MOONA
Like all cultivated people, particularly those who attach much
importance to pleasure and amusement, variety, art, and the play, Nigel
was very fond of Paris; it always pleased him to go there; and yet he
doubted if he were quite as fond of it in reality as he was in theory.
The best acting, the best cooking, the best millinery in the world was
to be found in Paris; and yet Nigel wasn't sure that he didn't enjoy
those things more when he got them in London--that he enjoyed French
cooking best in an English restaurant, and even a French play at an
English theatre. Certainly Paris was the centre of art. Nigel was fond
of pictures, and he amused himself more with a few young French artists
whom he happened to know living here than with anybody else in the city;
and yet when he went back to London he sometimes felt that the
recollection of it, the chatter of studios, the slang of the critics,
even the whole sense and sound of Paris gave him a little the
recollection as of a huge cage of monkeys. Like most modern Englishmen,
he talked disparagingly about British hypocrisy, Anglo-Saxon humbug,
English stiffness and London fog; and yet, after all, he missed and
valued these very things. Wasn't the fog and the hypocrisy--one was the
symbol of the other--weren't all these things the very charm of London?
Fog and hypocrisy--that is to say, shadow, convention, decency--these
were the very things that lent to London its poetry and romance.
Everything in Paris, it was true, was picturesque, everything had colour
and form, everything made a picture. But it was all too obvious;
everything was all there ready for one's amusement, ready for one's
pleasure. People were too obliging, too willing. And the men! Well,
Nigel was far more of a _viveur_, of a lover of pleasure than
ninety-nine Englishmen out of a hundred, yet he found too much of that
point of view among the men he came across in Paris. From boys to old
gentlemen, from the artists to a certain set among the _haute
finance_--of whom he had some acquaintances--from the sporting young
sprig of the Faubourg to the son of the sham jeweller in the Rue de
Rivoli--all, without a single exception, seemed to think of nothing else
but pleasure, in other words, of _les petites femmes_. For that--paying
attention more or less serious to _les petites femmes_--seemed the one
real idea of pleasure. Of this point of view Nigel certainly grew very
tired, and he marvelled at the wonderful energy, the unflagging interest
in the same eternal subject.
They said, and of course thought, that there was nothing so charming as
a French woman, particularly the Parisienne; but, except on one point,
he was not entirely inclined to agree. This point was their dress. Their
dress was delightful, their fashion was an art, and it had great, real
charm. In whatever walk of life they were placed they were always
exquisitely dressed. Nigel appreciated this sartorial gift, it was an
art he understood and that amused, but weren't they on the whole--also
in every walk of life--a little too much arranged, overdone, too much
_maquillees_; weren't their faces too white, their lips too red, their
hats too new? They knew how to put on their clothes to perfection, but
he was not sure that he didn't prefer these beautiful clothes not quite
so well put on; he thought he liked to see the pretty French dress put
on a little wrong on a pretty Englishwoman; and then he thought of
Bertha, of course. Nowhere in Paris was there anything quite like
Bertha, that pink and white English complexion, that abundant fair hair,
the natural flower-like look.
Of course Bertha was unusually clever, lively and charming; she was not
stiff or prim, she was very exceptional, but distinctly English, and he
admired her more than all the Parisiennes in the world. Besides, he
thought, one got very tired of them. When they _were bourgeoises_ they
were so extremely _bourgeoises_; when they were smart they were so
excessively _snob_. Perhaps it was through having seen a good deal of
them for a little while that he met a compatriot of his with unexpected
gratification.
* * * * *
He was walking with one of his artist friends on the boulevard when, to
his great surprise, the artist was stopped by a young lady walking alone
who evidently knew him. She was dressed in a very tight blue serge coat
and skirt, she had black bandeaux of hair over her ears, from which
depended imitation coral ear-rings. She had shoes with white spats, and
a very small hat squashed over her eyes. She did not look in the least
French. He knew her at once. It was the girl whose artistic education
Rupert had at one time undertaken. It was Moona Chivvey.
"Ah! Miss Chivvey! What a pleasure! And what are you doing here?"
She replied that she and her friend, Mimsie Sutton, had taken a little
studio and were studying art together with a number of other English
and American girls with a great artist.
Nigel's friend left his arm and went away. Nigel strolled on with Miss
Chivvey.
"And are you here quite alone with no chaperon," asked Nigel, with that
momentary sort of brotherly feeling of being shocked that an Englishman
nearly always feels when he sees a compatriot behaving unconventionally
in a foreign land.
"Chaperon! Oh! come off the roof," replied the young lady in her
boisterous manner, which he saw had not at all toned down. "Of course
I'm being chaperoned by Miss Sutton. I'm staying with Mimsie. Mother
couldn't come, and didn't want me to come, but there's no hope of
learning art in London; it's simply _hopeless_. You see we're serious,
Mr. Hillier, we're studying really hard. We're going to do big things.
Mimsie's a genius. I'm not; but I'm industrious. I'm a tremendous
worker. Oh, I shall do something yet!"
She was full of fire and enthusiasm, and continued to give him an
immense quantity of information. He listened with interest and thought
it rather touching. Of course she was genuine and believed in herself;
equally, of course, she had no sort of talent. She was in a position in
which no girl in her own class could be placed who was not English,
except an American, and then it wouldn't be the same thing. No doubt she
knew thoroughly well how to take care of herself, and most likely there
was no need, even, that she should. Still, he thought it was rather
pathetic that she should leave her parents and a thoroughly comfortable
home in Camden Hill, in order to live in a wretchedly uncomfortable
studio--he was sure it was wretchedly uncomfortable--and have a dull
life with other depressing girls--all for the cultivation of a gift that
was purely imaginary.
