Sir Tito lived in a flat in Mayfair, on the second floor of a large
corner house. On the ground floor was his studio, which had two
entrances. The studio was a large, square, white room, containing a
little platform for pupils. A narrow shelf ran all the way round the
dado; this shelf was entirely filled with the most charming collection
of English and French china, little cottages, birds and figures. Above
the shelf was a picture-rail, which again was filled all the way round
with signed photographs of friends. Everything in the room was white,
even the piano was _laqué_ white, and the furniture, extremely luxurious
and comfortable, was in colour a pale and yet dull pink. A curtain
separated it from another smaller room, which again had a separate
entrance into the hall on the left, and, through a very small
dressing-room, led into the street on the right side.
Sir Tito was waiting for Edith, spick, span and debonair as always
(although during the war he had discarded his buttonhole). He was
occupied, as he usually was in his leisure time, not in playing the
piano or composing, but--in making photograph frames! This was his
hobby, and people often said that he took more pleasure in the carving,
cutting out, gumming and sticking together of these objects than in
composing the melodies that were known and loved all over the world.
As soon as Edith came in he showed her a tiny frame carved with
rosebuds.
'Regarde,' he said, his eyes beaming. 'Voilà! C'est mignon,
n'est-ce-pas? On dirait un petit coeur! Ravissante, hein?' He gazed at
it lovingly.
'Very sweet,' said Edith, laughing. 'Who is it for?'
'Why, it's for your _mignonne_, Dilly. I've cut out a photograph of hers
in the shape of a heart. Gentil, n'est ce pas?'
He showed it to her with childish pleasure. Then he put all traces of
the work carefully away in a drawer and drew Edith near to the fire.
'I've just a quarter of an hour to give you,' said Sir Tito, suddenly
turning into a serious man of business. And, indeed, he always had many
appointments, not a few of which were on some subject connected with
love affairs. Like Aylmer, but in a different way, Sir Tito was always
being consulted, but, oddly enough, while it was the parents and
guardians usually who went to Aylmer, husbands worried about their
wives, mothers about their children; to the older man it was more
frequently the culprit or the confidant himself or herself who came to
confide and ask for help and advice.
Edith said:
'The dreadful thing I've to tell you, Landi, is that I've completely
changed.'
'Comment?'
'Yes. I'm in love with him all over again.'
'C'est vrai?'
'Yes. I don't know how and I don't know why. When he first made that
suggestion, it seemed wild--impossible. But the things he said--how
absolutely true it is. Landi, my life's been wasted, utterly wasted.'
Landi said nothing.
'I believe I was deceiving myself,' she went on. 'I've got so accustomed
to living this sort of half life I've become almost _abrutie_, as you
would say. I didn't realise how much I cared for him. Now I know I
always adored him.'
'But you were quite contented.'
'Because I made myself so; because I resolved to be satisfied. But,
after all, there's something in what he says, Landi. My life with Bruce
is only a makeshift. Nothing but tact, tact, tact. Oh, I'm so tired of
tact!' She sighed. 'It seems to me now really too hard that I should
again have such a great opportunity and should throw it away. You see,
it is an opportunity, if I love him--and I'm not deceiving myself now.
I'm in love with him. The more I think about it the more lovely it seems
to me. It would be an ideal life, Landi.'
He was still silent.
She continued:
'You see, Aylmer knows so well how much the children are to me, and he
would never ask me to leave them. There's no question of my ever leaving
them. And Bruce wouldn't mind. Bruce would be only too thankful for me
to take them. And there's another thing--though I despised the idea at
the time, there's a good deal in it. I mean that Aylmer's well off, so I
should never be a burden. He would love to take the responsibility of us
all. I would leave my income to Bruce; he would be quite comfortable and
independent. Oh, he would take it. He might be a little cross, but it
wouldn't last, Landi. He would be better off. He'd find
somebody--someone who would look after him, perhaps, and make him quite
happy and comfortable. You're shocked?'
'Ça ne m'étonne pas. It's the reaction,' said Landi, nodding.
'How wonderful of you to understand! I haven't seen him again, you know.
I've just been thinking. In fact, I'm surprised at myself. But the more
I reflect on what he said, the more wonderful it seems.... Think how
he's cared for me all this time!'
'Sans doute. You know that he adores you. But, Edith, it's all very
well--you put like that--but could you go through with it?'
'I believe I could now,' she answered. 'I begin to long to. You see, I
mistook my own feelings, Landi; they seemed dulled. I thought I could
live without love--but why should I? What is it that's made me change
so? Why do I feel so frightened now at the idea of losing my happiness?'
'C'est la guerre,' said Sir Tito.
'The war? What has that to do with it?'
'Everything. Unconsciously it affects people. Though you yourself are
not fighting, Aylmer has risked his life, and is going to risk it again.
This impresses you. To many temperaments things seem to matter less just
now. People are reckless.'
'Is it that?' asked Edith. 'Perhaps it is. But I was so completely
deceived in myself.'
'I always knew you could be in love with him,' said Landi. 'But wait a
moment, Edith--need the remedy be so violent? I don't ask you to live
without love. Why should a woman live without the very thing she was
created for? But you know you hate publicity--vulgar scandal. Nobody
loathes it as you do.'
'It doesn't seem to matter now so much,' Edith said.
'It's the war.'
'Well, whatever's the cause, all I can tell you is that I'm beginning to
think I shall do it! I want to!... I can't bear to refuse again. I
haven't seen him since our talk. I changed gradually, alone, just
thinking. And then you say--'
'Many people have love in their lives without a violent public scandal,'
he repeated.
