AFTER THE GEE-GEE PARTY
Lady Haslemere was entertaining what she called the "Gee-gees" or "Great
Grundys" one night at her house in Berkeley Street. The "Gee-gee" party
was an idea borrowed from Jack, and all who were weightiest in society
came to it, a large number of them to dine, and the rest to the evening
party. Just now her brother, Tom Abbotsworthy, was living with them, for
his own house was being done up, and Alice had easily persuaded him to
stay with them, instead of living with the Duke. Indeed to live with the
Duke was nearly an impossibility; three women already had attempted to
support the burden of being his Duchess, but they had all collapsed
before long, leaving him in each case eminently consolable. He could
hurry a person into the grave, so it was said, sooner than any man or
woman in the kingdom. The last time Tom had seen him was about a week
ago, at dinner somewhere, and the whole of his conversation had been to
say loudly to him across the dinner-table at intervals of about two
minutes, "Why don't you marry?"
Tom's presence in the house was a great boon during the season; he
relieved his brother-in-law of his duties as host in an easy,
unostentatious manner, thereby earning his heartfelt gratitude, and
discharging these duties, instead of leaving them undischarged. Lord
Haslemere himself had a habit of being unreckoned with. He was an adept
at doing wire puzzles, and played a remarkably good game at billiards,
but otherwise there was nothing of him. He wore whiskers, spent the
greater part of his day at the club, and was known as Whisky-and-Soda,
not because he had intemperate leanings in that direction, but because
there was really nothing else to call him. When his wife entertained, he
shrank into what there was of himself, and the majority of his guests at
an evening party did not generally know him by sight. His face was one
stamped with the quality of obliviality; to see him once was to insure
forgetting him at least twice. But at the "Gee-gee" parties he was made
tidy, which he usually was not, and put in prominent places. He had been
very prominent this evening, and correspondingly unhappy. He had taken a
parrot-hued Duchess into dinner, and spilt a glass of wine over her new
dress, and as her Grace's temper was as high as the bridge of her nose,
the evening had been unusually bitter.
The "Grundy" dinner-party was succeeded by a vast "Grundy" At Home, to
which flocked all the solid people in London, including those who
"bridle" when a very smart set is mentioned, and flock thirstily to
their houses, like camels to a desert well, whenever they are asked. It
was the usual thing. There had been a little first-rate music--during
which everyone talked their loudest--and a great many pink and
china-blue hydrangeas on the stairs, a positive coruscation of stars and
orders and garters--for two royal princes had been included among the
"Gee-gees"--and about midnight Lady Haslemere was yawning dismally
behind her fan, and wondering when people would begin to go away. In
the intervals of her yawns, which she concealed most admirably, she
spoke excellent and vivacious French to the Hungarian Ambassador, an old
bald-headed little man, who only wanted a stick to make him into a
monkey on one, and laughed riotously at his stuffy little monkey-house
jokes, all of which she had frequently heard before. In consequence, he
considered her an extremely agreeable woman, as indeed she was.
Kit and her husband were not at the dinner, both having refused
point-blank to go, on the ground that they had done their duty to
"Grundy" already; but they turned up, having dined quietly at home, at
about half-past eleven, with Mr. Alington in tow. He was not known to
many people present, but Lady Haslemere instantly left her Ambassador,
having received instructions from Kit, and led him about like a dancing
bear. She introduced him to royalty, which asked him graciously whether
he enjoyed England, or preferred Australia, and other questions of a
highly original and penetrating kind; she presented him to stars and
orders and garters, and to all the finest "Gee-gees" present, as if he
had been the guest of the evening. Kit's eye was on her all the time,
though she was talking to two thousand people, and saw that she did her
duty.
The rooms were as pretty as decorated boxes can be, and hotter than one
would have thought any boxes could possibly get. People stood packed
together like sardines in a tin, cheek to jowl, and appeared to enjoy
it. Anæmic men dropped inaudible questions to robust females, and
ethereal-looking _débutantes_ screamed replies to elderly Conservatives.
