It was February and it was sunny, and Noel had persuaded Connie to take
a little gentle exercise in the Park.
She was finding London bearable, thanks to her nephew, and although she
had, she said, nothing to look forward to, she was content with the
present as long as the present remained as it was now.
They were discussing men in general, a topic that never lost its
interest for Connie.
"Can't think why you're so keen on foreigners," Noel remarked; then
said in his merciless way, "the only Englishman you ever had much to
do with you ran away from."
Connie was quite soberly dressed in a dark blue coat and skirt, relieved
by furs, hat, shoes and gloves of her favorite gray. She was no more
made up than most of the other women who passed them. It was her
forty-eighth birthday, and to celebrate it they were going to lunch at
Claridge's later.
"Foreigners interest me so much more," she replied. "They understand
women."
"Too damn well," agreed Noel. "Besides, the sort of men you mean only
understand one sort of woman. They wouldn't understand Judy, for
instance."
Connie smiled deprecatingly and put her head on one side.
"Well, as to that, I'm not sure I understand her myself. Frankly, I'm a
little disappointed in Judy."
"You can't appreciate her, Connie. That's why."
"Perhaps." No one ever took offense at Noel. "To my mind she isn't
feminine enough. She's handsome, but she has no magnetism, no allure."
"Nice English girls don't go in for allure," Noel said.
"Pooh!" She laughed rather scornfully. "Because they don't know how."
"Exactly," agreed her nephew. "And a good thing too. Look where it
landed you."
"Now you're being rude and British, but I forgive you. And at any rate,
I have lived."
It was Noel's turn to laugh scornfully.
"Lived! You surely don't call that living? Junketing around Europe with
a lot of bounders! Why, Connie, you little innocent, you'd have lived a
whole lot more if you'd stuck to Humphries and brought up a family."
She threw him an appealing look.
"You might remember that it's my birthday," she protested.
"Jove, that's so. And I'm hungry. Let's start walking toward
Claridge's."
"Walk? It's too far. We must have a taxi."
"No, we mustn't. Great Scott, Connie, we've only walked half a mile or
so. What'll you do in the next war?"
"Well, be nice to me then." She gave in as she usually did. "You know
I'm horribly worried. I may have to go back to Chiozzi almost any day.
If he finds out where I am----"
"Nonsense. He can't make you go. You ought to divorce the little beast.
I don't call that a marriage. And anyway, one more scandal won't matter
much."
"I'm afraid of him."
"Has he any money of his own, or are you supporting him?"
"Oh, he has money of his own, but he's gambled away most of it. He
gambled away most of mine, too. I didn't know how to stop it. Morton
Freeman ought to have tied it up in some way, but you see he died so
suddenly ... that awful _Titanic_...."
"What sort of a fellow was Freeman?"
"Oh, very nice, and very fond of me. But you don't like foreigners."
"I never said so. And besides, I don't call Americans foreigners."
"He stayed on the ship," Connie went on. "He made me go. It was so
brave of him. I wasn't really in love with him. I've never really
loved anybody but Petrovitch. But I was sorry."
"Where is Petrovitch now?"
"In America, I think, but I'm not sure. He never writes to me." She
sighed.
"How are you getting on with Louise?" Noel asked, thinking it was time
to change the subject. "I'd love to see you two together!"
"You never will," Connie said with feeling. "Eric needn't try to bring
us together, either. I've seen her, and that's enough. How I hate
those thin-lipped, straw-colored women! How Eric could have married her
when he might have married any one, I cannot imagine."
"People have these sudden fancies," said Noel.
"What about Gordon? Is it true he's really engaged to Helen Dane? Not
that I care much, as he's never had the politeness to come and see me."
"He's engaged right enough. I suppose he's happy. Gordon closes up like
an oyster if you touch on anything personal. We've never discussed
anything in our lives. Mother's frightfully pleased about it."
"What's the girl like?"
"Oh, she's all right, but she's cut to pattern."
"Pretty?"
"So so. Too bony, I think. But she suits Gordon. Related to everybody,
rich, correct, hasn't got an original thought in her head. Thinks she's
literary because young Shawn Bridlington the poet goes and reads his
verses in her mother's drawing-room. Affects the Bloomsbury people.
Opens bazaars and things. Jove! I'd rather marry a factory girl with a
harelip."
Much of this was Greek to his aunt, who had the misfortune never to
have heard of the Bloomsbury people.
"And what about Judy and that man she nearly ran over?"
"Why?" Noel asked innocently, not wishing to discuss Judy and her
affairs with Connie. "What about them?"
"Is there anything in it? I hope not, because the thing's ridiculous.
Who is he? What is he?"
Noel gave an amused chuckle.
