THE BARONESS INTERVENES
The Baroness trifled with some grapes and looked languidly round the
room.
"My dear Louise," she declared, "it is the truth what every one tells me
of your country. You are a dull people. I weary myself here."
The girl whom she had addressed as Louise shrugged her shoulders.
"So do I, so do all of us," she answered, a little wearily. "What would
you have? One must live somewhere."
The Baroness sighed, and from a chatelaine hung with elegant trifles
selected a gold cigarette case. An attentive waiter rushed for a match
and presented it. The Baroness gave a little sigh of content as she
leaned back in her chair. She smoked as one to the manner born.
"One must live somewhere, it is true," she agreed, "but why London? I
think that of all great cities it is the most provincial. It lacks what
you call the atmosphere. The people are all so polite, and so deadly,
deadly dull. How different in Paris or Berlin, even Brussels!"
"Circumstances are a little against us, aren't they?" Louise remarked.
"Our opportunities for making acquaintances are limited."
The Baroness made a little grimace.
"You, my young friend," she said, "are of the English--very English.
Quite Saxon, in fact. With you there would never be any making of
acquaintances! I feel myself in the bonds of a cast-iron chaperonage
whenever I move out with you. Why is it, little one? Have you never any
desire to amuse yourself?"
"I don't quite understand you," her companion answered dryly. "If you
mean that I have no desire to encourage promiscuous acquaintances, you
are certainly right. I prefer to be dull."
The Baroness sighed gently.
"Some of my dearest friends," she murmured, "I have--but there, it is a
subject upon which we disagree. We will talk of something else. Shall we
go to the theatre to-night?"
"As you will," Louise answered indifferently. "There isn't much that we
haven't seen, is there?"
"We will send for a paper and see," the Baroness said. "We cannot sit and
look at one another all the evening. With music one can make dinner last
out till nine or even half past--an idea, my Louise!" she exclaimed
suddenly. "Cannot we go to a music-hall, the Alhambra, for example? We
could take a box and sit back."
"It is not customary," Louise declared coldly. "If you really wish it,
though, I don't--I don't--"
Her speech was broken off in a somewhat extraordinary manner. She was
leaning a little forward in her chair, all her listlessness and pallor
seemed to have been swept away by a sudden rush of emotion. The colour
had flooded her cheeks, her tired eyes were suddenly bright; was it with
fear or only surprise? The Baroness wasted no time in asking questions.
She raised her lorgnettes and turned round, facing the direction in
which Louise was looking. Coming directly towards them from the further
end of the restaurant was a young man, whose eyes never swerved from
their table. He was pale, somewhat slight, but the lines of his mouth
were straight and firm, and there was not lacking in him that air of
distinction which the Baroness never failed to recognize. She put down
her glasses and looked across at Louise with a smile. She was quite
prepared to approve.
The young man stopped at their table and addressed himself directly to
Louise. The Baroness frowned as she saw how scanty were the signs of
encouragement in her young companion's face. She leaned a little forward,
ready at the first signs of an introduction to make every effort to atone
for Louise's coldness by a most complete amiability. This young man
should not be driven away if she could help it!
"I have been hoping, Miss Fitzmaurice," Wrayson said calmly, "that I
might meet you somewhere."
She shrank a little back for a moment. There flashed across her face a
quiver, as though of pain.
"Why do you think," she asked, "that that is my name?"
"Your father, Colonel Fitzmaurice, is one of my best friends," he
answered gravely. "I was at his house yesterday. I only came up this
morning. I beg your pardon! You are not well!"
Every vestige of colour had left her cheeks. The Baroness touched her
foot under the table, and Louise found her voice with an effort.
"How did you know that Colonel Fitzmaurice was my father?" she asked
breathlessly.
"I found a picture in your sister's album," he answered.
The answer seemed somehow to reassure her. She leaned a little towards
him. Under cover of the music her voice was inaudible to any one else.
"Mr. Wrayson," she said, "please don't think me unkind. I know that I
have a great deal to thank you for, and that there are certain
explanations which you have almost a right to demand from me. And yet I
ask you to go away, to ask me nothing at all, to believe me when I assure
you that there is nothing in the world so undesirable as any acquaintance
between you and me."
