"PREUX CHEVALIER"
In due course Mallory paid his call upon the occupants of the flat, and
entertained both girls immensely by the utter lack of
self-consciousness with which he assisted in the preparations for
tea--toasting scones and coaxing the kettle to boil as naturally as
they themselves would have done.
He had none of the average Englishman's _mauvaise honte_--though be it
thankfully acknowledged that, in the case of the younger generation,
the experiences of the war have largely contributed towards rubbing it
off. Mallory appeared serenely unconscious of any incongruity in the
fact of a man whose clothes breathed Savile Row and whose linen was
immaculate as only that of the Londoner--determinedly emergent from the
grime of the city--ever is, pottering about in the tiny kitchen, and
brooding over the blackly obstinate kettle.
This first visit was soon followed by others, and then by a foursome
dinner at the Carlton, Ralph Fenton being invited to complete the
party. Before long Peter was on a pleasant footing of intimacy with
the two girls at the flat, though beyond this he did not seek to
progress.
The explanation was simple enough. Primarily he was always aware of
the cord which shackled him to a restless, butterfly woman who played
at life out in India, and secondly, although he was undoubtedly
attracted by Nan, he was not the type of man to fall headlong in love.
He was too fastidious, too critical, altogether too much master of
himself. Few women caused him a single quickened heart-beat. But it
is to such men as this that when at last love grips them, binding them
slowly and secretly with its clinging tendrils, it comes as an
irresistible force to be reckoned with throughout the remainder of
their lives.
So it came about that as the weeks grew into months, Mallory
perceived--dimly and with a quaint resignation to the inevitable--that
Nan and Love were coming to him hand in hand.
His first thought had been to seek safety in flight; then that gently
humorous philosophy with which he habitually looked life in the face
asserted itself, and with a shrug and a muttered "Kismet," he remained.
Nan appealed to him as no other woman had ever done. The ineffaceable
quality of race about her pleased his fastidious taste; the French
blood in her called to his; nor could he escape the heritage of charm
bequeathed her by the fair and frail Angèle de Varincourt. Above all,
he understood her. Her temperament--idealistic and highly-strung,
responsive as a violin to every shade of atmosphere--invoked his own,
with its sensitiveness and keen, perceptive faculty.
But this very comprehension of her temperament blinded him to the
possibility that there was any danger of her growing to care for him
other than as a friend. He appreciated the fact that she had just
received a buffeting from fate, that her confidence was shaken and her
pride hurt to breaking-point, and the thought never entered his head
that a woman so recently bruised by the hands of love--or more truly,
love's simulacrum--could be tempted to risk her heart again so soon.
Feeling very safe, therefore, in the fact of his marriage, which was
yet no marriage, and sure that there was no chance of his hurting Nan,
he let himself love her, keeping his love tenderly in one of those
secret empty rooms of the heart--empty rooms of which only the
thrice-blessed in this world have no knowledge.
Outwardly, all that Peter permitted himself was to give her an
unfailing friendship, to surround her with an atmosphere of homage and
protection and adapt himself responsively to her varying moods. This
he did untiringly, demanding nothing in return--and he alone knew the
bitter effort it cost him.
Gradually Nan began to lean upon him, finding in the restfulness of
such a friendship the healing of which she stood in need. She worked
at her music with suddenly renewed enthusiasm, secure in the knowledge
that Peter was always at hand to help and criticise with kindly,
unerring judgment. She ceased to rail at fate and almost learned to
bring a little philosophy--the happy philosophy of laughter--to bear
upon the ills of life.
Consciously she thought of him only as Peter--Peter, her good pal--and
so long as the pleasant, even course of their friendship remained
uninterrupted she was never likely to realise that something bigger and
more enduring than mere comradeship lay at the back of it all. She,
too, like Mallory, reassured herself with the fact of his
marriage--though the wife she had never seen and of whom Peter never
spoke had inevitably receded in her mind into a somewhat vague and
nebulous personality.
"Well?" demanded Kitty triumphantly one day. "And what is your opinion
of Peter Mallory now?"