"Connie, you really are a joy. _You_ to ask 'Who is he? What is he?'
Don't you try to take a leaf out of mother's book. It isn't your rôle."
"Judy's my niece, after all," protested Connie. "Isn't it natural that
I should be interested?"
"Natural enough," said Noel. "I hope you are. Ask me if he's a good
fellow, and if I think he could make her happy, and I'll be delighted
to answer you. But 'who is he?' ... that sort of tosh.... I should
think you'd earned the right to be human, if anybody had."
"Very well," answered his chastened aunt. "Is he good enough?"
"I think he's as near being good enough as any fellow I've met. If he
had any money at all, I should call it a match. But he hasn't, and I
don't know how Judy would like being downright poor."
"All the same," Connie insisted, "I can't help wishing that my only
niece would make a good match."
Noel raised his eyes heavenward, despairingly.
"For a woman who deemed the world well lost for love...."
"I know," interrupted Connie. "But you see Judy hasn't my temperament."
"I'll refrain from saying 'Thank God!' because it's your birthday,"
returned Noel. "Here we are, and I bet I do justice to the lunch."
They both did, and Connie had occasion to congratulate the head waiter
on a very perfect Petite Marmite. She was always at her best in
restaurants. She loved the crowds and the chatter and the music, and
the feeling that she was being looked at, and was still worth looking
at. There was even a secret hope in her heart that people would take
Noel for her son. She liked to imagine them saying, "There's a son who
enjoys going about with his mother." And Noel, who really liked Connie
and pitied her, had hopes of knocking some sense into her foolish head
in time. It touched him, too, that she depended on him so.
Two men came in and sat at a table at Connie's left, and somewhat
behind her. One was fat and old, with a round, coarse face. The other
was at least impressive, and Noel found himself watching him. He had a
dome-shaped head, rather flat at the back, and his hair, which began
high up at the very summit of his temples was long and carefully
brushed so as to fall slightly over the collar behind. A pair of level,
frowning eyes looked out scornfully from under projecting brows, and
the wide, thin lips protruded in a fierce pout. Presently, when
something annoyed him, he spoke with great brusqueness to the waiter,
scarcely moving his lips as he did so.
Connie heard his voice and turned, and their eyes met. Noel heard her
draw in her breath sharply, and for a moment she sat staring,
motionless. There was not the slightest change in the man's expression,
as he stared back at Connie. There was an empty seat at his table, and
suddenly he raised a large hand with spade-shaped fingers, and beckoned.
Connie started up from her chair like an automaton, and would have gone
to him, but Noel's muscular hand closed on her wrist and fastened it to
the table.
"Keep your seat!" he commanded. "Are you a dog to obey that man's
whistle? If he wants to talk to you, let him come here."
Then as if ashamed of taking part in such an intense little drama, he
dropped her hand and said lightly:
"Who's your friend, Connie? I don't care for his manners."
Connie strove to reach the normal again.
"It's Petrovitch," she said, scarcely above a whisper.
"Thought so. Do you realize he beckoned to you as though you were his
slave? I'd like to wring his beastly neck."
"Noel! It's Petrovitch! What does he care about our silly little
conventions? He wants me. I must talk to him."
"Then he can damn well come here. And for Heaven's sake don't make a
scene, Connie. Eat your lunch."
"I can't eat. I haven't seen him for fifteen years. Oh, Noel, I've
never loved any one as I've loved him."
"Well, I don't see that it's anything to have hysterics about. What of
it? He'll come and talk to you, I expect, when he's finished that
enormous lunch he's ordered. That is, if you're foolish enough to
wait."
"I must. Oh, Noel, have pity on me!"
Her lips trembled.
"Cheer up!" he said. "I'll sit here all day, if you'll order another
Entre Côte. Have you ever noticed what queerly shaped heads some of
these fellows have? If I were a woman, I'd study phrenology a bit.
That's where you have the best of us. You women may--and I expect often
do--possess heads a congenital idiot would be proud of, but we never
find it out. Don't even show your ears, now. It isn't fair. But your
friend over there--I could tell you a whole lot about him just by
looking at the back of his head."
"Oh, he's a devil if you like," said the unhappy Connie, "but I love
him. And he loved me, once. I'd die for him."
"Neurotic," Noel told her.
"Call it what you like. I'd rather spend five minutes with him than a
lifetime with any one else."
"I'd like to spend five minutes with him myself," said Noel. "Alone.
Oh," remembering his empty sleeve, "I expect he'd wipe up the floor
with me, but I'd tell him a few simple, home truths first."
"I tell you, Noel, ordinary rules of conduct don't apply to men like
Petrovitch. He's a genius, a heaven-born genius. You've never even
heard him play. There's nothing like it--there never has been anything
like it. Oh, yes, he's made me suffer, but I forgive him for it,
because he's a king among men."
