Within the delicate shelter of her own sitting-room at Wynwood,
Vingie, her slender loveliness supine on a black satin divan
skilfully reinforced with cushions, gazed pathetically at Sir
Charles. Her eyes held infinite depths of sadness; the touch of
artificial color on her wan cheeks, the pallor of two slender hands
might have wrung a heart plated in triple bronze.
With a little sigh, she put all her woe into words.
"Charles, darling, you make genuine angels look like selfish pigs,"
she began. "You sit here on stupid girl's furniture you don't like
and dine off iced consommé, a wing of chicken, _mousse aux
framboises_, a scrap of cream cheese and half a bottle of
Perrier-Jouet just to cheer up a wretched invalid like me, when you
might have enjoyed a respectable meal down-stairs. They don't breed
men of your sort nowadays. I do realize how lucky I am to have you.
Give me a cigarette, there's a dear. It's another nail in my coffin,
but who cares?"
Sir Charles rose benignly and proffered fragrant Egyptians in an onyx
box.
"You dispense charming hospitality, Virginia. With the exception of
the Marchesa di Santa Lucia at Firenze in 1881, and she has been dead
these many years, I have never known a more perfect hostess.
Personally, I found the wine nectar and the food ambrosia."
"I don't want to bore you with the whinings of a peevish hag of
twenty-two," continued Vingie, "but this influenza leaves one
absolutely spineless. It may be the reaction, but, Charles, I see
before me only a long and profitless life. I feel convinced I shall
never marry or achieve a great love. My declining years will be
spent patronizing charity concerts and feeding Pekinese dogs."
"These are morbid symptoms," declared Sir Charles anxiously. "We
must ask Sir Thompson Johnson to prescribe a reliable tonic. In
addition, possibly a cruise in the yacht of some wealthy friend might
assist matters."
Vingie shook her fair head sadly.
"I am a born flirt, Charles. I've frittered away the years and toyed
with men and dabbled in emotions. Now I shall pay the price, because
I haven't got a heart left."
"That is not the opinion of Rupert, Virginia. He cherishes the most
supreme devotion for you. When age compels George Fordingbridge to
lay aside the cares of state, Rupert will undoubtedly become Minister
for Foreign Affairs."
Vingie threw out her white arms despairingly.
"I, if I perish, perish, but to marry Rupert would be living death,"
she cried. "He does everything well and nothing wrong. He's the
most insipid thing on earth. How could I endure him after you,
Charles? How can I give up the most delicious _hors d'œuvures_
for an eternal diet of rice pudding? If I were to marry I should
need some fascinating scoundrel who might whip me black and blue on
Friday, but would certainly provide a wonderful adventure on Tuesday."
Sir Charles gazed at her thoughtfully.
"As you know," he observed, "I never married. I have always been a
sprinter rather than a stayer. A brilliant five furlongs held a
greater appeal for me than a mournful three miles. If I had met in
my young days a woman with your tact and brilliance and beauty it
might have been otherwise. Nevertheless I have observed the married,
and it occurs to me that regular meals, a settled home, an adequate
income and a brilliant if steady husband have their attractions. A
delightful young married woman need never lack admirers in addition
to her lawful spouse. After all we do not live in the
eighteen-forties."
She put out a hand and touched his sleeve.
"Darling, you've perfectly sweet to poor little Vingie, but for
heaven's sake don't sit there and match-make. The very idea of men
wearies me just now. If all the Brigade of Guards, and all the
best-looking actors, groveled at my feet I should merely writhe and
turn away. Please, Charles, will you be an angel and lend me your
little Dorset cottage and let me go down there with just a maid, and
be alone except for the flowers and the birds and things. I think if
you don't mind, I want to try to find my soul."
Sir Charles shook his gray head despondently.
"You may have everything I possess in the world to do as you like
with, but your remarks leave me very perturbed. I should like
Alastair McMenzies, the nerve specialist, to see you in consultation
with Sir Thompson Johnson before you go away. You are very far from
your normal state of health, my dear Virginia."
