"Well, what is it?"
"Cecily!" He was breathing hard, and it seemed to him that he could only
speak by forcing words out of himself. "Cecily ... come with me! ..."
"That's what I want to do, but you keep me hanging about here. If any
one were to see us!..."
"I don't mean that," he interrupted. "You know quite well what I
mean!..."
"What _do_ you mean? I don't know!..."
He went closer to her, trying to waken her passion by the strength of
his. "I want you to leave Jimphy and come away with me," he said.
"Leave Jimphy!"
"Yes. You're not happy ... you're not suited to each other. Come with
me!"
"Like this?" she said, holding out her hands and mocking him.
"That doesn't matter," he urged. "We'll go somewhere...."
"Fly to Ireland, I suppose, in evening dress! Poor Paddy, you're so
Irish, aren't you? Please don't be an idiot!"
She went on towards the door of the box, and he followed after her.
"Cecily!" he said.
"Not to-night," she answered. "I want to be introduced to that nice
girl, Mary Graham, and I really must congratulate Gilbert ... I suppose
he's here ... it's such a clever play!"
She opened the door of the box and went in, and, hesitating for a
moment, he went after her.
4
She stayed in the box, sitting between Mrs. Graham and Mary, until the
end of the play. The curtain had gone down to applause and laughter and
had been raised again and a third and fourth time, and then the audience
had demanded that the author should appear. Somewhere in the gallery,
they could hear the faint groan of the man who attends all first nights
and groans on principle. "I'd like to punch that chap's jaw!" Ninian
muttered, glancing up at the gallery indignantly. There was more
applause and a louder and more insistent shout of "Author! Author!" and
the curtain went up, and Gilbert, very nervous and very pale, came on to
the stage and bowed. Then, after another curtain call, the lights were
lowered and the audience began to disperse.
There was to be a supper party at the Carlton, because the Carlton was
nearer to the Pall Mall than the Savoy, and Sir Geoffrey Mundane and
Mrs. Michael Gordon had accepted Gilbert's invitation to join them.
"It'll cost a hell of a lot," Gilbert said to Henry, "but what's money
for? When I die, they'll put on my tombstone, '_He was born in debt, he
lived in debt, he died in debt, and he didn't care a damn. So be it!_'
He extended his invitation to Jimphy and Lady Cecily.
"You didn't come to Jimphy's birthday party," she objected.
"Didn't I?" he replied. "Well, both of you come to my party ... that'll
make up for it!"
Gilbert did not appear to be affected by Cecily's presence. He had
greeted her naturally, behaving to her in as friendly a way as he would
have behaved if she had been Mrs. Graham. Henry, remembering the scene
on the Embankment, had difficulty in understanding Gilbert's easy
manner. Had he been in Gilbert's place, he knew that he would have been
awkward, constrained, tongue-tied. Undoubtedly, Gilbert had _savoir
faire_. So, too, had Cecily. Her look of irritation with Henry had
disappeared as she entered the box. He, following after her, had been
nervous and self-conscious, feeling that the flushed look on his face
must betray him to his friends; but Cecily had none of these
awkwardnesses. She behaved as easily as if the scene with Henry had not
taken place. "You'd think she hadn't any feelings," he murmured to
himself, and as he did so, it seemed to him that in that moment he knew
Cecily, knew her once and for all. _She had no feelings, no particular
feelings for any one, not even for Gilbert._ She was a beautiful animal,
eager for emotional diversions, but indifferent to the creature that
pleased her after it had pleased her. If Henry were to quit her now and
never return to her, she might some day say, "I wonder where poor Paddy
is!" and turn carelessly to a new lover; but that would be all. Gilbert
had piqued her, perhaps, but he had done no more than that, though
probably it was more than Henry could ever hope to do, and she had
yawned a little with the tedium of waiting for him, and then had decided
to yawn no more....
He fell among platitudes. "Like a butterfly," he said to himself. "Just
like a damned butterfly!"
Well, he thought, mentally cooler because of his revelation, that is an
attitude towards life that has many advantages. One might call Cecily a
stoical amorist, an erotic philosopher. "Love where you can, and don't
bother where you can't!" might serve her for a motto. "And, really,
that's rather a good way of getting through these plaguey emotions of
ours!" he told himself. "Only," he went on, "you can't walk in that way
just because you think it's a good one!"