As she spoke, she caressed with light finger-tips a bowl of sun-gold
narcissus--Mallory habitually kept the Edenhall flat supplied with
flowers.
"We're frankly grateful to you for introducing him," replied Penelope.
"He's been an absolute godsend all through this hateful long winter."
"What's so perfect about him," added Nan, "is that he never jars on
one. He's never Philistine."
"In fact," interpolated Penelope somewhat ruefully, "he's so far from
being Philistine that he has a dreadful faculty for making me feel
deplorably commonplace."
Kitty gurgled.
"What rubbish! I'm sure nothing in the world would make Peter more
unhappy than to think he affected anyone like that. He's the least
assuming and most tender-hearted soul I know. You may be common-sense,
Penny dear, but you're not in the least commonplace. They're two quite
different things."
Nan lit a cigarette with deliberation.
"I'll tell you what is remarkable about Peter Mallory," she said.
"He's _sahib_--right through. Very few men are."
Kitty, always tolerant and charitable, patted her arm deprecatingly.
"Oh, come, Nan, that's rather sweeping. There are heaps of nice men in
the world."
"Heaps," assented Nan agreeably. "Heaps--bless 'em! But very few
_preux chevaliers_. I only know two--one is my lamb of an uncle and
the other is Peter."
"And where does my poor Barry come in?"
Nan smiled across at her indulgently.
"Barry? Pooh! He's just a delightful overgrown schoolboy--and you
know it!"
* * * * * *
July in London, hot, dusty, and oppressive. Even the breezy altitude
of the top-floor flat could not save its occupants from the intense
heat which seemed to be wafted up from the baking streets below. The
flat was "at home" to-day, the festive occasion indicated by the
quantities of flowers which adorned it--big bowls of golden-hearted
roses, tall vases of sweet peas--the creamy-yellow ones which merge
into oyster pink, while the gorgeous royal scarlet of "King Edward"
glowed in dusky corners.
Penelope trailed somewhat lethargically hither and thither, adding last
touches to the small green tables, arranged in readiness for bridge,
and sighing at the oppressive heat of the afternoon. First she opened
the windows to let in the air, then closed them to shut out the heat,
only to fling them open once again, exclaiming impatiently:
"Phew! I really don't know which is the cooler!"
"Neither!" responded a gay voice from the doorway. "The bottomless pit
would probably be refreshingly draughty in comparison with town just
now."
Penelope whirled round to find Kitty, immaculate in white from head to
foot and looking perfectly cool and composed, standing on the threshold.
"How do you manage it?" she said admiringly. "Even in this sweltering
heat, when the rest of us look as though we had run in the wash, you
give the impression that you've just stepped out of a refrigerated
bandbox."
"Appearances are as deceitful as usual, then," replied Kitty, sinking
down into an arm-chair and unfurling a small fan. "I'm simply melted!
Am I the first arrival?" she continued. "Where's Nan?"
"She and Peter are decorating the tea-table--smiles and things, you
know"--Penelope waved an explanatory hand.
Kitty nodded.
"I think my plan was a good one, don't you? Peter's been an excellent
antidote to Maryon Rooke," she observed complacently.
"I'm not so sure," returned Penelope with characteristic caution. "I
think a married man--especially such an _un_married married man as
Pete--is rather a dangerous antidote."
"Nonsense! They both _know_ he's married! And they've both got normal
common-sense."
"But," objected Penelope, suddenly and unexpectedly, "love has nothing
whatever to do with common-sense."
Kitty gazed at her in frank amazement.
"Penelope! What's come to you? We've always regarded you as the
severely practical member of the community, and here you are talking
rank heresy!"
Penelope laughed a little, and a faint flush stole up into her cheeks.
"I'm not unobservant, remember," she returned, lightly, her eyes
avoiding Kitty's. "And my observations have led me to the conclusion
that love and common-sense are distinctly antipathic."
"Well, Nan seems quite happy and cheerful again, anyway," retorted
Kitty. "And if she'd fallen in love with Peter, knowing that there was
a very much alive Mrs. Peter in the background, she would hardly be
feeling particularly cheery."