Nobody sat down--indeed, there was not room to sit down--and the
happiest of all the crowd, excepting those who had dined there, were
the enviable mortals who had come on from one house, and were able to
announce that they were going on to another. Three small drawing-rooms
opened out the one from the other, and the doorways were inflamed and
congested. Whoever took up most room seemed to stand there, and whoever
took up most room seemed to be dressed in red. Altogether, one could not
imagine a more successful evening. Politicians considered it a political
party, those who were not quite so smart as Lady Haslemere's set
considered it the smartest party of the year, and everybody who was
nobody considered that everybody was there, and looked forward to buying
the next issue of Smart Society, in order to see what "Belle" or "Amy"
thought of it all.
The noise of two or three hundred people all talking at once in small
rooms causes a roar extraordinarily strident, and, as in the case of
rooms full of tobacco-smoke, intolerable unless one contributes to it
oneself. Mr. Alington had to raise his small, precise voice till it
sounded as if he was intoning, and the effort was considerable. This
particular way of passing a pleasant evening in the heat of the summer
was hitherto unknown to him, and he looked about him in mild wonder. He
felt himself reminded of those crates of ducks and fowls which are to be
seen on the decks of ocean-going steamers, the occupants of which are so
cruelly overcrowded, and of whom the most fortunate only can thrust
their beaks through the wicker of their prison-house, and quack
desolately to the breeze of the sea. Lady Haslemere's rooms seemed to
him to resemble these bird-crates, the only difference being that people
sought this suffocating imprisonment of their own free will, because
they liked it, the birds because the passengers had to be fed. One or
two very tall men had their heads free, a few others stood by windows,
and could breathe; but the majority could neither breathe nor hear, nor
see further than their immediate neighbours. They could only quack. And
they quacked.
By degrees the party thinned; an unwilling lane was cut through the
crowd for the exit of the princes, and the great full-blown flowers in
the hedges, so to speak, bobbed down in turn as they passed, like a
field of poppies blown on by a passing wind. After them those lucky folk
who were going on to another house, where they would stand shoulder to
shoulder again with a slightly different crowd, and express extreme
wonder that their neighbours had not been at Lady Haslemere's ("I
thought everyone was there!"), made haste to follow. Outside all down
the street from Berkeley Square at one end to Piccadilly at the other
stretched the lines of carriage-lamps, looking like some gigantic double
necklace. The congestion in the drawing-room developed into a really
alarming inflammation in the cloak-room and the hall, and everyone
wanted her carriage and was waiting for it, except the one unfortunate
lady whose carriage stopped the whole of the way, as a stentorian
policeman studiously informed her, but who could only find attached to
her ticket a small opera hat instead of the cloak which should have
covered her. People trod on each other's toes and heels, and entangled
themselves in other folks' jewels and lace. Rain had begun to fall
heavily, the red carpet from the door to the curbstone was moist and
muddy, contemptuous footmen escorted elderly ladies under carriage
umbrellas to their broughams, and large drops of rain fell chill on the
elderly ladies' backs. Loungers of the streets criticised the outgoers
with point and cockney laughter, but still the well-dressed crowd
jostled and quacked and talked, and said how remarkably pleasant it had
been, and how doubly delightful it was to have come here from somewhere
else, and to go on somewhere else from here.
Half an hour after the departure of the princes, Lady Haslemere, who was
fast ceasing to yawn, manoeuvred the two or three dozen people who
still could not manage to tear themselves away, into the outermost of
the three drawing-rooms, and nodded to a footman who lingered in the
doorway, and had obvious orders to catch her eye. Upon this he and
another impassive giant glided into the innermost room, and took two
green-baize-covered tables from where they had been folded against the
wall, setting them in the middle of the room, and placed a dozen chairs
round them; then, making use of a back staircase, so that they should
not be seen by the remaining "Grundys," they brought up and laid out a
cold supper, consisting chiefly of jelly and frills and froth and glass
and bottles and quails and cigarettes, put cards, counters, and candles
on the green-baize tables, and withdrew. Ten minutes later the last of
the "Grundys" withdrew also, and the rest, some dozen people who had
stood about in attitudes of the deepest dejection for the last
half-hour, while a Bishop played the man of the world to Kit, heaved a
heartfelt sigh of relief, and brightened up considerably. Automatically,
or as if by the action of a current of air or a tide, they drifted into
the inner room, and chalk lines were neatly drawn on the green-baize
cloth.