She scarcely heard him. She murmured on dreamily:
"No men, no restlessness, no love; only green leaves and tender
grass, and blue sky. Perhaps later on I might enter a convent. They
say you have to dig a little piece of your own grave every day----"
"I shall telephone to McMenzies at once," interrupted Sir Charles,
with concern in his voice. "It is declared that he achieves
wonderful results with the new gland treatment. I reproach myself
for not consulting him even earlier."
Standing beside Sir Charles at the great entrance of Wynwood, Lord
Fordingbridge betrayed joy and solicitude in equal measure; he had
known Vingie since she was a child, and the faint traces of her late
illness distressed him. He conducted her personally to the driving
seat of a little ten horsepower Wonderful car within which a maid and
luggage were already disposed.
"_Bon voyage_, and a complete recovery, my dear!" he exclaimed
earnestly. "May the air, the peace, and the good cream of Dorset
restore you to your former health. It grieves me to see you even
slightly indisposed."
Sir Charles, also bareheaded, waved a beneficent hand as the car
glided away.
The two elderly gentlemen watched it till it disappeared, and
returned slowly to the library. They had reached that perfect
friendship born of common interests, identical training, a similar
outlook on life, and congenial sins. Sir Charles indicated the
cigars and rang for whisky-and-soda.
"How is Rupert progressing?" he inquired after a long silence.
Lord Fordingbridge shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear Charles, he works. He takes just sufficient exercise to
keep himself fit, and a damn' forlorn sight it is to see him do it.
These women have a great deal to answer for. As far as he's
concerned, the sun rises and sets in Virginia's eyes, and since she
won't look at him, he remains permanently in the valley of the shadow
so to speak. A dear boy, too. Equally, she's a dear girl. Charles,
did you and I really take these things quite so seriously in our
time?"
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows very faintly.
"I think you and I were a little more ruthless and the women of our
day a little more kind, George. The most obstinate girl I remember
came rapidly to her senses after I had thrown my rival--a German
attaché I believe--into an ornamental pond. She and I were then
inseparable for quite three months. In these days, men are too
forgiving and women too difficult."
"You're a clever fellow, Charles," declared Lord Fordingbridge in
frank admiration. "You put it all so clearly that even a foolish
person like myself can understand. It takes me back to the old
days--it must have been in 'eighty-eight--when I put Mary Canterbury,
court train and all, on a particularly high mantelpiece in one of the
drawing-rooms at the Imperial Palace of Schõnbrunn, and made her stay
there till she promised to kiss me. You can't imagine Rupert doing
that to Virginia."
"No, George, but if only he would he might find her a very different
girl, if I may say so."
"He loves her too much, Charles. He'd be afraid of breaking her
heart."
"If he were riding a race he might just as well shrink from putting
his mare at a jump for fear of breaking her neck," declared Sir
Charles with infinite contempt. "I have long made up my mind that
Virginia ought to marry Rupert. Any one but themselves can see they
are absolutely suited to each other."
"Oh, quite! quite! But if a stupid old man may be forgiven the
question, how are you going to bring it about?"
Sir Charles drank thoughtfully, set down his glass, and lighted a
fresh cigar.
"They are both green recruits, George, and therefore they must be
taught. In training recruits we employ experienced non-commissioned
officers. Consequently in the case of Virginia and Rupert we must
choose people as nearly of our own day as is consistent with the
necessary attraction. In my own circle of acquaintance there is a
certain delightful widow, Mrs. Trevor-James, who would use her good
offices with Rupert on my behalf."
"And still," murmured Lord Fordingbridge, "I don't think I quite
understand."
"My dear George," elaborated Sir Charles with patience, "these
deluded young people must be made to fall in love, separately and
individually, with some one older, wiser, more unscrupulous, more
experienced, than herself or himself. Do not, I beg of you, say it
is impossible, for that would reflect on your intelligence. Mrs.