"Oh, I don't think Nan's fallen in love--yet. And as to her present
joyful mood, that's easily accounted for by the doubled income Lord St.
John is allowing her--I never knew anyone extract quite so much
satisfaction as Nan from the actual spending of money. Besides,
although she doesn't realise it, Peter has made himself rather
indispensable to her."
Kitty spoke with nervous sharpness:
"But you don't think she cares for him?"
The other reflected a moment before replying. Finally she said:
"If she does, it is quite unconsciously. Consciously, I feel almost
sure that Maryon Rooke still occupies her thoughts."
"I wonder where she finds the great attraction in him?" queried Kitty
thoughtfully.
"Simply this: That he was the first and, go far, the only man who has
ever appealed to her at all. And as he has treated her rather badly,
he's succeeded in fixing himself in her mind."
"Well, I've never understood the affair at all. Rooke was in love if
ever a man was."
"Yes," agreed Penelope slowly. "But I think Maryon Rooke is what I
should describe as--a born bachelor."
"Then he's no business philandering round with women who aren't born
spinsters," retorted Kitty promptly.
Penelope's brown eyes twinkled.
"You're rather limiting his horizon," she observed.
Kitty laughed.
"Possibly. But I'm furious with him for hashing up Nan's life. . . .
As he has done," she added.
"Not necessarily," suggested Penelope. "I think Nan's rather like a
little hard, unopened bud. He's bruised the bud, perhaps, but I don't
think he's injured the flower."
"Good gracious, Penny, you're not trying to find excuses for the man!"
"Not a bit of it. But I believe that Nan has such a tremendous
fascination for him that he simply can't resist her. In fact, I think
if the question of finance didn't enter into the matter he'd be ready
to shoulder the matrimonial yoke. . . But I don't see Maryon Rooke
settling down to matrimony on a limited income! And of course Nan's
own income ceases if she marries."
"It was very queer of Lord St. John to make that stipulation,"
commented Kitty.
"I don't think so at all. He wants to make quite sure that the man who
marries Nan does so for love--and nothing else. And also to give her a
free hand. How many women, if they had money of their own, as Nan has,
would marry, do you suppose?" Penelope spoke heatedly. She was a
modern of the moderns in her ideas. "Subconsciously it's the feeling
of economical dependence, the dread of ultimate poverty, which has
driven half the untrained women one knows into unhappy marriages. And
Lord St. John recognises it. He's progressed with the times, bless
him!"
"But Rooke will be making big money before very long," protested Kitty,
keeping firmly to the point and declining to be led aside into one of
Penelope's argumentative byeways. "He'll be able to settle a decent
income on his wife in a few years."
"Very possibly. He'll be one of the most fashionable portrait painters
of the day. But until that day comes, Maryon isn't going to tie
himself up with a woman whose income ceases when she marries.
Besides"--drily--"an unattached bachelor is considerably more in demand
as a painter of society women's portraits than a Benedict."
"So Nan is to be sacrificed?" threw out Kitty.
"It seems like it. And as long as Maryon Rooke occupies the foreground
in her mind, no other man will occur to her as anything but a friend."
"Then I wish somebody--or something--would sweep him out of her mind!"
"Well, he's away now, at any rate," said Penelope soothingly. "So
let's be thankful for small mercies."
As she spoke, the maid--an improvement on their original
"Adagio"--entered with a telegram on a salver which she offered to
Penelope. The latter slit open the envelope without glancing at the
address and uttered a sharp exclamation of dismay as she read the brief
communication it contained.
Kitty leaned forward.
"What is it, Penny? Not bad news?"
"It's for Nan," returned Penelope shortly. "You can read it."
Kitty perused it in silence.
"_Am in town. Shall call this afternoon on chance of finding you
in_.--ROOKE."
"The very last person we wanted to blow in here just now," commented
Kitty as she returned the wire.
Penelope slipped it back into its envelope and replaced it on the
salver.
"Take it to Miss Davenant," she told the maid quietly. "And explain
that you brought it to me by mistake."