Madame Frabelle had arrived about a fortnight ago, with a letter of
introduction from Lady Conroy. Lady Conroy herself was a vague, amiable
Irishwoman, with a very large family of children. She and Edith, who
knew each other slightly before, had grown intimate when they met, the
previous summer, at a French watering-place. The letter asked Edith,
with urgent inconsequence, to be kind to Madame Frabelle, of whom Lady
Conroy said nothing except that she was of good family--she had been a
Miss Eglantine Pollard--and was the widow of a well-to-do French
wine merchant.
She was described as a clever, interesting woman who wished to study
English life in her native land. It did not surprise Lady Conroy in the
least that an Englishwoman should wish to study English in England; but
she was a woman who was never surprised at anything except the obvious
and the inevitable.
Edith had not had the faintest idea of asking Madame Frabelle to stay at
her very small house in Sloane Street, for which invitation, indeed,
there seemed no possible need or occasion. Yet she found herself asking
her visitor to stay for a few days until a house or a hotel should be
found; and Bruce, who detested guests in the house, seconded the
invitation with warmth and enthusiasm. As Bruce was a subconscious snob,
he may have been slightly influenced by the letter from Lady Conroy, who
was the wife of an unprominent Cabinet Minister and, in a casual way,
rather _grande dame_, if not exactly smart. But this consideration could
not weigh with Edith, and its effect on Bruce must have long passed
away. Madame Frabelle accepted the invitation as a matter of course,
made use of it as a matter of convenience, and had remained ever since,
showing no sign of leaving. Edith was deeply interested in her.
* * * * *
And Bruce was more genuinely impressed and unconsciously bored by Madame
Frabelle than by any woman he had ever met. Yet she was not at all
extraordinary. She was a tall woman of about fifty, well bred without
being distinguished, who could never have been handsome but was
graceful, dignified, and pleasing. She was neither dark nor fair. She
had a broad, good-natured face, and a pale, clear complexion. She was
inclined to be fat; not locally, in the manner of a pincushion, but with
the generally diffused plumpness described in shops as stock size. She
was not the sort of modern woman of fifty, with a thin figure and a good
deal of rouge, who looks young from the back when dancing or walking,
and talks volubly and confidentially of her young men. She had, of
course, nothing of the middle-aged woman of the past, who at her age
would have been definitely on the shelf, doing wool-work or collecting
recipes there. Nor did she resemble the strong-minded type in perpetual
tailor-made clothes, with short grey hair and eye-glasses, who belongs
to clubs and talks chiefly of the franchise. Madame Frabelle was soft,
womanly, amiable, yet extremely outspoken, very firm, and inclined to
lay down the law. She was certainly charming, as Bruce and Edith agreed
every day (even now, when they were beginning to wonder when she was
going away!). She had an extraordinary amount of personal magnetism,
since she convinced both the Ottleys, as she had convinced Lady Conroy,
that she was wonderfully clever: in fact, that she knew everything.
A fortnight had passed, and Edith was beginning to grow doubtful. Was
she so clever? Did she know everything? Did she know anything at all?
Long arguments, that grew quite heated and excited at luncheon or
dinner, about the origin of a word, the author of a book, and various
debatable questions of the kind, invariably ended, after reference to a
dictionary or an encyclopaedia, in Madame Frabelle proving herself, with
an air of triumph, to be completely and entirely wrong. She was as
generally positive as she was fatally mistaken. Yet so intense a belief
had she in her intuition as well as in her own inaccurate information
that her hypnotised hosts were growing daily more and more under her
thumb. She took it for granted that everyone would take her for
granted--and everyone did.
Was all this agreeable or otherwise? Edith thought it must be, or how
could they bear it at all? If it had not been extremely pleasant it
would have been simply impossible.
The fair, gentle, pretty Edith, who was more subtle than she appeared on
the surface, while apparently indolent, had a very active brain. Madame
Frabelle caused her to use it more than she had ever done before. Edith
was intensely curious and until she understood her visitor she could not
rest satisfied. She made her a psychological study.
For example, here was a curious little point. Madame Frabelle did not
look young for her age, nor did she seem in the least inclined to wish
to be admired, nor ever to have been a flirt. The word 'fast', for
example, would have been quite grotesque as associated with her, though
she was by no means prudish as to subjects of conversation, nor prim in
the middle-class way. Yet somehow it would not have seemed incongruous
or surprising if one had found out that there was even now some romance
in her life. But, doubtless, the most striking thing about her--and what
made her popular--was her intense interest in other people. It went so
far as to reach the very verge of being interference; but she was so
pleasant that one could scarcely resent it either as curiosity or
intrusion. Since she had stayed with the Ottleys, she appeared to think
of no-one and nothing else in the world. One would think that no-one
else existed for her. And, after all, such extreme interest is
flattering. Bruce, Archie, Edith, even Dilly's nurse, all had, in her,
an audience: interested, absorbed, enchanted. Who could help
enjoying it?
* * * * *
Edith was still thinking about Madame Frabelle when a few minutes later,
Bruce came in.
Bruce also was fair, besides being tall, good-looking and well built.