Trevor-James would have Rupert at her feet in less than one hour.
She is only forty-three, and indescribably charming. After she has
tormented him to the edge of madness, she will dismiss him, and he
will turn instinctively to Virginia for comfort and revenge, using
against her the tactics he has learned from Mrs. Trevor James. It
only remains to find a man who will afford Virginia similar
treatment. That I admit is slightly more difficult. She has a
certain subtlety not found in Rupert, or most men for that matter."
Lord Fordingbridge half closed his eyes.
"It needs a horse-soldier," he said at last, speaking as an
ex-subaltern of the Thirtieth Hussars, more affectionately known as
the Poppy-Shirts, from their habit of swimming in gore when on active
service. "As a matter of fact I know the very man, and he's back
from India on leave at this actual moment. His name is Geoffrey
Forrester--one of the Sherwood Forresters, y'know. He's a major in
the Guides Cavalry, but he's also been A.D.C. to the Viceroy, and
Simla still talks about him, though it's years ago. He's only forty,
and as good a polo-player as India has turned out since the mutiny.
Shall I let him loose, Charles?"
Sir Charles shook his gray head.
"It would be better not to do that openly. Speaking from experience,
I should say that Forrester, directly he landed, came up to London
and began to rediscover the joys of his youth. By this time he will
be ripe for a little quiet relaxation and the pursuits of the
country. I suggest that you offer him, from me, the shooting at my
Dorset place. You'd better explain that I can't offer to put him up
because my ward is staying at the cottage to recover from an illness,
that she is alone, practically unchaperoned, and is seeing no one at
present. They will, however, make him very comfortable at the
village inn. Short of casting him into Virginia's arms I can think
of no more reliable scheme to make them acquainted. Solitude and
natural curiosity will do the rest."
"My dear Charles," said Lord Fordingbridge simply, "upon my word I
don't know how the diplomatic service exists without you. I should
never have thought of that in a thousand years. I take it that you
will arrange personally the little matter of Rupert and Mrs.
Trevor-James?"
"I shall do myself the honor of calling on her to-morrow, George.
Heigho! If only I were ten years younger!"
"My dear fellow, in that case you might be running your own neck into
danger. As it is you're probably enjoying the exquisite bouquet of a
delicate flirtation without the risk of a headache afterward,"
comforted Lord Fordingbridge.
The truth of this became manifest when Sir Charles sat, a very
courtly figure, in the drawing-room of Mrs. Trevor-James' charming
flat overlooking the park. She turned upon him caressing eyes and
the witchery of a sinuous figure, allowing him a far greater
indulgence because in his case she felt it did not matter in the very
least. She found the situation most soothing in consequence.
"My delightful Charles," she said, in the golden voice which had
ravished at least three generations, "if the young man must be
lacerated I will use the knife according to my accustomed skill and
bind up his wounds with tender fingers. In spite of that I shall
send him away before they are healed. It is the healing that counts,
as you and I know only too well."
"Agatha, you are incomparable," declared Sir Charles, smiling his
admiration, dashed with a hint of pathos. "If only it were possible
how gladly would I offer myself for vivisection!"
"I am convinced of it," replied Mrs. Trevor-James, daring to speak
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth for the first
and last time in her varied and interesting career.
To the little ears of Vingie, lingering at ten-thirty A.M. in her bed
according to the license of a convalescent, came the far-off
explosion of a shotgun. She paused with a teacup half-way to her
mouth and glanced inquiringly at Mary who arranged deftly a simple
country kit.
"That would be the strange gentleman, miss," commented Mary.
"What strange gentleman? There are no men here, Mary. That's the
unique charm of the place. It allows us to be our dreadful natural
selves."
Mary shook her pretty head meaningly.
"The gardener's wife told me, miss. Sir Charles has lent the
shooting to a gentleman from India, a Major Forrester. He's staying
down in the village at the White-Faced Goat. It does seem lonely for
him, doesn't it?"
Vingie put down the teacup with a slight crash.