Baccarat is a game admirably suited to people who have had a long day,
and is believed to be a specific antidote to the gloom induced by huge
"Grundy" parties. It is an effort and a strain on the mind to talk to
very solid people who are interested in great questions and delight in
discussion; but at baccarat the mind, so to speak, lights a cigarette,
throws itself into an armchair, and puts on its slippers. Baccarat
requires no judgment, no calculation, no previous knowledge of anything,
and though it is full of pleasing excitement, it makes no demands
whatever on the strongest or feeblest intellect. The players have only
to put themselves blindly, as ladies dressing for dinner surrender
themselves to a skilful maid, into the hands of Luck, and the austere
elemental forces which manage the winds and waves, and decree in what
order nines and other cards are dealt from packs, do the rest. You buy
your counters, and when they are all gone you buy some more. If, on the
other hand, they behave as counters should, and increase and multiply
like rabbits, you have the pleasure of presenting them to your host at
the end of the evening or the beginning of the morning, as the case may
be, and he very kindly gives you shining sterling gold and rich
crackling bank-notes in exchange.
Tom Abbotsworthy, since he had been staying with his sister, always took
the place of host when this soothing game was being played at Berkeley
Street; for Lord Haslemere, if he were not in bed, was by this time
busily practising nursery cannons on the billiard-table. Occasionally he
looked in, with his fidgety manner, and trifled with the froth and
frills, and if there was anyone present whose greatness demanded his
attendance, he took a hesitating hand. But to-night he was spared; there
was only a small, intimate party, who would have found him a bore. He
was slow at cards, displayed an inordinate greed for his stake, and had
been known at baccarat to consider whether he should have another. This,
as already stated, is unnecessary. With certain numbers you must; with
all the others you must not, and consideration delays the game.
The hours passed much more pleasantly and briskly than during the period
of the "Grundy" party. It was a warm, still night, the windows were
flung wide, and the candles burned unwaveringly. Round the table were a
dozen eager, attentive faces. Luck, like some Pied Piper, was fluting to
the nobility and gentry, and the nobility and gentry followed her like
the children of Hamelin. Now and then one of them would rise and consult
the side-table to the diminishment of frills and froth, or the
crisp-smelling smoke of a cigarette would hold the room for a few
minutes. Most of those present had been idle all day, now they were
employed and serious. Outside the rain had ceased, and for a couple of
hours the never-ending symphony of wheels sank to a pianissimo.
Occasionally, with a sharp-cut noise of hoofs and the jingle of a bell,
a hansom would trot briskly past, and at intervals an iron-shod van made
thunder in the street. But the siesta of noise was short, for time to
the most is precious; barely had the world got home from its parties of
the night, when those whose business it is to rise when their masters
are going to bed, in order that the breakfast-table may not lack its
flowers and fruits, began to get to the morning's work, and the loaded,
fragrant vans went eastward. The candles had once burned down, and had
been replaced by one of the impassive giants, when the hint of dawn, the
same dawn that in the country illuminated with tremulous light the dewy
hollows of untrodden ways, was whispered in the world. Here it but
changed the blank, dark faces of the houses opposite into a more visible
gray; it sucked the fire from the candles, was strangely unbecoming to
Lady Haslemere, who was calculated for artificial light, and out of the
darkness was born day.
