The Ottleys and Madame Frabelle were in the drawing-room awaiting their
guests. (I say advisedly their guests, for no-one could help regarding
Madame Frabelle as essentially the hostess, and queen of the evening.)
One would fancy that instead of entertaining more or less for the last
twelve years the young couple had never given a dinner before; so much
suppressed excitement was in the air. Bruce was quiet and subdued now
from combined nervousness and pride, but for the few days previous he
had been terribly trying to his unfortunate wife; nothing, according to
him, could be good enough for the purpose of impressing Madame Frabelle,
and he appeared to have lost all his confidence in Edith's undeniable
gift for receiving.
The flowers, the menu, the arrangement of the eight people--for the
dinner was still small, intimate and distinguished, as he had first
suggested--had been subjected to continual and maddening changes in its
scheme. Everyone had been disengaged and everyone had accepted--then he
wished he had asked other people instead.
When Edith was dressed Bruce put the last touch to his irritating
caprices by asking Edith to take out of her hair a bandeau of blue that
he had first asked her to put in. Every woman will know what agony that
must have caused. The pretty fair hair was waved and arranged specially
for this ornament, and when she took it out the whole scheme seemed to
her wrong. However, she looked very pretty, dressed in vaporous tulle of
a shade of blue which only a faultless complexion can bear.
Edith's complexion was her strong point. When she was a little flushed
she looked all the better for it, and when she was pale it seemed to
suit her none the worse. Hers was the sort of skin with a satiny texture
that improves under bright sunshine or electric light; in fact the more
brilliantly it was lighted the better it looked.
Madame Frabelle (of course) was dressed in black, _décolletée,_ and with
a good deal of jet. A black aigrette, like a lightning conductor, stood
up defiantly in her hair. Though it did not harmonise well with the
somewhat square and _bourgeois_ shape of her head and face, and
appeared to have dropped on her by accident, yet as a symbol of
smartness it gave her a kind of distinction. It appeared to have fallen
from the skies; it was put on in the wrong place, and it did not nestle,
as it should do, and appear to grow out of the hair, since that glory of
womanhood, in her case of a dull brown, going slightly grey, was smooth,
scarce and plainly parted. Madame Frabelle really would have looked her
best in a cap of the fashion of the sixties. But she could carry off
anything; and some people said that she did.
Edith had been allowed by her husband _carte blanche_ in the decoration
of their house.
This was fortunate, as _mise-en-scène_ was a great gift of hers; no-one
had such a sense as Edith for arranging a room. She had struck the happy
mean between the eccentric and the conventional. Anything that seemed
unusual did not appear to be a pose, or a strained attempt at being
different from others, but seemed to have a reason of its own. For
example, she greatly disliked the usual gorgeous _endimanché_
drawing-room and dark conventional dining-room. The room in which she
received her guests was soft and subdued in colour and not dazzling with
that blaze of light that is so trying to strangers just arrived and not
knowing their way about a house (or certain of how they are looking).
The room seemed to receive them kindly; make them comfortable, and at
their ease, hoping they looked their best. The shaded lights, not dim
enough to be depressing, were kind to those past youth and gave
confidence to the shy. There was nothing ceremonious, nothing chilly,
about the drawing-room; it was essentially at once comfortable and
becoming, and the lights shone like shaded sunshine from the dull pink
corners of the room.
On the other hand, the dining-room helped conversation by its
stimulating gaiety and daintiness.
The feminine curves of the furniture, such as is usually kept for the
drawing-room, were all pure Louis-Quinze. It was deliriously pretty in
its pink and white and pale green.
In the drawing-room the hosts stood by one of those large, old-fashioned
oaken fireplaces so supremely helpful to conversation and
_tête-à-têtes_. In Edith's house there was never any general
conversation except at dinner. People simply made friends, flirted, and
enjoyed themselves.
As the clock struck eight the Mitchells were announced. Edith could
scarcely control a laugh as Mr Mitchell came in, he looked so utterly
unlike the dangerous lover Madame Frabelle had conjured up. He was
immensely tall, broad, loosely built, large-shouldered, with a red
beard, a twinkle in his eye, and the merriest of laughs. He was a
delightful man, but there was no romance about him. Besides, Edith
remembered him as a black poodle.
* * * * *
Mrs. Mitchell struck a useful note, and seemed a perfect complement to
her husband, the ideal wife for him. She was about forty-five, but being
slim, animated, and well dressed (though entirely without _chic_), she
seemed a good deal younger.