"How dare Charles do such a thing, when I came down here for peace,
especially without telling me?" she demanded. "We brought the very
oldest clothes I possess. Put out the knitted silk stockings, Mary.
I loathe wool day after day. At any rate we need see nothing of this
interloper."
"He generally goes home along that path that runs up from the wood at
the back of the house, miss," said Mary casually.
"How do you know?"
"Well, miss, it's a bit lonely down here, and I thought it wouldn't
do any harm just to look at a gentleman. I hid behind that hedge of
wild-roses. You can see quite well from there."
Vingie glanced up from a careful scrutiny of her face in a
hand-mirror. "You don't think this influenza has made me look any
older, do you?" she inquired anxiously. "Be very careful not to
attract the man's attention, Mary, and if he calls say I'm far too
tired to see any one."
Roughly twenty-four hours later, Major Geoffrey Forrester, D.S.O.,
M.C, returning from the wild in pleasantly battered shooting kit, an
old briar pipe skewed in the corner of his mouth, one of Belgium &
Belgium's inimitable guns in the crook of his arm, beheld a curiously
ravishing female figure sauntering toward him along the path that
runs up from the wood at the back of the house. He thought he saw a
dryad divorced from her selected tree, or Artemis weary of the chase,
but it was merely the boy-girl figure of Vingie in a sports coat and
brief tweed skirt. Even her knitted silk stockings, as the major
observed with hawk eyes trained in the warfare of Waziristan, could
not destroy the lovely lines of two slender legs.
The major removed his pipe from his mouth and his battered hat from
his head and smiled a smile that has become legendary in Simla and
Mussoorie.
"I beg your pardon," he said in his pleasant easy voice. "I
shouldn't like you to think I'm trespassin'. Sir Charles Gillespie
lent me the shootin' through George Fordingbridge, a dear old pal of
mine. May I be allowed to hope that this beautiful air is doin' you
good?"
Vingie looked at him with the slight pathos of an invalid and the
mute suggestion that Providence might have sent her something better,
except that she was too weak to care either way.
"Charles didn't mention the matter, but I'm quite sure it's all
right. The air, as you say, is beautiful. I hope the fine weather
will continue," she responded, and made as if to pass on.
"My name," pursued the major with placid perseverance, "is Geoffrey
Forrester. I imagine you must be Miss Lauriston. It's a darned
shame you had such a nasty touch of influenza. I was very distressed
when George told me. I've kept well away from the house so that the
noise of the gun shouldn't worry you. Is this your first day
out-of-doors?"
"No," said Vingie listlessly. "Thank you for being so kind about the
gun. I don't think I ought to stand talking----"
"Certainly not," declared her acquaintance firmly. "Extremely tryin'
to stand about when one's rather under the weather. If you'll allow
me I'll see you safely back to the house. I wish I could offer you
the spoils of the chase, but it only amounted to a couple of bunnies."
"If there's one thing I loathe more than another it's rabbit in any
shape or form," confessed Vingie, looking at him sadly. "I suppose
you're staying at the inn. I believe the cooking is plain but
satisfying. I'd ask you to luncheon only I don't suppose there's
enough for two, and you'd hate invalid food, and I look like nothing
on earth and I'm too tired to be amusing."
"Even a crust of bread with you would eclipse a banquet at the
White-Faced Goat. If that's an invitation I'll do my poor best to
amuse you," he answered with gentle humility, or so it appeared.
They passed together within the low-roofed dimness of Sir Charles'
cottage. Vingie sank into an armchair and waved him toward the bell.
"Mary," she commanded when that maiden appeared, "two cocktails,
please, and tell cook Major Forrester is staying for luncheon." A
little gleam lurked in her eyes. Major Forrester offered his
cigarette-case with a faint sigh of satisfaction. She was, he
thought, an adorable thing. Thank God his ripe experience would
allow him to do her justice.