He sat between Lady Cecily and Mary at supper, but he did not talk a
great deal to either of them, for Mary was chattering excitedly to Sir
Geoffrey Mundane, and Cecily was persuading Ninian that engineering had
always been the passion of her life. "I quite agree," she was saying, "a
Channel Tunnel would be very useful and ... and so convenient, too.
I've often said that to Jimphy, but dear Jimphy doesn't pretend to
understand these things!" She had turned to him once and, in a whisper,
had said, "Which of you is in love with Mary?" but he had pretended to
be wooden and hard of understanding.
"My dear Paddy," she said, raising her eyebrows, "I believe you're
sulking ... just because I wouldn't run away with you. You're as bad as
Gilbert!"
"You're perfectly brutal," he said under his breath.
"Aren't you exaggerating?" she replied. "And if I had gone off with you,
we'd have missed this nice supper. Do be sociable, there's a dear Paddy,
and perhaps I'll run away with you next Tuesday!"
There was a babble of conversation about them, and much laughter, for
Gilbert, reacting from his fright, was full of bright talk, and Sir
Geoffrey, reminiscent, capped it with entertaining tales of dramatists
and stage people. It was easy for Cecily and Henry to carry on their
conversation in quiet tones without fear of being overheard.
"You treat me like a boy," he said reproachfully.
"You are a boy, Paddy dear, and a very nice boy!"
"I suppose," he retorted, "it's impossible for you to understand that I
love you...."
"Indeed, it isn't," she interrupted. "I understand that quite easily.
What I can't understand is why you wish to spoil everything by silly
proposals to ... to elope!..."
"But I love you," he insisted. "Isn't that enough to make you
understand?"
She shook her head, and turned again to Ninian.
"You see," Ninian said, "you bore through this big bed of chalk from
both sides...."
"But how do you know the two ends will meet?" she asked.
"Oh, engineers manage that sort of thing easily," Ninian answered.
"Think of the Simplon Tunnel!..."
"Yes!" she said, to indicate that she was thinking of it.
"Well, that met, didn't it?"
"Did it?" she replied. "Oh, but of course it must have met. I've been
through it!..."
"There was hardly an inch of divergence between the two ends," he went
on....
"Hell's flames!" Henry said to himself.
5
"I must see you," he said to her when the party had broken up and she
was going home. "I must see you alone!"
"I do hope you're not going to be a nuisance, Paddy!" she replied.
He put her cloak about her shoulders. "Will you meet me at the
suspension bridge over the lake in St. James's Park to-morrow at
eleven?..."
"That's awfully early, Paddy, and St. James's Park is such a long way
from everywhere. Couldn't you come to lunch? Jimphy'll be glad to see
you. He seems to like you for some reason!"
"I want to talk to you alone, and we're not likely to be disturbed in
St. James's Park. You must come, Cecily!"
"Oh, all right," she answered. "But I shan't be there before twelve. You
can take me to lunch somewhere...."
"Very well," he said. "I'll be at the bridge at twelve, and I'll wait
for you ... only, come as soon as you can, Cecily!"
"I can't think why you want to behave like this, Paddy. It's so
melodramatic. Gilbert was just the same!..."
He felt that he could hit her when she said that, and he turned away
from her so quickly that her cloak slipped from her shoulders.
"Oh, Paddy!" she exclaimed.
"I beg your pardon!" he answered, turning again and picking the cloak
from the ground.
"You're so ... so selfish," she said. "You want everything to be just as
you like it. You're just like Gilbert ... where is Gilbert?... I must
say good-night to him ... and that nice girl, Mary. I think it's a very
clever play, and she's such a nice girl, too. Oh, Gilbert, there you
are! Good-night! I've enjoyed everything so much ... a nice play and a
nice supper. Good-night, and do come and see me soon, won't you. Why not
come to-morrow with Paddy?..."
"Paddy?" said Gilbert.
"Yes, Henry Quinn. I call him Paddy. It seems natural to call him Paddy.
He's so Irish. Do come with him to-morrow, and bring all your press
cuttings with you and read them to me. Paddy wants to talk to me...."
Henry walked away from them. What sort of woman was this? he asked
himself. Was she totally insensitive? Was it impossible for her to
realise that she was hurting him?...
"Good-night, Quinny!"
He turned quickly to take Mary's hand.
"We're going back to Devonshire the day after to-morrow," she said.
"Are you?" he murmured vaguely.
"Yes. Good-night, Quinny!"
"Aren't you tired?" he asked.