There was no longer any need for the carriage-lamps to be lit when Kit
and her husband got into their brougham. A very pale-blue sky, smokeless
and clear, was over the city, and the breath of the morning was
deliciously chill. Kit, whether from superior art or mere nature, did
not look in the least out of keeping with the morning. She was a little
flushed, but her flush was that of a child just awakened from a long
night's rest more than that of a woman of twenty-five, excited by
baccarat and sufficient--in no degree more than sufficient--champagne.
Her constant harmony with her surroundings was her most extraordinary
characteristic; it seemed to be an instinct, acting automatically, just
as the chameleon takes its colour from its surroundings. Set her in a
well-dressed mob of the world, she was the best dressed and most worldly
woman there; among rosy-faced children she would look at the most a
pupil teacher. Just now in Lady Haslemere's drawing-room you would have
called her gambler to her finger-tips; but as she stood for a moment on
the pavement outside waiting for her carriage-door to be opened, she was
a child of morning.
She drew her cloak, lined with the plucked breast feathers that grow on
the mother only in breeding-time, more closely about her, and drew the
window half up.
"You were in luck as well as I, were you not, Jack?" she said. "I
suppose I am mercenary, but I must confess I like winning other
people's money. I feel as if I was earning something."
"Yes, we were both on the win to-night," said Jack.
Then he stopped, but as if he had something more to say, and to Kit as
well as to him the silence was awkward.
"You noticed something?" she asked.
"Yes; Alington."
"So did I. So did Alice, I think. What a bore it is! What is to be
done?"
Jack fidgeted on his seat, lit a cigarette, took two whiffs at it, and
threw it away.
"Perhaps we are wrong," he said. "Perhaps he didn't cheat."
Kit did not find it worth while to reply to so half-hearted a
suggestion.
"It's damned awkward," he continued, abandoning this himself. "I don't
know what to do. You see, Kit, what an awful position I am in. In any
case, do let us have no scandal; that sort of thing has been tried once,
and I don't know that it did any good to anybody."
"Of course we will have no scandal," said Kit quickly. "If there was a
scandal, you would have to break with him, and pop go the gold mines as
far as we are concerned."
Jack started. His thoughts had been so absolutely identical with what
his wife said, that it was as if he had heard a sudden echo. And though
the thoughts had been his own, and Kit had merely stated them, yet when
she did so, so unreasonable is man, he felt inclined to repudiate what
she said. The thing sounded crude when put like that. Kit saw him start,
divined the cause with intuitive accuracy, and felt a sudden impatient
anger at him. She hated hypocritical cowardice of this kind, for, having
plenty of immoral courage herself, she had no sympathy with those who
were defective in it. Jack, she knew very well, had no intention of
breaking with Alington, because the latter had cheated at baccarat.
Then, in Heaven's name, even if you are too squeamish to be frank
yourself, try to make an effort not to wince when somebody else is.
"That is what a man calls his honour," she thought to herself with
amused annoyance. "It is unlike Jack, though."
Meantime her quick brain was spinning threads like a spider.
"Look here, Jack," she said in a moment. "Leave the thing entirely to
me. It was stupid of me to mention it. You saw nothing: I saw nothing.
You know nothing about it. There was no baccarat, no cheating, no
nothing. Come."
"What are you going to do?" asked Jack doubtfully.
He had great confidence in Kit, but this matter required consideration.
"Oh, Jack, I am not a fool," said Kit. "I only want you, officially, so
to speak, to know nothing about this, just in case of accidents; but
there will be no accidents if you let me manage it. If you want to know
what I shall do, it is this: I shall go to Alice to-morrow--to-day,
rather--and tell her what I saw. I am sure she saw it herself, or I
should say nothing to her. I shall also add how lucky it was that only
she and I noticed it. Then the whole thing shall be hushed up, though I
dare say we shall watch Alington play once more to be certain about it,
and if we see him cheat again, make him promise to play no more. Trust
us for not letting it come out. I am in your galley about the mines, you
see."
"She is to understand that I saw nothing?" asked Jack.
