Seven or eight weeks passed.
During that time Richard spent many evenings with Adeline, at the
theatre, at concerts, and at Carteret Street. When they were going up
to town, he called for her in a hansom. She usually kept him waiting
a few minutes. He sat in the sitting-room, listening to the rattle
of harness and the occasional stamp of a hoof outside. At length he
heard her light step on the stairs, and she entered the room, smiling
proudly. She was wonderfully well dressed, with modish simplicity and
exact finish, and she gave him her fan to hold while she buttoned
her long gloves. Where she ordered her gowns he never had the least
notion. They followed one another in rapid succession, and each seemed
more beautiful than the last. All were sober in tint; the bodices were
V-shaped, and cut rather low.
Lottie carefully placed a white wrap over her mistress's head, and then
they were off. In the hansom there was but little conversation, and
that of a trivial character. In vain he endeavoured to entice her into
discussions. He mentioned books which he had read; she showed only a
perfunctory interest. He explained why, in his opinion, a particular
play was good and another bad; generally she preferred the wrong
one, or at least maintained that she liked all plays, and therefore
would not draw comparisons. Sometimes she would argue briefly about
the conduct of certain characters in a piece, but he seldom found
himself genuinely in agreement with her, though as a rule he verbally
concurred. In music she was a little less unsympathetic towards his
ideals. They had tried over several of his favourite classical songs,
and he had seen in her face, as she listened, or hummed the air, a glow
answering to his own enthusiasm. She had said that she would learn one
of them, but the promise had not been kept, though he had reminded her
of it several times.
These chagrins, however, were but infinitesimal ripples upon the
smooth surface of his happiness. All of them together were as nothing
compared to the sensations which he experienced in helping her out of
the cab, in the full glare of a theatre façade. Invariably he overpaid
the driver, handing him the silver with an inattentive gesture, while
Adeline waited on the steps,--dainty food for the eyes of loiterers and
passers-by. He offered his arm, and they passed down the vestibule and
into the auditorium. With what artless enjoyment she settled herself in
her seat, breathing the atmosphere of luxury and display as if it had
been ozone, smiling radiantly at Richard, and then eagerly examining
the occupants of the boxes through a small, silver-mounted glass! She
was never moved by the events on the stage, and whether it happened to
be tragedy or burlesque at which they were assisting, she turned to
Richard at the end of every act with the same happy, contented smile,
and usually began to make remarks upon the men and women around her. It
was the play-house and not the play of which she was really fond.
After the fall of the curtain, they lingered till most of the audience
had gone. Sometimes they supped at a restaurant. "It is my turn,"
she would say now and then, when the obsequious waiter presented the
bill, and would give Richard her purse. At first, for form's sake, he
insisted on his right to pay, but she would not listen. He wondered
where she had caught the pretty trick of handing over her purse instead
of putting down the coins, and he traced it to a play which they had
seen at the Vaudeville theatre. Yet she did it with such naturalness
that it did not seem to have been copied. The purse was small, and
always contained several pounds in gold, with a little silver. The
bill paid, he gave it back to her with a bow.
Then came the long, rapid drive home, through interminable lamp-lined
streets, peopled now only by hansoms and private carriages, past
all the insolent and garish splendours of Piccadilly clubs, into
whose unveiled windows Adeline eagerly gazed; past the mysterious,
night-ridden Park; past the dim, solemn squares and crescents of
Kensington and Chelsea, and so into the meaner vicinage of Fulham.
It was during these midnight journeys, more than at any other time,
that Richard felt himself to be a veritable inhabitant of the City of
Pleasure. Adeline, flushed with the evening's enjoyment, talked of
many things, in her low, even voice, which was never raised. Richard
answered briefly; an occasional reply was all she seemed to expect.
Immediately, on getting out of the cab, she said good-night, and
entered the house alone, while Richard directed the driver back to
Raphael Street. Returning thus, solitary, he endeavoured to define what
she was to him, and he to her. Often, when actually in her presence, he
ventured to ask himself, "Am I happy? Is this pleasure?" But as soon as
he had left her, his doubtfulness vanished, and he began to long for
their next meeting. Little phrases of hers, unimportant gestures, came
back vividly to his memory; he thought how instinct with charm they
were. And yet, was he really, truly in love? Was she in love? Had there
been a growth of feeling since that night at Carteret Street after the
holiday at Littlehampton? He uncomfortably suspected that their hearts
had come nearer to each other that night than at any time since.
He tried to look forward to the moment when he should invite her to
be his wife. But was that moment approaching? At the back of his mind
lay an apprehension that it was not. She satisfied one part of his
nature. She was the very spirit of grace; she was full of aplomb and
a delicate tact; she had money. Moreover, her constant reliance upon
him, her clinging womanishness, the caressing, humouring tone which her
voice could assume, powerfully affected him. He divined darkly that
he was clay in her hands; that all the future, even the future of his
own heart, depended entirely upon her. If she chose, she might be his
goddess.... And yet she had sharp limitations....
Again, was she in love?
When he woke up of a morning he wondered how long his present happiness
would continue, and whither it was leading him. A scrap of conversation
which he had had with Adeline recurred to him frequently. He had asked
her, once when she had complained of ennui, why she did not become
acquainted with some of her neighbours.
"I don't care for my neighbours," she replied curtly.
"But you can't live without acquaintances all your life."
"No, not all my life," she said with significant emphasis.