"Oh, no," she answered. "I've enjoyed myself awfully much. Here's
Ninian! He's taking us back to our hotel. Good-night, Quinny!"
He hesitated for a moment or two. He wanted to suggest that he should go
with her instead of Ninian, but before he could speak he saw Cecily
moving down the room towards the street.
"Good-night, Mary!" was all he said.
6
Roger had taken Rachel home, and so, when Ninian had gone off with his
mother and Mary, there were only Henry and Gilbert left.
"Let's go home, Quinny," Gilbert said. "I'd like to walk if you don't
mind!"
"Very well," Henry replied.
They left the hotel and strolled across the street towards the National
Gallery.
"I wish it were the morning," Gilbert said. "I want to see the
newspapers!"
"It doesn't greatly matter what they say, does it?" Henry answered. "The
play's a success. The audience liked it."
"I want to read the notices all the same. Of course, I want to read
them. I shall spend the whole of to-morrow reading and re-reading them.
Just vanity!"
They walked past the Gallery, and made their way through the complicated
streets that lie behind the Strand, about Covent Garden, towards
Bloomsbury. They did not speak for some time, for they were tired and
their minds were too full of other things. Once indeed, Gilbert began to
speak ... "I think I could improve the second act a little ..." but he
did not finish his sentence, and Henry did not ask him to do so. It was
not until they were nearly at their home that Henry spoke to Gilbert
about Cecily.
"Are you going to Lady Cecily's to-morrow?" he said.
"Eh?" Gilbert exclaimed, starting out of his dreams. "Oh, no, I think
not! Why?"
"I only wondered. She asked you, you know!"
They walked on in silence until they reached the door of their house.
"I say, Quinny," said Gilbert, while Henry opened the door, "you seem to
be very friendly with Cecily!"
Henry fumbled with the key and muttered, "Damn this door, it won't
open!"
"Let me try!..."
"It's all right now. I've done it! What were you saying, Gilbert?"
They entered the house, shutting the door behind them, and stood for a
while in the hall, removing their hats and coats.
"Oh, nothing," Gilbert replied. "I was only saying you seemed very
friendly with Cecily!"
"Well, yes, I suppose I am, but not more than most people. Are you going
to bed now or will you wait up for Ninian and Roger?"
"I shan't sleep if I go to bed ... I'm too excited. I shall read for a
while in my room ... unless you'd like to jaw a bit!"
Henry shook his head. "No," he said, "I'm too tired to jaw to-night. See
you in the morning. Good-night, Gilbert!"
"Good-night, Quinny!"
Henry went to his bedroom, leaving Gilbert in the hall, and began to
undress. His mind was full of a flat rage against Cecily. She had
consented to meet him in St. James's Park, and then, almost as she had
made her promise, she had turned to Gilbert and had invited him to call
on her, in his company, at the time she had appointed for his private
meeting with her. He did not wish to see her again. "She's fooling me,"
he said, throwing his coat on to a chair so that it fell on to the
ground where he let it lie. "I've not done a stroke of work for days on
her account, and she cares no more for me than she does for ... for
anybody. I won't go and meet her to-morrow, damn her! I'll send a
messenger to say I can't come, and then I'll drop her. It isn't worth
while going through this ... this agony for a woman who doesn't care a
curse for you!"
"I'm not going to be treated like this," he went on to himself while he
brushed his teeth. "I'm not going to hang about her and let her treat me
as she pleases. She can get somebody else, some one who is more
complacent than I am, and doesn't feel things. I hope she goes to the
Park and waits for me. Perhaps that'll teach her to understand what a
man feels like...."
But of course she would not go to the Park and wait for him. He would
send an express messenger with a note to tell her that he was unable to
keep the appointment.
"I'll write it now," he said to himself and he stopped in the middle of
washing his face and hands to find notepaper. "Damn, my hands are wet,"
he said aloud, and picked up a towel.
"_Dear Lady Cecily_," he wrote, when he was dry, using the formal
address because he wished to let her know that he was ill friends with
her, "_I am sorry I shall not be able to meet you to-day as we arranged
last night_." He wondered what excuse he should make for breaking off
the appointment, and then decided that he would not make any. "I won't
add anything else," he said, and he signed himself, "_Yours sincerely,
Henry Quinn_." "She'll know that I'm sick of this ... messing about. I
don't see why I should explain myself to her!"
He sealed the envelope and put the letter aside, and sat for a while
drumming on his table with the pen.
"Mary's worth a dozen of her," he said aloud, getting up and going to
bed.