“To hear you talk,” remarked Mrs. Hilary Musgrave--and, if any one is
surprised to find me at her house, I can only say that Hilary, when
he asked me to take a pot-luck, was quite ignorant of any ground of
difference between his wife and myself, and that Mrs. Hilary could not
very well eject me on my arrival in evening dress at ten minutes to
eight--“to hear you talk one would think that there was no such thing as
real love.”
She paused. I smiled.
“Now,” she continued, turning a fine, but scornful eye upon me, “I have
never cared for any man in the world except my husband.”
I smiled again. Poor Hilary looked very uncomfortable. With an
apologetic air he began to stammer something about Parish Councils. I
was not to be diverted by any such maneuver. It was impossible that he
could really wish to talk on that subject.
“Would a person who had never eaten anything but beef make a boast of
it?” I asked.
Hilary grinned covertly. Mrs. Hilary pulled the lamp nearer, and took up
her embroidery.
“Do you always work the same pattern?” said I.
Hilary kicked me gently. Mrs. Hilary made no direct reply, but presently
she began to talk.
“I was just about Phyllis’s age--(by the way, little Miss Phyllis was
there)--when I first saw Hilary. You remember, Hilary? At Bournemouth?”
“Oh--er--was it Bournemouth?” said Hilary, with much carelessness.
“I was on the pier,” pursued Mrs. Hilary. “I had a red frock on, I
remember, and one of those big hats they wore that year. Hilary wore--”
“Blue serge,” I interpolated, encouragingly.
“Yes, blue serge,” said she fondly. “He had been yachting, and he was
beautifully burnt. I was horribly burnt--wasn’t I, Hilary?”
Hilary began to pat the dog.
“Then we got to know one another.”
“Stop a minute,” said I. “How did that happen?” Mrs. Hilary blushed.
“Well, we were both always on the pier,” she explained. “And--and
somehow Hilary got to know father, and--and father introduced him to
me.”
“I’m glad it was no worse,” said I. I was considering Miss Phyllis, who
sat listening, open-eyed.
“And then you know, father wasn’t always there; and once or twice we met
on the cliff. Do you remember that morning, Hilary?”
“What morning?” asked Hilary, patting the dog with immense assiduity.
“Why, the morning I had my white serge on. I’d been bathing, and my hair
was down to dry, and you said I looked like a mermaid.”
“Do mermaids wear white serge?” I asked; but nobody took the least
notice of me--quite properly.
“And you told me such a lot about yourself; and then we found we were
late for lunch.”
“Yes,” said Hilary, suddenly forgetting the dog, “and your mother gave
me an awful glance.”
“Yes, and then you told me that you were very poor, but that you
couldn’t help it; and you said you supposed I couldn’t possibly--”
“Well, I didn’t think--!”
“And I said you were a silly old thing; and then--” Mrs. Hilary stopped
abruptly.
“How lovely,” remarked little Miss Phyllis in a wistful voice.
“And do you remember,” pursued Mrs. Hilary, laying down her embroidery
and clasping her hands on her knees, “the morning you went to see
father?”
“What a row there was!” said Hilary.
“And what an awful week it was after that! I was never so miserable in
all my life. I cried till my eyes were quite red, and then I bathed
them for an hour, and then I went to the pier, and you were there--and I
mightn’t speak to you!”
“I remember,” said Hilary, nodding gently.
“And then, Hilary, father sent for me and told me it was no use; and I
said I’d never marry any one else. And father said, ‘There, there, don’t
cry. We’ll see what mother says.’”
“Your mother was a brick,” said Hilary, poking the fire.
“And that night they never told me anything about it, and I didn’t even
change my frock, but came down, looking horrible, just as I was, in an
old black rag--no, Hilary, don’t say it was pretty!”
Hilary, unconvinced, shook his head.
“And when I walked into the drawing room there was nobody there but
just you; and we neither of us said anything for ever so long. And then
father and mother came in and--do you remember after dinner, Hilary?”
“I remember,” said Hilary.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hilary was looking into the fire; little
Miss Phyllis’s eyes were fixed, in rapt gaze, on the ceiling; Hilary was
looking at his wife--I, thinking it safest, was regarding my own boots.
At last Miss Phyllis broke the silence.
“How perfectly lovely!” she said.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hilary, reflectively. “And we were married three months
afterwards.”
“Tenth of June,” said Hilary reflectively.
“And we had the most charming little rooms in the world! Do you remember
those first rooms, dear? So tiny!”
“Not bad little rooms,” said Hilary.
“How awfully lovely,” cried little Miss Phyllis.