to question me if I
didn't want to answer.
"I see." Her voice had glided steadily up the scale of suavity. "It's a
bit more of the dead past, is it? And you don't like the--the
fragrance. But surely, if we are really talking about rights--and,
according to my experience, there are none too many of them knocking
about in this world--surely I have the right to ask what pulpy mysteries
are enclosed in an envelope addressed to me in what appears to be a
feigned ca--calligraphy? Look. I am putting the thing on the floor so
that we shall be on--well--fairly equal terms. Even your sensitive Sukie
could not be more considerate than that, could she? All I want to know
is, what's inside that envelope? If you refuse to say, well and good. I
shall retire to my maidenly couch and feed on the blackest
suppositions."
It was a cul-de-sac; and the only thing to do was to turn back boldly
and get out of it.
"Well, Fanny; I have told you that I thought better of sending it. But I
am not ashamed. Even if I am wrong, I suppose you are at liberty to have
your little jokes too, and so is Percy Maudlen. It's a letter, torn up;
that's all."
"A letter--so I guessed. Who from?"