It came to pass that in those days Mary began to lift up her voice in
thanksgiving, the atmosphere of intrigue and romance being incense in
her nostrils. Also, pursuant to instructions, she wired to London
for new frocks. Vingie had come simultaneously to the beginning of a
campaign and the end of her wardrobe.
A week or so later she sat collapsed in an attractive heap on the
cliff edge, gazing idly at the sunlit bay; beside her Geoffrey
Forrester lay like a good-tempered dog, chewing, dog-like, a blade of
grass. The pleasantly drowsy brain of Vingie revolved little
problems: "Shall I make him kiss me and then beat him for it, and see
what he's really like, or shall we drift on as we are? Do I really
care what he's like? Am I sufficiently interested to make the
effort? Isn't the sun heavenly? Shall I have my gold evening frock
altered or leave it alone?"
"She's thinking what a delightful fellow I am--just thrillin' enough,
but not too much. Some men are so aboriginal," reflected the major.
"A nice little girl; sufficiently intelligent to appreciate one at
one's modest value."
"Geoffrey," said Vingie suddenly, "why are you content to lead such a
futile life?"
"Prettiest of pretty ladies, whatever do you mean?"
"I mean your little clockwork round: so many years in India, so much
leave at home; a bit of shooting, a bit of racing, strictly limited
flirtations with the women in whatever station your regiment's in;
paying court to the general's lady; filling in your time inspecting
horses' hoofs and men's buttons. What an existence!"
"It doesn't seem so bad sometimes," murmured the major. A little
glint came into his eyes.
"'Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I
Went slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side;
When we rode hell-for-leather, two squadrons together,
And didn't care whether we lived or we died----'
sort of idea, you know. Common, but excitin' in a way."
"George Fordingbridge has influenced half Europe before now."
"George was brought up in the Poppy-Shirts--my old regiment. Many a
time he's gone into the horse-trough after a guest night. We train
up the children in the way they should go."
"At the best you'll never be more than an Inspector General of
Cavalry--a sort of glorified veterinary surgeon and sergeant-major.
You know, Geoffrey, a really pretty, ambitious girl would always have
to refuse you. The prospect of sitting in some dusty Indian garrison
losing her complexion and watching you play polo isn't wonderfully
tempting, is it? Did you ever think of all that?"
"It isn't my way to go about askin' pretty girls to sacrifice
themselves for me," explained the major with calm. "If they want to,
and I want 'em to too, there isn't any sacrifice and there we are.
If any wife of mine wouldn't turn up at a polo match I should just
spank her because she'd belong to the regiment same as me."
"Unfortunately the modern girl doesn't permit herself to be spanked,"
said Vingie loftily.
"I ain't modern; I'm a soldier; one of the two oldest professions in
the world," said the major.
"Do you suppose----" she began. He rose, took her two hands and
lifted her gently to her feet.
"We will go for a little walk," he asserted. "You're tryin' to
quarrel with me. It's your liver, and you need exercise. You ate
too many chocs after luncheon. Come on--Walk-march!"
Somewhat to her own surprise, Vingie obeyed. The novelty brought
quite a thrill. Besides this strange person seemed hardly to care
whether she was pleased or not.
In her drawing-room, most intimately furnished, Mrs. Trevor-James
surveyed Rupert Frack as some medieval craftsman might have surveyed
a large lump of wood he proposed to carve into a historic
mantelpiece. Her black gown loved every line of her sinuous form,
her cabochon rings were large and wicked and her pearls were real.
She possessed a skin of the shade often compared to a magnolia, and
eyes alleged to be unfathomable by many who ought to have known
better. The late Mr. Trevor-James had fathomed them quite easily
because he used a string of pearls for a sounding line.
Rupert gloomed opposite her, and with the tiniest shrug she decided
that his hour had struck.
"Rupert, my poor friend, you make me very sorry for you," she
murmured. "You say that you love a girl, that you'll never love any
one else, that she doesn't care two straws about you, and that you'll
go on loving her till you die. I don't think your life is going to
be very amusing."
