To Edith's joy, as they entered the Mitchell's huge, familiar
drawing-room, the first person she saw was her beloved confidant, Sir
Tito Landi. This was the friend of all others whom she most longed to
see at this particular moment.
The extraordinary confidence and friendship between the successful
Italian composer and Edith Ottley needs, perhaps, a word of explanation.
He was adored equally in the artistic and the social worlds, and was at
once the most cynical of Don Juans and the most unworldly of Don
Quixotes. He was a devoted and grateful friend, and a contemptuous but
not unforgetful enemy.
It was not since his celebrity that Edith had first met him; she had
known him intimately all her life. From her earliest childhood she had,
so to speak, been brought up on Landi; on Landi's music and Landi's
views of life. He had been her mother's music teacher soon after he
first made a name in London; and long before he was the star whose
singing or accompanying was a rare favour, and whose presence gave a
cachet to any entertainment.
How many poor Italians--yes, and many people of other nationalities--had
reason to bless his acquaintance! How kind, how warm-hearted, how
foolishly extravagant on others was Landi! His brilliant cleverness,
which made him received almost as an Englishman among English people,
was not, however, the cleverness of the _arriviste_. Although he had
succeeded, and success was his object, no one could be less
self-interested, less pushing, less scheming. In many things he was a
child. He would as soon dine at Pagani's with a poor sculptor, or a poor
and plain woman who was struggling to give lessons in Italian, as with
the most brilliant hostess in London. And he always found fashion and
ceremony a bore. He was so great a favourite in England that he had been
given that most English of titles, a knighthood, just as though he were
very rich, or political, or a popular actor. In a childish way it amused
him, and he was pleased with it. But though he was remarkable for his
courtly tact, he loved most of all to be absolutely free and Bohemian,
to be quite natural among really sympathetic, witty, or beautiful
friends. He liked to say what he thought, to go where he wished, and to
make love when he chose, not when other people chose. He had long been a
man with an assured position, but he had changed little since he was
twenty-one, and arrived from Naples with only his talent, his bright
blue eyes, his fair complexion, his small, dignified figure and his
daring humour. Yet the music he wrote indicated his sensitive and deeply
feeling nature, and though his conversation could hardly be called other
than cynical, nor his jokes puritanical, there was always in him a vein
of genuine--not sentimental, but perhaps romantic--love and admiration
for everything good; good in music, good in art, good in character. He
laid down no rules of what was good. 'Tout savoir c'est tout pardonner'
was perhaps his motto. But he was very unexpected; that was one of his
charms. He would pass over the most extraordinary things--envious
slights, small injuries, things another man would never forgive. On the
other hand, he retained a bitter memory, not at all without its
inclination for repayment, for other trifles that many would disregard.
* * * * *
Ever since she was a child Edith had been his special favourite. He
loved the privilege of calling her Edith, of listening to her
confidences, of treating her with loving familiarity. It was a joke
between them that, while he used formerly to say, 'Cette enfant! Je l'ai
vue en jupe courte, vous savez!' he had gradually reached the point of
declaring, 'Je l'ai vue naître!' almost with tears in his eyes.
This explains why Landi was the only creature to whom Edith could tell
everything, and did. Must not all nice people have a confidant? And no
girl or woman friend--much as they might like her, and she them--could
ever take the place of Landi, the wise and ever-sympathetic.
There was something in his mental attitude that was not unfeminine,
direct and assertive as he was. He had what is generally known as
feminine intuition, a quality perhaps even rarer in women than in men.
* * * * *
Tonight the persistently hospitable Mrs Mitchell had a large party.
Dressed in grey, she was receiving her guests in the big room on the
ground floor, and tactfully directing the conversation of a crowd of
various and more or less interesting persons.
It was one of those parties that had been described as a Russian Salad,
where one ran an equal risk--or took an equal chance--of being taken to
dinner by Charlie Chaplin or Winston Churchill, and where society and
the stage were equally well represented. Young officers on leave and a
few pretty girls filled the vacancies.
As Bruce, Edith and Madame Frabelle came in together, Landi went
straight to Edith's side.
Looking at her through his eyeglass, he said, as if to himself, in an
anxious tone:
'Elle a quelquechose, cette enfant; oui, elle a quelquechose,' and as
the last guest had not arrived he sat down thoughtfully by her on the
small sofa.
'Yes, Landi, there is something the matter. I'm longing to tell you
about it. I want your advice,' said Edith, smiling.
'Tout se sait; tout se fait; tout s'arrange,' sententiously remarked
Landi, who was not above talking oracular commonplaces at times.
'Oh, it isn't one of those things, Landi.'
'Not? Are you sure? Don't be sad, Edith. Be cheerful. Tiens! Tiens!
Tiens! How excited you are,' he went on, as she looked at him with
perfect composure.
'You will think I have reason to be excited when I tell you.'
He smiled in an experienced way.
'I'll sit next to you at dinner and you shall tell me everything. Tiens!
La vieille qui voit double!' He bowed politely as Madame Frabelle
came up.
'Dear Sir Tito, _what_ a pleasure to see you again! Your lovely songs
have been ringing in my ears ever since I heard them!'
'Where did you hear them? On a piano-organ?' he asked.
'You're too bad! Isn't he naughty? No, when you sang here last.'
Mr Mitchell came up, and Madame Frabelle turned away.
'Dieu merci! La pauvre! Elle me donne sur les nerfs ce soir,' said
Landi. 'I shall sit next to you whether the cards are placed so or not,
Edith, and you'll tell me everything between the soup and the ices.'
'I will indeed.'
'Madame Meetchel,' he said, looking round through his eyeglass, 'is sure
to have given you a handsome young man, someone who ought to drive Bruce
wild with jealousy, but doesn't, or ... or ...'
'Or some fly-blown celebrity.'
'Sans doute!'
The door opened and the last guest appeared. It was young Coniston (in
khaki), who was invariably asked when there was to be music. He was
so useful.
He approached Landi at once.
'Ah, cher maître, quel plaisir!' he said with his South Kensington
accent and his Oxford manner. (He had been a Cambridge man.)
'C'est vrai?' asked Landi, who had his own way of dismissing a person in
a friendly way.
Coniston began talking to him of a song. Landi waved him off and went up
to Mrs Mitchell, said something which made her laugh and blush and try
to hit him with her fan--the fan, the assault and the manner were all
out of date, but Mrs Mitchell made no pretence at going with the
times--and his object was gained.
* * * * *
Sir Tito took Edith in to dinner.