At ten o'clock he breakfasted, after three hours' sleep and a cold
bath. In the bright, yet soft spring daylight, the lines of his face
had relaxed, and the pallor of his cheeks was less unnatural. He was
still a man of remarkable appearance; his features were strong and
firmly chiselled, his forehead was square and almost hard. He wore no
beard, but a slight, black moustache only half-concealed a delicate
and sensitive mouth. His complexion and his soft grey eyes were alike
possessed of a singular clearness, as though they were, indeed, the
indices of a temperate and well-contained life. His dress, and every
movement and detail of his person, were characterized by an extreme
deliberation; his whole appearance bespoke a peculiar and almost
feminine fastidiousness. The few appointments of his simple meal were
the most perfect of their kind. A delicate vase of freshly cut flowers
stood on the centre of the spotless table-cloth,--the hangings and
colouring of the apartment were softly harmonious. The walls were hung
with fine engravings, with here and there a brilliant little
water-colour of the school of Corot; a few marble and bronze
statuettes were scattered about on the mantelpiece and on brackets.
There was nothing particularly striking anywhere, yet there was
nothing on which the eye could not rest with pleasure.
At half-past ten he lit a cigarette, and sat down at his desk. He
wrote quite steadily for an hour; at the end of that time he pinned
together the result of his work, and wrote a hasty note.
"113, PICCADILLY.
"DEAR MR. HASLUP,--
"I went last night to the New Theatre, and I send you my
views as to what I saw there. But I beg that you will
remember my absolute ignorance on all matters pertaining to
the modern drama, and use your own discretion entirely as to
the disposal of the enclosed. I do not feel myself, in any
sense of the word, a competent critic, and I trust that you
will not feel yourself under the least obligation to give to
my views the weight of your journal.
"I remain,
"Yours truly,
"JOHN MATRAVERS."
His finger was upon the bell, when his servant entered, bearing a note
upon a salver. Matravers glanced at the handwriting already becoming
familiar to him, recognizing, too, the faint odour of violets which
seemed to escape into the room as his fingers broke the seal.
"It is half-past eleven and you have not come! Does that
mean that you will not listen to me, that you mean to judge
me unheard? You will not be so unkind! I shall remain
indoors until one o'clock, and I shall expect you.
"BERENICE."
Matravers laid the note down, and covered it with a paper-weight. Then
he sealed his own letter, and gave it, with the manuscript, to his
servant. The man withdrew, and Matravers continued his writing.
He worked steadily until two o'clock. Then a simple luncheon was
brought in to him, and upon the tray another note. Matravers took it
with some hesitation, and read it thoughtfully.
"TWO O'CLOCK.
"You have made up your mind, then, not to come. Very well, I
too am determined. If you will not come to me, I shall come
to you! I shall remain in until four o'clock. You may expect
to see me any time after then.
"BERENICE."
Matravers ate his luncheon and pondered, finally deciding to abandon a
struggle in which his was obviously the weaker position. He lingered
for a while over his coffee; at three o'clock he retired for a few
moments into his dressing-room, and then descending the stairs, made
his way out into the street.
He had told himself only a few hours back that he would be wise to
ignore this summons from a woman, the ways of whose life must lie very
far indeed from his. Yet he knew that his meeting with her had
affected him as nothing of the sort had ever affected him before--a
man unimpressionable where women were concerned, and ever devoted to
and cultivating a somewhat unnatural exclusiveness. Her first note he
had been content to ignore,--she might have written it in a fit of
pique--but the second had made him thoughtful. Her very persistence
was characteristic. Perhaps after all she was in the right--he had
arrived too hastily at an ignoble conclusion. Her attitude towards him
was curiously unconventional; it was an attitude such as none of the
few women with whom he had ever been brought into contact would have
dreamed of assuming. But none the less it had for him a fascination
which he could not measure or define,--it had awakened a new
sensation, which, as a philosopher, he was anxious to probe. The
mysticism of his early morning wanderings seemed to him, as he walked
leisurely through the sunlit streets, in a sense ridiculous. After
all it was a little thing that he was going to do; he was going to
make, against his will, an afternoon call. To other men it would have
seemed less than nothing. Albeit he knew he was about to draw into his
life a new experience.
He rang the bell at Number 18, Large Street, and gave his card to the
trim little maidservant who opened the door. In a minute or two she
returned, and invited him to follow her upstairs; her mistress was in,
and would see him at once. She led the way up the broad staircase into
a room which could, perhaps, be most aptly described as a feminine
den. The walls, above the low bookshelves which bordered the whole
apartment, were hung with a medley of water-colours and photographs,
water-colours which a single glance showed him were good, and of the
school then most in vogue. The carpet was soft and thick, divans and
easy chairs filled with cushions were plentiful. By the side of one
of these, which bore signs of recent occupation, was a reading stand,
and upon it a Shakespeare, and a volume of his own critical essays.
To him, with all his senses quickened by an intense curiosity, there
seemed to hang about the atmosphere of the room that subtle odour of
femininity which, in the case of a man, would probably have been
represented by tobacco smoke. A Sevres jar of Neapolitan violets stood
upon the table near the divan. Henceforth the perfume of violets
seemed a thing apart from the perfume of all other flowers to the man
who stood there waiting, himself with a few of the light purple
blossoms in the buttonhole of his frock coat.