"Men are like that," replied Rupert with sorrowful pride. "Women
take everything and give nothing. If the positions were reversed I
couldn't be so hard-hearted as she is. Besides, I should realize
that such persistent devotion, unselfishness, and so on couldn't be
surpassed by any other man. As things are, I must just be resigned.
There's always my work."
"You wouldn't wish her to pretend, or be insincere," reproved Mrs.
Trevor-James, and this hackneyed old phrase glided from her tongue
with the ease born of infinite repetition. "At least she's honest
with you. At least----"
"I don't care a damn if she's honest or not, as long as she won't let
me kiss her and will let some other man some day," snarled Rupert.
"Is any woman honest if it comes to that? You talk as though I were
engaging a cashier! What has honesty got to do with it? She's only
honest because it suits her. If she wanted me, and it were
necessary, she'd lie like blazes!"
"And you propose to forego all kisses for ever and ever because one
girl refuses to kiss? Well! well! What are those heavenly lines--
"'Oh, was it down in Samothrace
Beside the great Greek sea
That first I saw thy dreaming face
And swore thy slave to be?'
"You must be a wonderful lover, Rupert. Give me those cigarettes
from the mantelpiece, there's a darling."
She motioned him to sit beside her on the Chesterfield, held up her
face to the match, and smoked pensively. The mockery died out of her
eyes, and a little sigh parted her lips.
"I s'pose it hurts like hell," she murmured, and he nodded almost
imperceptibly. Her left hand drifted sidelong to his wrist. The
soft contact appeared to soothe him. He made no effort to release
himself.
Presently those lazy, trailing white fingers stole upward until they
rested lightly on his dark head. She remained thus, smoking
thoughtfully. He seemed very tired and sad. Her touch expressed
sympathy and whether he knew it or not all his nerves cried out for
it. He never perceived by what infinite degree her arm stole round
his neck and drew him gently against her. His cheek brushed hers
infinitely soft and fragrant, her hair held some intoxicating scent,
she was very near, very lovable, very kind. She seemed the
antithesis of all women who refused everything. She had the perfect
gift of giving.
Rupert Frack realized her dark eyes looking into his, a great
stillness, and the appeal of her lips. His resolution broke. He
drooped his mouth against hers and kissed her with a sort of
despairing passion. In a sense he did not kiss her at all; the mouth
was hers and the kiss another's; but the second kiss, the third, and
the rest belonged solely to Agatha Trevor-James. Presently she put a
hand against his mouth and pushed him away. He sat up flooded with a
childish lightness of heart. He could have sung and shouted. Some
weary spell had been lifted.
"Oh!" exclaimed the golden voice in exquisite irony, yet not
unkindly, "Oh valiant and consistent young man! What are those other
lines, attributed to the same forgetful Crusader----
"'The Knights went forth upon the wave
To Christ, his sepulchre;
But I was traitor to the Grave,
Oh breast of rose and myrrh!'
"Now I think you'd better go. It's getting late, and you've stirred
up my emotions. If I'm not careful I shan't sleep."
"My dear----" began Rupert, utterly contrite. She smiled back at him
half wistfully; women are so greedy of romance and he was a very
delightful boy.
"You shall do a penance for your sins and motor me down to Charles'
Dorset cottage one day soon. I'm thinking of taking it for the
autumn."
"But----" said Rupert, and flushed crimson.
"Am I so old and ugly that you refuse me the first request I ever
made?" she demanded, and that clay which was man, modeled into a
brute or an angel at her will, took the shape of repentance and
acquiescence.
When he had gone she rose, touched her ruffled hair, went slowly to
the telephone and rang up Sir Charles.
"He's cured from this hour," she announced. "Never more will she
have quite that power over him. But oh, Charles, the kisses of these
love-racked boys--(Did he kiss me? Of course he did. How could I
save him otherwise?)--are very disturbing. I thought I was proof
against all that, but is one ever? I wonder!"
She rang off, and Sir Charles also hung up the receiver. He stood
for a moment, shook his head sadly and sighed. He sought again his
armchair, picked up his book and stared into space.
