AT MRS. OGILVIE'S
"I know what's the matter with you, Vera," said Felicity decidedly, as
she sat down in her friend's flat in Cadogan Place. "It's that you
haven't got the personal note!"
"I?" said Vera indignantly.
Mrs. Ogilvie was a very pretty dark woman of about thirty, who minimised
her good looks and added to her apparent age by dressing in the style
which had always suited her. Her dainty drawing-rooms were curiously
conventional--the natural result of _carte-blanche_ to a fashionable
upholsterer. She wore a blue-green Empire tea-gown, a long chain of
uncut turquoises, a scarab ring, and a curious comb in her black, loose
hair, and was always trying, and always trying in vain, to be unusual.
Her name was Lucy (as any one who understood the subject of names must
have seen at a glance), but she had changed it to Vera, on the ground
that it was more Russian. There seemed no special object in this, as
she had married a Scotchman. One really rare possession she certainly
had--a husband who, notwithstanding that he felt a mild dislike for her
merely, bullied her and interfered with her quite as much as if he were
wildly in love. He was a rising barrister, and nearly every evening Vera
had to undergo a very cross examination as to what she had done during
the day, while being only too well aware that he neither listened to her
answers, nor would have been interested if he had.
She sought compensation by being in a continual state of vague
enthusiasm about some one or other, invariably choosing for the god of
her idolatry some young man who, for one reason or another, could not
possibly respond in any way. Yet she was always very much admired,
except by the objects of her own Platonic admiration. This gave a
certain interest to her life; and her other great pleasure was
worshipping and confiding in her friend Felicity.
"Not the personal note!" repeated Mrs. Ogilvie, as if amazed. "I? I'm
nothing if not original! Why, I actually copied that extraordinary gown
we saw at the Gymnase when we were in Paris, and I wore it last night.
It was a good deal noticed too----"
"Oh, yes, you wore it; but you'd copied it. That's just the point,"
said Felicity. "You can't become original by imitating some one else's
peculiarities. The only way to be really unusual is to be oneself--which
hardly anybody is. I can't see, though, why on earth you should wish it.
It's much nicer to be like everybody else, I think."
"Oh, that you can know from hearsay only, dear," said Vera. "Your
husband's come back, hasn't he?" she added irrelevantly.
"Yes. Now, there _is_ an unusual man, if you like!" said Felicity. "He
has no pose of any sort or kind, and he hasn't the ordinary standard
about anything in any way, but likes people really and genuinely on
their _own_ merits--as he likes things--not because they're cheap or
dear!"
"It seems to me so extraordinary that a racing man who is more or less
of a sportsman should think little ornaments matter so much! I mean,
should worry about china, and so on."
"It is hereditary, dear," said Felicity calmly. "One of his ancestors
was a great collector, and the other wasn't--I forget what he was. I
_think_ a friend of James I, or something military of that sort."
"I'm afraid Chetwode's rather a gambler--that's the only thing that
worries me for _you_, dear," said Vera.
"What do you mean by that?" said Felicity.
"Well ... I mean I shouldn't mind my husband attending sales and
bringing home a lot of useless beautiful things.... At Christie's you
know where you are to a certain extent ... but at Newmarket you don't."
"Chetwode," said Felicity, "isn't a gambler in the ordinary sense. He
never plays cards. Little pictures on paste-board fidget him, he says;
he loathes Monte Carlo because it's vulgar, and he dislikes roulette and
bridge. He's only a gambler in the best sense of the word--and that's a
very fine sense!"
"Oh dear, you _are_ so clever, Felicity! What _do_ you mean?"
"Isn't every one worth anything more or less of a gambler? Isn't going
to a dinner-party a risk--that you may be bored? Isn't marriage a
lottery--and all that sort of thing? Chetwode is prepared to take risks.
That's what I admire about him!"
"He certainly stays away a great deal," said Vera.
"Now, you're only pretending to be disagreeable. You don't mean it. He
has just been explaining to me that he hates the sort of things that
amuse _me_,--dances and the opera, and social things. Why, then, should
he go with me? He does sometimes, but I know it's an agonising
sacrifice. What do you think he is going to do to-night? A really rather
dreadful thing."
"_I_ don't know."
"Dine with me at Aunt William's! A sort of family dinner. Aunt William
has asked papa, Sylvia, Savile, and us, and I know just the sort of
thing it will be. She has got some excellent match to take Sylvia to
dinner, a boring married man for _me_, a suitable old widow or married
man's wife for papa, Dolly Clive for Savile (although she isn't out--but
then I suppose HE isn't out either, but she spoils Savile), and probably
Chetwode will take HER in. Fairly horrible, isn't it? And you know the
house. Wax flowers under glass, rep curtains. And the decorations on the
table! A strip of looking-glass, surrounded by smilax! And the dinner!
Twelve courses, port and sherry--all the fashions of 1860, or a little
later, which is worse. Not mahogany and walnuts. Almonds and raisins."
"How is it that you're not ill, and unable to go?" said Vera, looking
really concerned, and almost anxious.
"Because I happen to know that she has asked two or three people to come
in in the evening. Bertie Wilton is one. He amuses her."
"Bertie Wilton?" exclaimed Vera.
"Yes. He's so clever and persevering! He's been making up steadily to
Aunt William for several days, so that she might ask him to meet me. At
last she has. As he says, everything comes to the man who won't wait."
"I wonder she approves of him."
"Well, she does in a sort of peculiar way, because he's of a good old
family, and hasn't gone into anything--like stockbroking or business of
any kind, and she thinks she can find him a nice suitable wife. She
thinks Lucy Winter would be very suitable. Aunt William lives for
suitability, you know. Isn't it funny of her?"