"A king! My good aunt, pull yourself together and observe the way he
eats asparagus. There! I knew it ... he's dribbled some of the melted
butter down his chin and on to his waist-coat. How would you like the
job of spot-remover to His Highness? I suppose some wretched woman--but
has he a wife? I forget."
"He has had two," murmured Connie.
"How any woman----" began Noel, and gave it up.
"There are men like that. They are unattractive to other men perhaps,
but they have an irresistible fascination for some women. They
command--we obey."
"Cut it, Connie!" exclaimed Noel. "Do you mean to tell me that if that
bounder, to satisfy his filthy vanity, said 'Come,' you'd go? Like a
wretched poodle on a string. Good Lord! Where is your pride?"
She shook her head.
"I only know that I must talk to him again."
They finished lunch with little conversation. Noel was angry and
uncomfortable. As they drank their coffee, and he saw that Petrovitch
too was nearing the end, he made another effort.
"Connie, let's get out before he's finished. Will you? You'll be glad
of it all your life. I promise you you will. It means a lot to me."
His earnestness had no effect. He went on:
"You've always followed the line of least resistance--that's why you're
what you are now. You've chucked away your life. Don't do it again,
Connie. You know what that man's opinion of you is. He showed it pretty
clearly when he beckoned to you just now. There's just one way you can
hurt him--and one way you can prove to him, and to yourself, that
you've got the right stuff in you. Leave here with me, without speaking
to him. Please, Connie. Will you?"
She wavered. Then she seized upon some words of his, and he knew that he
had lost.
"Hurt him? I wouldn't hurt him for anything in the world. I want to
show him that one woman at least is faithful to him, to the end."
This was too much for Noel. He remembered the French officer, Freeman,
Chiozzi, and felt sick. His impulse was to get up and leave her then
and there, but he stayed with a set jaw and angry eyes. His hair seemed
to bristle with antagonism when Petrovitch pushed back his chair at
last and said to his companion:
"Pardon--a moment. I go to speak to a lady." And in a second he was at
their table.
Connie gave him both hands without speaking, and he bent over them with
a smile that was a mere widening of those protruding lips.
"Connie! As beautiful as ever! My dear lady, the sight of you takes
ten--fifteen years from my age. I feel young again, and happy. You come
to my concert next week, eh? I play for you."
"Same old stuff!" thought Noel.
Connie released her hands, and when she spoke her voice was breathless
and unnatural, as if she had been running.
"I ... I didn't know you were here.... I hadn't seen any notices. I
thought you were still in America. This is a great surprise to me,
Illiodor." Then, turning to Noel, "I want you to meet Monsieur
Petrovitch, Noel. My nephew ..."
Noel, standing behind his chair and feeling younger and more intolerant
than he had ever felt in his life, inclined his head.
"Eh? Your nephew? Charmed." The great man bowed, impressively. "Are you
too a lover of music?" He bent his frowning gaze upon the young man.
"But no, you are English. So, you will say, is the adorable aunt. But
she is different. She is of the world, eh? She loves beauty, art,
genius." He moved his large hands. "Ah, Connie, you and I had much in
common. They told me you had married again. Is it true?"
"I married Count Chiozzi, four years ago," she told him. "My husband is
in the south of France."
"Always the good cosmopolitan!" he approved. Then turning once more to
Noel:
"You also will come to my concert."
"Expects me to say, 'Yes, master!'" thought Noel.
"No, thanks," he answered evenly and casually. "I don't care for
concerts."
Petrovitch looked at Connie, working his prominent brows.
"Philistine, eh? No matter, you are one of us. I am staying here. You
will do me the honor to dine with me to-morrow night. Good! We have
much to say to one another. Perhaps also my friend Silberstein, eh? He
is gourmet. He will eat, you will talk to me." He could frown and smile
at the same time, Noel observed. "At eight."
"I'll come," said the fascinated Connie.
He bent once more over her hands.
"Au revoir, my dear friend," he said, in his strangely harsh voice.
"To-morrow night." Then with an indifferent nod of the head in Noel's
direction, he returned to his table.
Connie paid the bill--she always insisted on that--in a sort of trance,
with a little excited smile on her lips. As they got up to go out she
threw a glance at Petrovitch, and left the room, still with that
trancelike smile. It irritated Noel beyond expression. It plainly said:
"He is not indifferent to me. He has forgotten nothing. I shall live
again."