"No!" he said at last, "one never is--never!"
"Charles," murmured Agatha Trevor-James to her soul, "wished me to
take this rather attractive boy to Dorset and be seen in his company
by the hard-hearted young woman who scorns him. I don't think it'll
do any good and I shall feel like a baby-snatcher, but it's as
Charles wills."
The car spun between summer hedges. Rupert's eyes wandered over the
countryside and came back to Agatha.
"You're awfully good to me," he said. "I think that's what a man
appreciates most in a woman--if she's good to him. It's so easy for
them because we don't want very much, but they never are. I s'pose
Virginia will be at the cottage?"
"Virginia--Charles' ward. Very charming I believe. Never met her.
Yes, I suppose she will. Why?"
"Oh, nothing."
"If she holds up her little finger he'll run to her like a needle to
a magnet, not because she's good to him but because she isn't," mused
Agatha. "He looks on me as a fountain of perpetual goodness, flowing
from a rock of ages to shelter him when these arrogant chits stab him
with knives. My God, do I seem as old as that?"
They found Vingie and the major seated on the lawn. To Rupert she
appeared baffled, and he had never known Vingie at a loss. The major
wore that serene air peculiar to small boys who have done wrong and
got away with it. Their expressions arose out of recent dialogue.
To Vingie's plaint: "You don't care two-pence about my feelings; you
just sit there and amuse yourself!" he had replied with gentle
mockery: "Vingie, you're a darling, but a dreadfully spoiled darling.
Sometimes I feel you weren't smacked enough as a child."
From this situation she raised her eyes to behold Rupert accompanied
by a beautiful and sinuous woman armed with the prestige of a
thousand past conquests. Over this apparition Rupert fussed a little
self-consciously.
Calling up in herself all the valiant blood of the Lauristons, Vingie
came forward to give a rendering of the perfect hostess. She even
approached Agatha with a little air of deference, the tribute of the
young girl to the elder woman, a grateful thing to both.
She did not, however, miss the glint which lighted the major's
reckless blue eyes nor misunderstand when, later, he wandered with
Agatha to the far side of the lawn.
"Dearest lady," he began, "do you remember those golden days when you
were a guest of His Excellency at Simla?"
She tapped her white brow with a slender finger.
"I recall a certain somewhat attractive A.D.C. whom I had the grace
not to marry."
"And now?"
"Now, I'm an unwanted widow."
He made a scornful sound. "Why do you waste yourself on that boy-cub
full of green-sickness?"
"Because an old friend asked me to. Why are you idling with a wilful
maiden young enough to be your daughter?"
"Because an old friend asked me to, and because I didn't know you
were in town. Now I shall leave her to mew alone in the country."
"I've got to take my boy-cub back, but if you do return and he
doesn't frighten you away I'll be awfully pleased to see you."
"Frighten me! Oh, pish!" said the major joyously. "Where in the
whole of London will you be so adorable as to dine with me to-morrow
night?"
Divided from them by some yards of turf, a generation or so, and a
great deal of worldly wisdom, Vingie and Rupert sat side by side on a
garden seat.
"My dear," began Vingie with simulated grief, "why have you stolen
the only woman darling Charles ever really loved? They were so
suited to each other!"
"She's been an absolute brick to me--more decent than any one else
ever was. If it comes to that, why are you down here trying to
conduct a flirtation with an elderly gentleman?"
"Simply a man to whom Charles lent the shooting. He called and one
has to be civil. At least he was sympathetic about my illness.
After all, my dear Rupert, there can be such a thing as friendship,
between a man and a woman, little as you seem to think so."
Their eyes beheld Agatha and the major oblivious of all earthly
cares, basking in each other's society. Vingie turned to Rupert and
Rupert to Vingie. Their young natures demanded mutely the answer to
the riddle.
"Well," said Rupert heavily at last, "I suppose Agatha and I ought to
start if we mean to reach town in time for dinner."