Mr. Mitchell might have been any age between sixty and sixty-five, and
had the high spirits and vitality of a boy.
It was impossible to help liking this delightful couple; they fully
deserved their popularity. In the enormous house at Hampstead, arranged
like a country mansion, where they lived, Mr. Mitchell made it the
object of his life to collect Bohemians as other people collect Venetian
glass, from pure love of the material. His wife, with a silly woman's
subtlety, having rather lower ideals--that is to say, a touch of the
very human vulgarity known as social ambition--made use of his
Bohemianism to help her on in her mundane success. This was the
principle of the thing. If things were well done--and they always were
at her house--would not a duke, if he were musical, go anywhere to hear
the greatest tenor in Europe? And would not all the greatest celebrities
go anywhere to meet a duke?
* * * * *
Next the two young Conistons were announced.
Miss Coniston was a thin, amiable, artistic girl, who did tooling in
leather, made her own dresses, recited, and had a pale, good-looking,
too well-dressed, disquieting young brother of twenty-two, who seemed to
be always going out when other people came in, but was rather useful in
society, being musical and very polite. The music that he chose
generally gave his audience a shock. Being so young, so pale, and so
contemporary, one expected him to sing thin, elusive music by Debussy,
Fauré, or Ravel. He seemed never to have heard of these composers, but
sang instead threatening songs, such as, 'I'll sing thee Songs of
Araby!' or defiant, teetotal melodies, like 'Drink to Me only with thine
Eyes!' His voice was good, and louder and deeper than one would expect.
He accompanied himself and his sister everywhere. She, by the way, to
add to the interest about her, was said to be privately engaged to a
celebrity who was never there. Alice and Guy Coniston were orphans, and
lived alone in a tiny flat in Pelham Gardens. He had been reading for
the Bar, but when the war broke out he joined the New Army, and was
now in khaki.
* * * * *
But the _clou_ and great interest of the evening was the arrival of Sir
Tito Landi, that most popular of all Italian composers. With his white
moustache, pink and white complexion, and large bright blue eyes, his
dandified dress, his eyeglass and buttonhole, he had the fresh, fair
look of an Englishman, the dry brilliance of a Parisian, the _naïveté_
of a genius, the manners of a courtier, and behind it all the diabolic
humour of the Neapolitan. He was small, thin and slight, with a curious
dignity of movement.
* * * * *
'Ah, Tito,' cried Bruce cordially. 'Here you are!'
The dinner was bright and gay from the very beginning, even before the
first glass of champagne. It began with an optimistic view of the war,
then, dropping the grave subject, they talked of people, theatres,
books, and general gossip. In all these things Madame Frabelle took the
lead. Indeed, she had begun at once laying down the law in a musical
voice but with a determined manner that gave those who knew her to
understand only too well that she intended to go steadily on, and
certainly not to stop to breathe before the ices.
Sir Tito Landi, fixing his eyeglass in his bright blue eye, took in
Madame Frabelle in one long look, and smiled at her sympathetically.
'What do you think of her?' murmured Edith to Landi.
Hypnotised and slightly puzzled as she was by her guest, she was
particularly curious for his opinion, as she knew him to be the best
judge of character of her acquaintance. He had some of the
capriciousness of the spoilt, successful artist, which showed itself,
except to those whom he regarded as real friends, in odd variations of
manner, so that Edith could not tell at all by his being extremely
charming to Madame Frabelle that he liked her, or by his being abrupt
and satirical that he didn't. An old friend and a favourite, she could
rely on what he told her.
'C'est une bonne vieille,' he said. 'Bonne, mais bête!'
'Really?' Edith asked, surprised.
Landi laughed. 'Bête comme ses pieds, ma chère!'
Returning to decent language and conventional tone, he went on with a
story he was telling about an incident that had happened when he was
staying with some royalties. His stories were short, new, amusing, and
invariably suited to his audience. Anything about the Court he saw, at a
glance, would genuinely interest Madame Frabelle. Edith was amused as
she saw that lady becoming more and more convinced of Landi's
importance, and of his respectful admiration.
* * * * *
Long before dinner was over there was no doubt that everyone was
delighted with Madame Frabelle. She talked so well, suited herself to
everyone, and simply charmed them all. Yet why? Edith was still
wondering, but by the time she rose to go upstairs she thought she began
to understand her friend's secret. People were not charmed with
Eglantine because she herself was charming, but because she was charmed.