"Of course, of course," said Kit. "That is the whole point of it. What
is your scruple? I am really unable to understand. I know it is not nice
to deal with a person who cheats at cards. You have always to be on the
watch. You'll have to keep your eyes open in this business of the mines,
but that is your own affair. Clearly it is much better that Alice should
imagine you know nothing about the cheating. She might think you ought
to break with the man; people are so queer and unexpected."
"What about Tom?" asked he.
They had arrived at Park Lane, and Kit stepped out.
"Jack, will you or will you not leave the whole matter in my hands--the
whole matter, you understand--without interference?"
He paused for a moment, still irresolute.
"Yes," he said at last; "but be careful."
Kit hardly heard this injunction; as soon as he had said "Yes" she
turned quickly from him, and went into the house.
It was already after four, and the tops of the trees in the Park had
caught the first level rays of the eastern sun. The splendid, sordid
town still lay asleep, and the road was glistening from the rain which
had fallen earlier in the night, and empty of passengers. But the birds,
those fit companions of the dawn, were awake, and the twittered morning
hymn of sparrows pricked the air. Kit went straight to her bedroom,
where the rose-coloured blinds, drawn down over the wide-open windows,
filled the room with soft, subdued light, and rang the bell which
communicated with her maid's room. When she was likely to be out very
late she always let her maid go to bed, and rang for her when she was
wanted. Often she even made an effort to get to bed without her help,
but this morning she was preoccupied, and rang before she could
determine whether she needed her. Kit herself was one of those
happily-constituted people who can do with very little sleep, though
they can manage a great deal, and in these London months four or five
hours during the night and a possible half-hour before dinner was
sufficient to make her not only just awake, but excessively so at other
times. In the country, it is true, she made up for unnatural hours by
really bucolic behaviour. She took vigorous exercise every day in any
weather, ate largely of wholesome things, hardly drank any wine, and
slept her eight hours like a child. In this she was wiser than the
majority of her world, who, in order to correct their errors in London,
spend a month of digestive retirement at Carlsbad.
"Live wholesomely six months of the year," said Kit once, "and you will
repair your damages. Why should I listen to German bands and drink salt
water?"
Instead, she fished all August and September, cut down her cigarettes,
and lived, as she said, like a milkmaid. It would have been rather a
queer sort of milkmaid, but people knew what she meant.
Before her maid came (Kit's arrangement that she might go to bed was
partly the result of kindness, partly of her disinclination to be waited
on by a very sleepy attendant) she had taken off her jewels, and put
them into her safe. There also she placed the very considerable sum of
money which she had just won at baccarat, to join the rainy-day fund.
Jack did not know about the rainy-day fund--it was of Kit's very private
possessions; but it is only fair to her to say that if he had been in a
financial _impasse_ it would have been at his disposal. No number of
outstanding bills, however, constituted an _impasse_ till you were
absolutely sued for debt; the simplest way of discharging them, a way
naturally popular, was to continue ordering things at the same shops.
Kit and her husband did not meet at breakfast, but took that plebeian
meal in their own rooms. And she, having told Hortense to open the
windows still wider, and bring her breakfast at half-past ten, put the
key of her jewel-safe under her pillow, and lay down to sleep for five
hours. She would want her victoria at twelve, and she scribbled a note
to Lady Haslemere saying that she would be with her at a quarter past.
Outside the day grew ever brighter, and rivulets of traffic began to
flow down Park Lane. The hour of the starting of the omnibuses brought a
great accession of sound, but Kit fell asleep as soon as she got into
bed, and, the sleep of the just and the healthy being sound, she heard
them not. She dreamed in a vague way that she had won a million pounds,
but that as she was winning the last of them, which would mean eternal
happiness, she cheated some undefined shadow of a penny, which, in the
misty, unexplained fashion of dreams, took away the whole of her
winnings. Then the smell of tea and bacon and a sudden influx of light
scattered these vain and inauspicious imaginings, and she woke to
another day of her worthless, selfish, aimless life.