Madame Frabelle and Edith were sitting side by side in Edith's boudoir.
Madame Frabelle was knitting. Edith was looking at a book. It was a thin
little volume of essays, bound by Miss Coniston.
'What is the meaning of this design?' Edith said. 'It seems to me very
unsuited to Chesterton's work! Olive-green, with twirly things on it!'
'I thought it rather artistic,' answered Madame Frabelle.
'It looks like macaroni, or spaghetti. Perhaps the idea was suggested by
your showing her how to cook it,' said Edith, laughing.
Madame Frabelle looked gravely serene.
'No--I don't think that had anything to do with it.'
'How literal you are, Eglantine!'
'Am I? I think you do me injustice, Edith dear,' returned the amiable
guest with a tinge of stateliness as she rolled up her wool.
Edith smiled, put down her book, looked at the clock and rearranged the
large orange-coloured cushion behind her back. Then she took the book up
again, looked through it and again put it down.
'You're not at all--forgive me for saying so--not the least bit in the
world restless today, Edith darling, are you?' said Madame Frabelle in a
calm, clear, high voice that Edith found quite trying.
'Oh, I hope not--I think not.'
'Ah, that's well,' and Madame Frabelle, with one slight glance at her
hostess, went on knitting.
'I believe I miss Archie a good deal,' said Edith.
'Ah, yes, you must indeed. I miss the dear boy immensely myself,'
sympathetically said Madame Frabelle. But Edith thought Madame Frabelle
bore his loss with a good deal of equanimity, and she owned to herself
that it was not surprising. The lady had been very good to Archie, but
he had teased her a good deal. Like the Boy Scouts, but the other way
round, he had almost made a point of worrying her in some way or other
every day. Edith could never persuade him to change his view of her.
He said she was a fool.
Somehow, today Edith felt rather pleased with him for thinking so. All
women are subject to moods, particularly, perhaps, those who have a
visitor staying with them for a considerable time. There are moments of
injustice, of unfairness to the most charming feminine guest, from the
most gentle hostess. And also there are, undoubtedly, times when the
nicest hostess gets a little on one's nerves.
So--critical, highly strung--Madame Frabelle was feeling today. So was
Edith. Madame Frabelle was privately thinking that Edith was restless,
that she had lost her repose, that her lips were redder than they used
to be. Had she taken to using lip salve too? She was inclined to smile,
with a twinkle in her eye, at Madame Frabelle's remarks, a shade too
often. And what was Edith thinking of at this moment? She was thinking
of Archie's remarks about Madame Frabelle. That boy had genius!
But there would be a reaction, probably during, or immediately after,
tea-time, for these two women were sincerely fond of one another. The
irritating fact that Edith was eighteen years younger than her guest
made Eglantine feel sometimes a desire to guide, even to direct her, and
if she had the disadvantage in age she wanted at least the privilege of
gratifying her longing to give advice.
The desire became too strong to be resisted. The advantage of having
something to do with her hands while she spoke was too great a one not
to be taken advantage of. So Madame Frabelle said:
'Edith dear.'
'Yes?'
'I've been wanting to say something to you.'
Edith leant forward, putting her elbows on her knees and her face on her
hands, and said:
'Oh, _do_ tell me, Eglantine. What is it?'
'It is simply this,' said the other lady, calmly continuing her
knitting.... 'Very often when one's living with a person, one doesn't
notice little things a comparative stranger would observe. Is that
not so?'
'What have you observed? What's it about?'
'It is about your husband,' said Madame Frabelle.
'What! Bruce?' asked Edith.
'Naturally,' replied Madame Frabelle dryly.
'What have you observed about Bruce?'
'I have observed,' replied Madame Frabelle, putting her hand in the sock
that she was knitting, and looking at it critically, her head on one
side, 'I have observed that Bruce is not at all well.'
'Oh, I'm sorry you think that. It's true he has seemed rather what he
calls off colour lately.'
'He suffers,' said Madame Frabelle, as if announcing a great discovery,'
he suffers from Nerves.'
'I know he does, my dear. Who should know it better than I do? But--do
you think he is worse lately?'
'I do. He is terribly depressed. He says things to me sometimes
that--well, that really quite alarm me.'
'I'm sorry. But you mustn't take Bruce too seriously, you know that.'
'Indeed I don't take him too seriously! And I've done my best either to
change the subject or to make him see the silver lining to every cloud,'
Madame Frabelle answered solemnly, with a shake of her head.
'I think what Bruce complains of is the want of a silver lining to his
purse,' Edith said.
'You are jesting, Edith dear.'
'No, I'm not. He worries about money.'
'But only incidentally,' said Madame Frabelle. 'Bruce is really worried
about the war.'
