As he spoke, Margaret released her hand. Her mother was entering and he
stood up.
"Mrs. Austen," he resumed, "won't you and Margaret have tea at my
apartment to-morrow?"
He would have reseated himself but the lady saw to it that he did not.
"You have such pleasant programmes, Mr. Lennox. You are not going
though, are you? Well, if you must, good-night."
It was boreal, yet, however arctic, it was smiling, debonair. As such,
Lennox had no recourse but to accept it. He bent over Margaret's hand,
touched two of Mrs. Austen's fingers. In a moment, he had gone.
Mrs. Austen, smiling still, sat down.
"Nice young man. Very nice. Nice hats, nice ties, nice coats. Then also
he is a theosophist, I suppose, or, if not, then by way of becoming one.
What more could the heart desire? Would you mind putting out one of
those lights? Not that one--the other."
Gowned in grey which in spite of its hue contrived to be brilliant, Mrs.
Austen rustled ever so slightly. Always a handsome woman and well aware
of it, she was of two minds about her daughter's looks. They far
surpassed her own and she did not like that. On the other hand they were
an asset on which she counted.
She rustled, quite as slightly again.
"And such a taking way with him! That little singing-girl whom we saw
to-night, quite a pretty child, didn't you think? She seemed quite
smitten. Then there are others, one may suppose. Yes, certainly, a very
nice young man."
"Mother!"
"Well, what? Young men will be young men. Only a theosophist could
imagine that they would be young girls. I make every allowance from
him--as doubtless he does for others. This is quite as it should be. I
have no patience with model young men. Model young men delight their
mothers' hearts and ruin their wives' temper. They remodel themselves
after marriage. Whereas a young man who is not model at all, one who has
had his fling beforehand, settles down and becomes quite fat. You have
chosen very wisely, my dear. If you had waited you might have had
Paliser and I should not have liked that. He is too good."
Margaret stretched a hand to the fire. She was not cold and the movement
was mechanical. But she made no reply. In Matthew we are told that for
every idle word we utter we shall answer at the day of judgment. That
passage she had longly meditated. She did not believe that Matthew wrote
it and she did not believe in a day of judgment. Matthew was a peasant
who spoke Syro-Chaldaic. It was not supposable that he could write in
Greek. It was not supposable that there can be a specific day of
judgment, since every moment of our days is judged. But through Margaret
had her tolerant doubts, she knew that the message itself was sound. It
did not condemn evil and vulgar words, for they condemn themselves. What
it condemned was idle words and she regretted that her mother employed
them. But theosophy is, primarily, a school of good manners. The Gospel
condemns idle words, theosophy forbids disagreeable ones.
To her mother's remarks, she made therefore no reply. Instead, she
changed the subject.
"Will you care to go with me to his rooms to-morrow?"
With a mimic of surprise and of gentle remonstrance that was admirably
assumed, Mrs. Austen lifted a hand.
"But, my dear! Were you thinking of going alone?"
The remonstrance, however gentle, was absurd and she knew it. Margaret
could go where she liked. It would all be chaste as a piano-recital. But
the flea that she had been trying to put in the girl's ear seemed very
ineffective. She is just as I was at her age, thought this lady, who, in
so thinking, flattered herself extraordinarily.
She shook her head. "For if you were, it would not do. Such things may
pass in London, they don't here. But to-morrow is Saturday, isn't it?
Yes, to-morrow is Saturday. At three I have an appointment with the
dentist. I'll telephone though. That always pains them and, where a
dentist is concerned, I do think turn about is fair play."
It was pleasantly said. To make it pleasanter, she stood up and added:
"Are you to sit here and read? There is a French book lying around
somewhere that belonged to your dear father. I don't remember who wrote
it and I have forgotten the title, but you are sure to like it. There! I
have it. It is called: 'L'art de tromper les femmes.'"
Mrs. Austen moved to the door and looked back.
"But if you don't find it readily, let it go for to-night. Your young
man is sure to have a copy. No nice young man is without one."