"You must come and dine with me to-night, won't you, Miss Chivvey?"
She was rather pretty, rather amusing, and she was English. He liked
talking English again.
"Well, I should like to very much, Mr. Hillier. Is your wife here?"
"No; she's going to Felixtowe in a week or two with the children, and
I'm going to join her there. I'm quite alone, so you must take pity on
me. Must we have your friend Miss Sutton too?" he asked.
"Oh no--I don't think it's necessary; it will be a change to go out
without her. You see, here I am a worker and a Bohemian," she explained.
"I don't go in for chaperons. I'm not social here!"
"Besides, I'm English. You're all right with me," he returned in his
most charming way. "Have you many English friends here?"
He wanted to find out whether she was seeing Rupert; he soon discovered
she was not, and he determined not to tell her of the presence of that
young man. They might make it up, and Nigel thought it would be far
better for Rupert to come back to Madeline. He was sure she was his real
taste. And he still wanted to please Bertha.
* * * * *
They dined in a small but particularly excellent restaurant. She seemed
to enjoy herself immensely, and grew every moment more confidential.
Nigel tried not to flirt. He had no intention of doing so, and, had they
met in London, would not have dreamt of such a thing; but meeting an
English girl placed as she was gave a tinge of adventure and romance to
his taking her out.
She told him she had no flirtations and cared for no man in the world.
He then led the conversation gradually to Rupert Denison. It did not
take long for her to work herself up to give him a somewhat highly
coloured version of their quarrel, which amused him. It ended with "and
so I never saw him again."
"I can't see that you have any real grievance, I must say. He seems to
have been very nice to you, taken you out a great deal, and gone to see
you pretty often. Did he not make love to you?"
"Never, never, never," she replied. "He was just like a brother, or,
rather, a sort of schoolmaster."
"Then I believe that's what made you angry," he replied.
"Indeed it isn't. At any rate, if it was a little, I assure you I'm not
in love with him."
He laughed, teased her about it, and now he found that she wished to go
home. Feeling he ought not to take advantage of her position here, he
was exceedingly respectful, and drove her to her flat, not before she
had consented to dine and go to the theatre with him the next day.
"That sort of girl is rather difficult to understand," he thought, as he
drove away from the studio. "Perhaps now she's thinking me a fool as she
thought Rupert."
However, he remembered _he_ was married. He looked forward to the next
evening with interest. At least Miss Chivvey was different from other
people. One wasn't quite sure of her, and that fact had its attraction.
She was really very good-looking too, very young, had beautiful eyes and
teeth, and the high spirits of youth and health and enthusiasm. Pity
she thought she could draw. How much better if she had gone in for
first-rate plain cooking! He was sure she could learn that--if it was
really plain.
Next day he sent her a few flowers. After all, an Englishman must be
gallant to his country-woman; but the next evening he thought she met
him with a slightly cooler air and even with a little embarrassment.
This melted away before the end of the evening.
He then took her to the theatre in a little box. He was careful to
choose a piece that he would have taken his own sister to see, but he
forgot that he would not have let his own sister go to see it with a
married man and no chaperon.
His manner was becoming a shade more tender than was necessary, and he
was sitting perhaps a shade nearer to her than was absolutely required,
when, looking up, he saw two young men in the stalls, one of whom was
looking at him and his companion with very great interest through an
opera-glass. It was Rupert.
Moona had not seen him, and Nigel now became aware of a distinct anxiety
that she should not. He was rather sorry he had come: it might give
Rupert a mistaken impression. It was not right to compromise her. He
would explain, of course, the next day. But it was annoying to have to
explain, and he would have explained anyhow. Nigel greatly disliked
getting the credit, or, rather, the discredit, of something he did not
deserve.
He pretended to be bored with the play, and persuaded her to come and
have an ice at a quiet and respectable place before she saw Rupert. She
went in high spirits and great innocence.
When they left Nigel said: "Do you know that I oughtn't to have taken
you there to-night? It was wrong of me. If anyone had seen us there they
would probably have mistaken our relations."
She gave her boisterous laugh and said: "I see. Well, you would have had
all the credit and none of the trouble."
"You mean," he replied, "that I should have had all the infamy and none
of the satisfaction."
As they drove to the studio he took her hand and said: "One kiss."
"Certainly not," she replied, taking it away. "Certainly not. Do you
want me to be sorry I came out with you?"
"I should like you to be glad," he replied. "Never mind, Miss Chivvey,
forgive me. I won't ask you out again."
"Why not? Haven't I been nice?"
"Very nice. Too nice, too charming, too dangerous." He kissed her hand
respectfully. "Good-bye. I'm angry with myself."
"Never mind, I'll forgive you," she laughed flippantly.
He drove away. Yes, one loses one's bearings travelling about alone,
taking _jeunes filles_ to the theatre who live alone in Paris, say
anything, have no chaperons, and are prudes all the time.
"Confound it. I've made a fool of myself. But I must go and see Rupert."
He lunched with that young man that day and told him word for word what
had passed, even to the incident in the cab.
He need not have been so expansive nor have humbled himself so much.
Rupert had not for a moment misconstrued their presence at the theatre.
Also he was not in the least surprised about the incident in the cab.
Rupert was on the whole irritating. Nigel was glad to leave him.