'Naturally. But surely--I suppose we all are.'
'But Mr. Ottley takes it particularly to heart,' said Madame Frabelle,
with a kind of touching dignity.
Edith looked at her in a little surprise. Why did she suddenly call
Bruce 'your husband' or 'Mr. Ottley'?
'Why this distant manner, Eglantine?' said Edith, half laughing. 'I
thought you always called him Bruce.'
'I beg your pardon; yes, I forgot. Well, don't you see, Edith dear, that
what we might call his depression, his melancholy point of view, is--is
growing worse and worse?'
Edith got up, walked to the other end of the room, rearranged some
violets in a copper vase and came back to the sofa again. Madame
Frabelle followed her with her eyes. Then Edith said, picking up
the knitting:
'Take care, dear, you're losing your wool. Yes; perhaps he is worse. He
might be better if he occupied his mind more.'
'He works at the Foreign Office from ten till four every day,' said
Madame Frabelle in a tone of defence; 'he looks in at his club, where
they talk over the news of the war, and then he comes home and we
discuss it again.... Really, Edith, I scarcely see how much more he
could do!'
'Oh, my dear, but don't you see all the time he doesn't do
anything?--anything about the war, I mean. Now both you and I do our
little best to help, in one way or another. You especially, I'm sure, do
a tremendous lot; but what does Bruce do? Nothing, except talk.'
'That's just it, Edith. I doubt if your husband is in a fit state of
health to strain his mind by any more work than he does already. He's
not strong, dear; remember that.'
'Of course, I know; if he were all right he wouldn't be here,' said
Edith.' I suppose he really does suffer a great deal.'
'What was it again that prevented him joining?' asked Madame Frabelle,
with sympathetic tenderness.
'Neurotic heart,' answered Edith. Though she tried her very utmost she
could not help the tone of her voice sounding a little dry and ironical.
Of course, she did not in the least believe in Bruce's neurotic heart,
but she did not want Madame Frabelle to know that.
'Ah! ah! that must cause him a great deal of pain, but I think so far
his worst symptoms are his nervous fears. Look at last night,' continued
Madame Frabelle, and now she put down her knitting and folded it into
her work-basket.' Last night, because there was no moon, and it wasn't
raining, and fairly clear, Mr Ott--Bruce had absolutely made up his mind
there would be a Zeppelin raid. It was his own idea.'
'Not quite, dear. Young Coniston, who is a special constable, rang up
and told him that there was a chance of the Zeppelins last night.'
'Well, perhaps so. At any rate he believed it. Well, instead of being
satisfied when I told him that I had got out my mask, that I saw to the
bath being left half-filled with water, helped your husband to put two
large bags of sand outside his dressing-room--in spite of all that, do
you know what happened in the middle of the night?'
'I'm afraid I don't,' said Edith. 'Since Archie went back to school I
have had Dilly in my room, and we both slept soundly all night.'
'Did you? I fancied I saw a light in your room.'
This was quite true. Edith was writing a very long letter.
'Ah, perhaps.'
'Well, at three o'clock in the morning, fancy my surprise to hear a
knock at my door!'
'I wonder I didn't hear a knock at mine,' said Edith.
'Your husband was afraid to disturb the little girl. Most considerate, I
thought. Well, he knocked at my door and said that he was unable to
sleep, that he felt terribly miserable and melancholy, in fact was
wretched, and that he felt on the point of cutting his throat.... Don't
be frightened, dear. I don't mean that he really _meant_ it,' said
Madame Frabelle, putting her hand on Edith's.
'Poor fellow! But what a shame to disturb you.'
'I didn't mind in the least. I was only too pleased. Well, what do you
think I did? I got up and dressed, went down to the library and lighted
the fire, and sat up for half-an-hour with your husband trying to
cheer him up!'
'Did you really?' Edith smiled. 'It was very sweet of you, Eglantine.'
'Not at all; I was only too glad. I made a cup of tea, Bruce had a
whisky and soda, we had a nice talk, and I sent him back quite cheerful.
Still, it just shows, doesn't it, how terribly he takes it all?'
'Rather hard on you, Eglantine; quite improper too,' laughed Edith as
she rang the bell.
Madame Frabelle ignored this remark.
'If I could only feel at all that I've done a little good during my stay
here, I shall be quite satisfied.'
'Oh! but you mustn't dream yet of--' began Edith.
There was a ring at the bell.
'Why, here is Bruce, just in time for tea.'
Edith went to meet him in the hall. Although he came in with his key, he
invariably rang the bell, so that the maid could take his coat
and stick.
'Hallo, Edith,' he said, in a rather sober tone. 'How are you? And where
is Madame Frabelle?'