Wrayson was staggered, the words were so earnestly spoken, and the look
which accompanied them was so eloquent. He was never sure, when he
thought it over afterwards, what manner of reply he might not have made
to an appeal, the genuineness of which was absolutely convincing. But
before he could frame an answer, the Baroness intervened.
"Louise," she said softly, "do you not think that this place is a
little public for intimate conversation, and will you not introduce to
me your friend?"
Wrayson, who had been afraid of dismissal, turned at once, almost
eagerly, towards the Baroness. She smiled at him graciously. Louise
hesitated for a moment. There was no smile upon her lips. She bowed,
however, to the inevitable.
"This is Mr. Wrayson," she said quietly; "the Baroness de Sturm."
The Baroness raised her eyebrows, and she bestowed upon Wrayson a
comprehending look. The graciousness of her manner, however, underwent no
abatement.
"I fancy," she said, "that I have heard of you somewhere lately, or is
it another of the same name? Will you not sit down and take your coffee
with us--and a cigarette--yes?"
"We are keeping Mr. Wrayson from his friends, no doubt," Louise said
coldly. "Besides--do you see the time, Amy?"
But Wrayson had already drawn up a chair to the table.
"I am quite alone," he said. "If I may stay, I shall be delighted."
"Why not?" the Baroness asked, passing her cigarette case. "You can solve
for us the problem we were just then discussing. Is it _comme-il-faut,_
Mr. Wrayson, for two ladies, one of whom is almost middle-aged, to visit
a music-hall here in London unescorted?"
Wrayson glanced from Louise to her friend.
"May I inquire," he asked blandly, "which is the lady who is posing as
being almost middle-aged?"
The Baroness laughed at him softly, with a little contraction of the
eyebrows, which she usually found effective.
"We are going to be friends, Mr. Wrayson," she declared. "You are
sitting there in fear and trembling, and yet you have dared to pay a
compliment, the first I have heard for, oh! so many months. Do not be
afraid. Louise is not so terrible as she seems. I will not let her send
you away. Now you must answer my question. May we do this terrible
thing, Louise and I?"
"Assuredly not," he answered gravely, "when there is a man at hand who is
so anxious to offer his escort as I."
The Baroness clapped her hands.
"Do you hear, Louise?" she exclaimed.
"I hear," Louise answered dryly.
The Baroness made a little grimace.
"You are in an impossible humour, my dear child," she declared.
"Nevertheless, I declare for the music-hall, and for the escort of your
friend, Mr. Wrayson, if he really is in earnest."
"I can assure you," he said, "that you would be doing me a great kindness
in allowing me to offer my services."
The Baroness beamed upon him amiably, and rose to her feet.
"You have come," she avowed, "in time to save me from despair. I am not
used to go about so much unescorted, and I am not so independent as
Louise. See," she added, pushing a gold purse towards him, "you shall pay
our bill while we put on our cloaks. And will you ask afterwards for my
carriage, and we will meet in the portico?"
"With pleasure!" Wrayson answered, rising to his feet as they left the
table. "I will telephone for a box to the Alhambra. There is a wonderful
new ballet which every one is going to see."
He called the waiter and paid the bill from a remarkably well-filled
purse. As he replaced the change, it was impossible for him to avoid
seeing a letter addressed and stamped ready for posting, which occupied
one side of the gold bag. The name upon the envelope struck him as being
vaguely familiar; what had he heard lately of Madame de Melbain? It was
associated somehow in his mind with a recent event. It lingered in his
memory for days afterwards.
Louise and the Baroness left the room in silence. In the cloak-room the
latter watched her friend curiously as she arranged her wrap.
"So that is Mr. Wrayson," she remarked.
"Yes!" Louise answered deliberately. "I wish that you had let him go!"
The Baroness laughed softly.
"My dear child," she protested, "why? He seems to me quite a personable
young man, and he may be useful! Who can tell?"
Louise shrugged her shoulders. She stood waiting while the Baroness made
somewhat extensive use of her powder-puff.
"You forget," she said quietly, "that I am already in Mr. Wrayson's debt
pretty heavily."
The Baroness looked quickly around. She considered her young friend a
little indiscreet.
"I find you amusing, _ma chère_," she remarked. "Since when have you
developed scruples?"
Louise turned towards the door.
"You do not understand," she said. "Come!"