Madame Frabelle was really as much interested in everyone to whom she
spoke as she appeared to be; the interest was not assumed. A few little
pretences and affectations she might have, such as that of knowing a
great deal about every subject under the sun--of having read everything,
and been everywhere, but her interest in other people was real. That was
what made people like her.
Young Coniston, shy, sensitive and reserved as he was, had nevertheless
told her all about his training at Braintree, the boredom of getting up
early, the dampness of the tents, and how much he wanted to be sent to
the front. She admired his valour, was interested in his music, and at
her persuasion he promised to sing her songs of Araby after dinner.
When the ladies were alone Eglantine's universal fascination was even
more remarkable. Mrs. Mitchell, at her desire, gave her the address of
the little dressmaker who ran up Mrs. Mitchell's blouses and skirts.
This was an honour for Mrs. Mitchell; nothing pleased her so much as to
be asked for the address of her dressmaker by a woman with a
foreign name.
As to Miss Coniston, she was enraptured with Eglantine. Madame Frabelle
arranged to go and see her little exhibition of tooled leather, and
coaxed out of the shy girl various details about the celebrity, who at
present had an ambulance in France. She adored reciting, and Miss
Coniston, to gratify her, offered to recite a poem by Emile Cammaerts
on the spot.
As to Mr. Mitchell, Madame Frabelle drew him out with more care and
caution. With the obstinacy of the mistaken she still saw in Mr.
Mitchell's friendly looks at his hostess a passion for Edith, and shook
her grey head over the blindness of the poor dear wife.
Bruce hung on her words and was open-mouthed while she spoke, so
impressed was he at her wonderful cleverness, and at her evident success
with his friends.
Later on Landi, sitting in the ingle-nook with Edith, said, as he puffed
a cigar:
'Tiens, ma chère Edith, tu ne vois pas quelque chose?'
'What?'
He always talked French, as a middle course between Italian and English,
and Edith spoke her own language to him.
'Elle. La Mère Frabelle,' he laughed to himself. 'Elle est folle de ton
mari!'
'Oh, really, Landi! That's your fancy!'
He mimicked her. 'Farncy! Farncy! Je me suis monté l'imagination,
peut-être! J'ai un rien de fièvre, sans doute! C'est une idée que j'ai,
comme ça. Eh bien! Non! Nous verrons. Je te dis qu'elle est amoureuse
de Bruce.'
'He is very devoted to her, I know,' said Edith, 'and I daresay he's a
little in love with her--in a way. But she--'
'C'est tout le contraire, chère. Lui, c'est moins; il est flatté. Il la
trouve une femme intelligente,' he laughed. 'Mais elle! Tu est folle de
ne pas voir ça, Edith. Enfin! Si ça l'amuse?'
With a laugh he got up, to loud applause, and went to the little white
enamelled piano. There, with a long cigar in his mouth, he struck a few
notes, and at once magnetised his audience. The mere touch of his
fingers on the piano thrilled everyone present.
He sang a composition of his own, which even the piano-organ had never
succeeded in making hackneyed, 'Adieu, Hiver,' and melodious as only
Italian music can be. Blue beams flashed from his eyes; he seemed in a
dream. Suddenly in the most impassioned part, which he was singing in a
composer's voice, that is, hardly any voice, but with perfect art, he
caught Madame Frabelle's eye, and gave her a solemn wink. She burst out
laughing. He then went on singing with sentiment and grace.
All the women present imagined that he was making love to them, while
each man felt that he, personally, was making love to his ideal woman.
Such was the effect of Landi's music. It made the most material, even
the most unmusical, remember some little romance, some _tendresse_, some
sentiment of the past; Landi seemed to get at the soft spot in
everybody's heart. All the audience looked dreamy. Edith was thinking of
Aylmer Ross. Where was he now? Would she ever see him again? Had she
been wise to throw away her happiness like that? She tried to put the
thought aside, but she observed, with a smile, that Madame Frabelle
looked--and not when he was looking at her--a shade tenderly at Bruce.
Edith remembered what Landi had said: 'Si ça l'amuse?' She found an
opportunity to tell him that Madame Frabelle believed in her own
intuitions, and had got it into her head that she and Mr. Mitchell were
attached to one another.
'Naturellement. Elle veut s'excuser; la pauvre.'
'But she really believes it.'
'Elle voit double, alors!' exclaimed Landi.