'Yes, I know. I understand what you mean. But I hate deceit, Landi. I
don't think I could lead a double life. And even if I would, he
wouldn't!'
She spoke rather proudly.
'Pauvre garçon!' said Sir Tito. 'Je l'admire.'
'So do I,' said Edith. 'Aylmer's not a man who could shake hands with
Bruce and be friends and deceive him. And you know, before, when I
begged him to remain ... my friend ... he simply wouldn't. He always
said he despised the man who would accept the part of a tame cat. And he
doesn't believe in Platonic friendship: Aylmer's too honest, too _real_
for that.'
'But, Edith, oh, remember, before,' said Landi taking her hand, 'even
when Bruce ran away with another woman, you couldn't bear the idea
of divorce.'
'I know. But I may have been wrong. Besides, I didn't care for him as I
do now. And I'm older now.'
'Isn't this rather sudden, my dear?'
'Only because I've let myself go--let myself be natural! Oh, _do_
encourage me--give me strength, Landi! Don't let me be a coward! Think
if Aylmer goes out again and is killed, how miserable I should feel to
have refused him and disappointed him--for the second time!'
'Wait a moment, Edith. Suppose, as you say, he goes out again and is
killed, and you _haven't_ disappointed him, what would your position
be then?'
She couldn't answer.
'How is it your conscientiousness with regard to Bruce doesn't come in
the way now? Why would it ruin him less now than formerly?'
'Bruce doesn't seem to matter so much.'
'Because he isn't fighting?' asked Sir Tito.
'Oh no, Landi! I never thought of that. But you know he always imagines
himself ill, and he's quite all right really. He'll enjoy his grievance.
I _know_ he won't be unhappy. And he's older, and he's not tied to that
silly, mad girl he ran away with. And besides, I'm older. This is
probably _my_ last chance!'
She looked at Landi imploringly, as if begging his permission.
He answered calmly: 'Écoute, chérie. When do you see him again?'
'I'm to take him for a drive tomorrow.'
'My dear Edith, promise me one thing; don't undertake anything yet.'
'But why not?'
'You mustn't. This may be merely an impulse; you may change again. It
may be a passing mood.'
'I don't think it is,' said Edith. 'Anyhow, it's my wish at present.
It's the result of thinking, remember--not of his persuasion.'
'Go for a drive, but give him no hope yet.' He took both her hands.
'Make no promise, except to me. Don't I know you well? I doubt if you
could do it.'
'Yes, I could! I could go through _anything_ if I were determined, and
if I had the children safe.'
'Never mind that for the present. Live for the day. Will you promise me
that?'
She hesitated for a moment.
Then he said:
'Really, dear, it's too serious to be impulsive about. Take time.'
'Very well, Landi. I promise you that.'
'Then we'll meet again afterwards and talk it over. I'll come and see
you.'
'Very well. And mustn't I tell him anything? Not make him a little bit
happy?'
'Tell him nothing. Be nice to him. Enjoy your drive. Put off all
decision at present.'
He looked at her. Her eyes were sparkling, her colour, her expression
were deepened. She looked all animation, with more life than he had ever
seen in her.... Somehow the sight made his heart ache a little, a
very little.
Poor girl! Of course she had been starving for love, and hidden the
longing under domestic interests, artistic, social, but human. But she
deserved real love, a real lover. She was so loyal, so true herself.
'Tiens! You look like a lamp that has been lighted,' said Sir Tito,
chuckling a little to himself. 'Eh, bien!--and the pretty nurse? Does
she still dance the Cachuca? I know I'm old-fashioned, but it's
impossible for me not to associate everything Spanish with the
ridiculous. I think of guitars, mantillas, sombreros, or--what else is
it? Ah, I know--onions.'
'She isn't even Spanish, really!'
'Then why did you deceive me?' said Landi, a shade absently, with a
glance at his watch and another in the mirror.
'She can't remain with Aylmer. She knows it herself. I'm trying to
arrange for her to become a companion for Lady Conroy.'
He laughed.
'You are more particular about her being chaperoned than you were last
week.'
'Landi, Aylmer will never care for her. She's a dear, but he won't.'
'Tu ne l'a pas revu? Lui--Aylmer?'
'No, but he's written to me.'
'Oh, for heaven's sake, my child, burn the letters! I daresay it won't
be difficult; they are probably all flames already.'
'I did have one lovely letter,' said Edith.
She took it out of her dress. He glanced at it.
'Mon Dieu! To think that a pupil of mine drives about in a taxi-cab with
compromising letters in her pocket! Non, tu est folle, véritablement,
Edith.'
To please him she threw it into the fire, after tearing a small blank
piece of the paper off, and putting this unwritten-on scrap back in the
bodice of her dress. As she hurried away, she again promised him not to
undertake anything, nor to allow Aylmer to overpower her prudent
intention during their drive.
'What time do you start? I think I shall come too,' said Sir Tito,
pretending to look at his engagement-book.
He burst out laughing at her expression.
'Ah, I'm not wanted! Tiens! If you're not very careful _one_ person will
go with you, I can tell you. And that will be Madame Frabelle.'
'No, she won't. Indeed not! It's the last day of Archie's holidays.'
'He's coming with you?'
'On the front seat, with the chauffeur,' said Edith.
There was a ring at the bell. He lifted the curtain and caressingly but
firmly pushed her through into the other room.
* * * * *
Sir Tito had another appointment.