Vera laughed. "Lucy? Why, I took him with Lucy and me to choose a hat,
and there wasn't a thing she could wear. They don't get on at all. Lucy
likes serious, intellectual men; she says Bertie's frothy and trivial.
She wants to marry a great author, or a politician. However, thank
goodness, she's left off bothering about Bobby Henderson." Here Vera
sighed heavily.
"Has Bobby left off bothering about Agatha? That's the point."
"_I_ don't know," said Vera. "I don't understand him; we've been having
some very curious scenes together lately. I can't think what he means."
"He doesn't mean anything at all," said Felicity "and that's what you
_won't_ understand. What curious things, as you call them, has he been
doing lately?"
"Well, he called yesterday by appointment."
"_Your_ appointment, I suppose?" said Felicity.
"By telephone," said Vera evasively. "And stayed two hours. And at last
I took a very strong line."
"Oh, good gracious! What were you wearing?"
"My yellow gown--and the amber beads; it was quite late and the
lights--pink shades--were turned on--or else it would have been too
glaring, you know, dear."
"What was your strong line?" said Felicity.
"I suddenly said to him, like some one in a play, 'Do you dislike me,
Captain Henderson?'"
Felicity began to laugh. "What a fine speech! What did he say?"
"He answered, 'If I did, I shouldn't be here.' After that--not directly
after--he said, 'You look all right in yellow, Mrs. Ogilvie.' Do you
think that shows great admiration--or not?"
"I've heard more passionate declarations," said Felicity impartially.
"It's the sort of thing Savile would say to _me_. What else did he talk
about?"
"Oh, about horses and things, and the new play at the Gaiety, and then I
said, 'It's rather a tragic thing for a woman to say, perhaps, but I'm
sure you don't care a bit for me, so perhaps you'd better not call any
more.'"
"What on earth did he say to that?" said Felicity.
"I'll tell you the exact truth, dear," Vera answered. "He got up and
walked round the room, and then said, 'I say, would you think it too
awful if I asked for a drink?' What do you think that showed?"
"It showed he was thirsty. I don't think he was going to faint away.
Still, I suppose he _had_ a drink; and--then--what happened?"
"I hardly like to tell you, dear."
"Go on!"
"I pressed him for his real opinion of me quite frankly, and he said:
'Frankly, I think you're a very pretty woman, and very jolly, but aren't
you a bit dotty on some subjects?' Of course I was very much hurt, and
said, 'Certainly not about _you_!' So then he said, 'For instance, you
always write that you have something particular to say to me, but you
never say it. I left several important appointments this afternoon to
come round, and you don't seem to have any news.' I _had_ said it, you
see, but he didn't take it in. I was very much offended at his calling
me dotty, but he explained afterwards he only meant that I was
'artistic'!"
Felicity went into fits of laughter. "Well, how did it end?"
"I asked him to dinner for next Wednesday, and he said he was going out
of town, and didn't know when he would be back. Now tell me, darling
Felicity, _do_ you think he is going away to--try and conquer his
feelings--or anything of that sort? That is what I should like to
think," said Vera.
"No," answered Felicity. "Either it was a lie, because your husband
bores him and he didn't _want_ to come to dinner, or else he's really
going to Newmarket, and doesn't know when he'll be back."
"Tell me, Felicity. I can bear it.... Then--he does not care about me,
and I ought to cut him out of my life?"
"I think he likes you all right, but I really shouldn't worry about
him," said Felicity.
"Then I certainly shan't. I am far too proud! _How_ different Bertie
Wilton is," she went on. "So amusing, and lively and nice to every one!
But _he_ is devoted to _you_."
"Oh, you can have him if you like," said Felicity, "and if you can. You
wouldn't get on, really. You see, he isn't romantic, like you, and he
likes people best who don't run after him."
"Yes, I have often noticed that in people," said Vera thoughtfully.
"I'll tell you _some one_, though, who really interests me; that is
your friend, Arthur Mervyn, the actor. He has such a wonderful profile."
"Yes--in fact, two. Oh, that reminds me, I came to ask you to come to
Madame Tussaud's to-morrow afternoon. We're making up a party to go to
the Chamber of Horrors. I'm taking Sylvia and Bertie. But I can't manage
Arthur Mervyn and Bertie too,--at least, not at the Waxworks,--so I'm
going some other day with him--I mean Arthur."
"Oh, what fun! I should love to come! Thanks, dearest."
"All right. Meet us there at four, and if you ever meet Arthur Mervyn
again, _don't_ talk about the stage. He hates it."
"What does he like?"
"He's interested in murders, and things of that kind," said Felicity;
"or anything cheery, you know, but _not_ the theatre."
"Do you think he would come to see me if I asked him?" asked Vera.
"He hates paying visits," said Felicity, and she glanced round the room
judicially, "but if you can make him believe that some horrible crime
has been acted here,--I must say it doesn't look like it, all pink and
white!--then I think he _would_ call. Or, if you suggested--just
hinted--that you believed the liftman had once been mixed up in some
horrible case--I think he likes poisoning or strangling best--then he'd
come like a shot!"
Felicity got up laughing.
"I say," she continued as she fastened her white furs, "have you heard
the very latest thing about the Valettas and Guy Scott? Bertie's going
to tell me all about it to-night; he is the only _really_ brilliant
gossip I know. He's raised it to such an art that it's no longer gossip:
it's modern history and psychology! First he gets his facts right; then
he takes a sort of vivid analytical interest in every one--always a
humorously sympathetic view, of course--and has so much imagination that
he makes you _see_ the whole thing!"
"Good gracious! I think I don't care for gossip about other people,"
said Vera; "I'm sure I shouldn't like that at all. I am really only
interested in my own life."
"Then no wonder you find it so difficult to be amused, darling."
They parted, kissing affectionately.