Very little was said on the way to Connie's hotel. She was beyond speech
for the present--she was reliving the days when the world was at
Petrovitch's feet, and he, the master, was at hers. For she believed now
that it was the depth and tumult of his passion for her that had
carried her away. She had forgotten her notes, her flowers, the
interviews she had prayed for--forgotten all that. She won him by
deliberate assault, but once won, she became his slave, and it was as
his adoring slave in those first, brief, happy months, that she liked
to remember herself.
Noel was disgusted and annoyed. Also, he was extremely disappointed.
Was all his scolding, his chaffing, his affection for her, the
influence he had gained, to go for nothing now? Simply because that
... brute ... had turned up again? Was there nothing he could say or
do to save her? What would Claire say? And then he asked himself, well,
what _would_ Claire say? Why not find out? That was an idea. He would
find out.
"You'll come upstairs, won't you?" she asked when they were in the hall
of the hotel. Noel thought her invitation somewhat perfunctory. He
suspected she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Nevertheless, he
meant to come, presently.
"Yes, I'll be up in a minute," he said. "You go on. I've got to ring up
somebody."
The lift carried her up out of his sight and he went into the telephone
booth and rang up Madame Claire. Her telephone stood on a table close
beside her chair, and he had hardly a second to wait before she
answered.
"Yes? Oh, it's you, Noel. Where are you?"
He told her. Then he described briefly the luncheon at Claridge's and
what befell there.
"I saw the announcement of his concert in last Sunday's paper," she
said. "Connie never reads the papers, or she would have seen it
herself. What is he like now?"
"I don't want to use offensive language over the telephone," he
answered.
He heard Madame Claire's laugh.
"Well, Noel, I think the whole thing is in your hands. You are the only
one who can do anything with her. If I say anything she will only tell
me I am trying to rob her of her happiness. You know how she
talks--such sentimental nonsense!"
"But I don't see that I can do anything either. What can I do?"
"Of course you can do something. She knows well enough that Petrovitch
is here to-day and gone to-morrow, while you're her nephew for life.
Make her choose, Noel. It will appeal to her sense of the dramatic.
You'll see. Make her choose."
"Him or me, you mean? I believe she'd choose him."
"I'm not so sure. But try it, anyway. You're so good about managing
Connie."
"All right," he said. "I'll try."
"Oh, and Noel, if she chooses you, you might be magnanimous and offer
to take her to his concert next week. I think you could safely do that.
Good-by. I can't talk any more. Millie is just coming up to see me, and
she mustn't hear this. Good-by and good luck!"
Noel remained for a thoughtful moment in the booth, and then went
upstairs. Claire was quite right. It was the only chance.
He found his troublesome aunt waiting for him in her sitting room. She
was humming softly and looking out of the window. His indignation grew
as he looked at her.
"Connie," he said quietly. "About this Petrovitch business. I'm pretty
angry about it, as you know perfectly well. I've made up my mind that
you'll have to choose between me and that fellow, and choose here and
now. You can't have us both. If you go out to dinner with Petrovitch
to-morrow night or any other night, or have anything further to do with
him, that's the end as far as I'm concerned. You won't see me again."
Connie came swiftly back from dreams of Petrovitch and seized Noel's
arm.
"Noel! You can't mean that! You can't mean that you'd drop me--have
nothing more to do with me? Oh, Noel!"
"I've said it and I mean it. It's up to you. If you have anything more
to do with that bounder, I'll have nothing more to do with you. And
that's flat."
She pleaded with him. He didn't understand Petrovitch. He didn't
understand her. Ordinary rules didn't apply to him because he was a
genius, nor to her because she loved him. If Noel were older----
That was more than he could bear.
"That'll do, Connie. I'm not a fool. I've been sorry for you because
you were down on your luck; and anyway, I'm always sorry for people
like you. And I'm fond of you, too. But if you're going to be so damn
weak, and slop over with disgusting sentiment--well, I'm off."
Connie looked out of the window again.
"If you'll pull up and try to make something of your life, I'm with
you. If not, I'm through."
"I can't give him up," moaned Connie. "I want to talk over old times
with him, and hear him say that he loved me once. It means everything to
me. I must talk to him, Noel!"
"All right. Then that's that. Well, I'm walking home. I feel I need a
little air after all this. It's good-by then, Connie?"
He held out his hand. She turned and looked at him wildly.
"Noel, I never thought you could be so hard! You don't know how
miserable you're making me!"
"There's Eric, too," he reminded her. "Don't forget he's got no love
for Petrovitch. Don't forget Humphries was his friend. Eric's been
pretty decent to you. As for ... as for Claire!..."
Tears welled into her eyes. Noel, who, like many another man, found
them undermining the foundations of his wrath, softened a little.
"Sleep on it, Connie," he said more kindly. "I'll give you until
to-morrow to make up your mind. Ring me up in the morning and let me
know what you've decided to do. So long!"
And he turned and left her.