Known by their friends for some reason as the little Ottleys, these two
were a rather fine-looking pair, and (at a casual glance) admirably
suited to one another. They appeared to be exactly like thousands of
other English married couples of the upper middle class between thirty
and forty; he looked as manly (through being sunburnt from knocking a
little ball over the links) as if he habitually went tiger-shooting;
but, though not without charm, he had much less distinction than his
wife. Most people smiled when Bruce's name was mentioned, and it was
usual for his intimates to clap him on the back and call him a silly
ass, which proves he was not unpopular. On the other hand, Edith was
described as a very pretty woman, or a nice little thing, and by the
more discriminating, jolly clever when you know her, and don't you
forget it.
When Bruce told his wife that no-one had ever regretted consulting him
on a difficult, secret, and delicate matter, Edith had said she was
quite sure they hadn't. Perhaps she thought no-one had ever regretted
consulting him on such a subject, simply because no-one had ever tried.
'Oh, please don't move, Edith,' he said, in the tone which means, 'Oh,
please do move.' 'I like to see you comfortable.'
There was something in his manner that made her feel apologetic, and she
changed her position with the feeling of guilt about nothing, and a
tinge of shame for something she hadn't done, easily produced by an air
of self-sacrifice Bruce was apt to show at such moments.
'Your hair's coming down, Edith,' he said kindly, to add to her vague
embarrassment.
As a matter of fact, a curl by the right ear was only about one-tenth of
an inch farther on the cheek than it was intended to be But, by this
observation, he got the advantage of her by giving the impression that
she looked wild, unkempt, and ruffled, though she was, in reality,
exactly as trim and neat as always.
'Well--about the delicate matter you were going to talk over with me,
Bruce?'
'Oh yes. Oh, by the way,' he said, 'before we go into that, I wonder if
you could help me about something? You could do me a really great
service by helping me to find a certain book.'
'Why, of course, Bruce, with pleasure. What is the book?' asked the
amiable wife, looking alert.
Bruce looked at her with pity.
'What is the book? My dear Edith, don't you see I shouldn't have come to
you about it if I knew what the book was.'
'I beg your pardon, Bruce,' said Edith, now feeling thoroughly in the
wrong, and looking round the room. 'But if you can't give me the name of
the book I scarcely see how I can find it.'
'And if I knew its name I shouldn't want your assistance.'
It seemed a deadlock.
Going to the bookcase, Edith said:
'Can't you give me some idea of what it's like?'
'Certainly I can. I've seen it a hundred times in this very room; in
fact it's always here, except when it's wanted.'
Edith went down on her knees in front of the bookcase and
cross-questioned Bruce on the physiognomy of the volume. She asked
whether it was a novel, whether it was blue, whether it belonged to the
library, whether it was Stevenson, whether it was French, or if it was
suitable for the children.
To all of these questions he returned a negative.
'Suitable for the children?' he repeated. 'What a fantastic idea! Do you
think I should take all this trouble to come and request your assistance
and spend hours of valuable time looking for a book that's suitable for
the children?'
'But, Bruce, if you request my assistance without having the slightest
idea of what book it is, how shall I possibly be able to help?'
'Quite so ... quite so. Never mind, Edith, don't trouble. If I say that
it's a pity there isn't more order in the house you won't regard it, I
hope, dear, as a reproach in any way. If there were a place for
everything, and everything in its place--However! Never mind. It's a
small matter, and it can't be helped. I know, Edith dear, you were not
brought up to be strictly orderly. Some people are not. I don't blame
you; not in the least. Still, when Dilly grows up I shall be sorry if--'
'Bruce, it's nothing to do with order. The room is perfectly tidy. It's
a question of your memory. You don't remember the name of the book.'
'Pardon me, it's not a question of remembering the name; that would be
nothing. Anyone can forget a name. That wouldn't matter.'
'Oh, then, you mean you don't even know in the least what you want?'
At this moment Bruce decided it was time to find the book, and suddenly
sprang, like a middle-aged fawn, at the writing-table, seizing a volume
triumphantly.
'There it is--the whole time!' he said, 'staring at you while you are
helplessly looking for it. Oh, Edith, Edith!' he laughed amiably. 'How
like a woman that is! And the very book a few inches from your hand!
Well, well, never mind; it's found at last. I hope, dear, in the future
you will be more careful. We'll say no more about it now.'
Edith didn't point out to Bruce that the book was a novel; that it was
blue; that it belonged to the library, was French, and that it was still
suitable for the children.
'Well, well,' he said, sitting down with the book, which he had never
wanted at all, and had never even thought of when he came to the room
first, 'well, well, here it is! And now for the point I was going to
tell you when I came in.'
'Shall we have tea, dear?' said Edith.
'Tea? Oh, surely not. It's only just four. I don't think it's good for
the servants having tea half-an-hour earlier than usual. It's a little
thing--yes, I know that, but I don't believe in it. I like punctuality,
regularity--oh, well, of course, dear, if you wish it.'
'No, I don't at all! I thought you might.'
'Oh no. I like punctuality, er--and, as a matter of fact, I had tea at
the club.'
Laughing, Edith rang the bell.
Bruce lighted a cigarette, first, with his usual courtesy, asking her
permission.
'I'll tell you about _that_ when Woodhouse has gone,' he said
mysteriously.
'Oh, can't you tell me anything about it now? I wouldn't have ordered
tea if I'd known that!'
He enjoyed keeping her waiting, and was delighted at her interest. He
would have made it last longer, but was unable to bear his own suspense;
so he said:
'Before I say any more, tell me: where is Madame Frabelle?'