"This is indeed a gala night," said Ennison, raising his glass, and
watching for a moment the golden bubbles. "Was it really only this
afternoon that I met you in St. James' Park?"
Anna nodded, and made a careful selection from a dish of quails.
"It was just an hour before teatime," she remarked. "I have had
nothing since, and it seems a very long time."
"An appetite like yours," he said resignedly, "is fatal to all
sentiment."
"Not in the least," she assured him. "I find the two inseparable."
He sighed.
"I have noticed," he said, "that you seem to delight in taking a
topsy-turvy view of life. It arises, I think, from an over developed
sense of humour. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus
Ward."
"You do not understand me at all," she declared. "I think that you are
very dense. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. I
have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a
sense of humour."
So they talked on whilst supper was served, falling easily into the
spirit of the place, and yet both of them conscious of some new thing
underlying the gaiety of their tongues and manner. Anna, in her
strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful. Without a single
ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns,
out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the
most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room.
To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper
quality in her tone. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of
spirits almost hysterical. Perhaps, after all, the others were right.
Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. The
terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen
from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a
shudder even from the memory. An acute sense of living was in her
veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. Ennison too, always
handsome and _debonnair_, seemed transported out of his calm self. His
tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. He said daring
things with a grace which made them irresistible, his eyes flashed
back upon her some eloquent but silent appreciation of the change in
her manner towards him.
And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening.
It was he who saw them first coming down the room--Annabel in a
wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending,
disapproving, bringing up the rear. He bent over to Anna at once.
"It is your sister and her husband," he said. "They are coming past
our table."
Annabel saw Ennison first, and noticing his single companion calmly
ignored him. Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her
flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress
down the room. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. His face
clouded with anger.
It was after all a momentary affair. Annabel passed on with a strained
nod to her sister, and Sir John's bow was a miracle of icy
displeasure. They vanished through the doorway. Anna and her escort
exchanged glances. Almost simultaneously they burst out laughing.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Limp," he answered. "As a matter of fact, I deserve to. I was engaged
to dine with your sister and her husband, and I sent a wire."
"It was exceedingly wrong of you," Anna declared. "Before I came to
England I was told that there were two things which an Englishman who
was _comme-il-faut_ never did. The first was to break a dinner
engagement."
"And the second?"
"Make love to a single woman."
"Your knowledge of our ways," he murmured "is profound. Yet, I suppose
that at the present moment I am the most envied man in the room."
Her eyes were lit with humour. To have spoken lightly on such a
subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible.
"But you do not know," she whispered, "whether I am a married woman or
not. There is Mr. Montague Hill."
The lights were lowered, and an attentive waiter hovered round Anna's
cloak. They left the room amongst the last, and Ennison had almost to
elbow his way through a group of acquaintances who had all some
pretext for detaining him, to which he absolutely refused to listen.
They entered a hansom and turned on to the Embankment. The two great
hotels on their right were still ablaze with lights. On their left the
river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a
huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the
black water. A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces. Anna leaned back
with half closed eyes.
"Delicious!" she murmured.
His fingers closed upon her hand. She yielded it without protest, as
though unconsciously. Not a word passed between them. It seemed to him
that speech would be an anticlimax.
He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. She passed inside and
upstairs without a word. In her little sitting-room she turned on the
electric light and looked around half fearfully.
"Please search everywhere," she said. "I am going through the other
rooms. I shall not let you go till I am quite sure."
"If he has a key," Ennison said, "how are you to be safe?"
"I had bolts fitted on the doors yesterday," she answered. "If he is
not here now I can make myself safe."
It was certain that he was not there. Anna came back into the
sitting-room with a little sigh of relief.
"Indeed," she said, "it was very fortunate that I should have met you
this afternoon. Either Sydney or Mr. Brendon always comes home with
me, and to-night both are away. Mary is very good, but she is too
nervous to be the slightest protection."
"I am very glad," he answered, in a low tone. "It has been a
delightful evening for me."
"And for me," Anna echoed.
A curious silence ensued. Anna was sitting before the fire a little
distance from him--Ennison himself remained standing. Some shadow of
reserve seemed to have crept up between them. She laughed nervously,
but kept her eyes averted.
"It is strange that we should have met Annabel," she said. "I am
afraid your broken dinner engagement will not be so easy to explain."
He was very indifferent. In fact he was thinking of other things.
"I am going," he said, "to be impertinent. I do not understand why you
and your sister should not see more of one another. You must be lonely
here with only a few men friends."
She shook her head.
"Loneliness," she said, "is a luxury which I never permit myself.
Besides--there is Sir John."
"Sir John is an ass!" he declared.
"He is Annabel's husband," she reminded him.
"Annabel!" He looked at her thoughtfully. "It is rather odd," he said,
"but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna."
"Many other people," she remarked, "have made the same mistake."
"Again," he said, "I am going to be impertinent. I never met your
sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. She is not in
the least like the descriptions of her."
"She has changed a good deal," Anna admitted.
"There is some mystery about you both," he exclaimed, with sudden
earnestness. "No, don't interrupt me. Why may I not be your friend?
Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false
position. You represent to me an enigma, the solution of which has
become the one desire of my life. I want to give you warning that I
have set myself to solve it. To-morrow I am going to Paris."
She seemed unmoved, but she did not look at him.
"To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?"
"I do not know," he answered, "but I am going to see David Courtlaw."
Then she looked up at him with frightened eyes.
"David Courtlaw!" she repeated. "What has he to do with it?"
"He was your sister's master--her friend. A few days ago I saw him
leave your house. He was like a man beside himself. He began to tell
me something--and stopped. I am going to ask him to finish it."
She rose up.
"I forbid it!" she said firmly.
They were standing face to face now upon the hearthrug. She was very
pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes.
"I will tell you as much as this," she continued. "There is a secret.
I admit it. Set yourself to find it out, if you will--but if you do,
never dare to call yourself my friend again."
"It is for your good--your good only I am thinking," he declared.
"Then let me be the judge of what is best," she answered.
He was silent. He felt his heart beat faster and faster--his
self-restraint slipping away. After all, what did it matter?--it or
anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms,
beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the
light which was burning in his eyes. A quick flush stained her cheeks.
She put out her hands to avoid his embrace.
"No!" she exclaimed. "You must not. It is impossible."
His arms were around her. He only laughed his defiance.
"I will make it possible," he cried. "I will make all things
possible."
Anna was bewildered. She did not know herself. Only she was conscious
of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. She gave her lips to his
without resistance. All her protests seemed stifled before she could
find words to utter them. With a little sigh of happiness she accepted
this new thing.
_Chapter XXI_