FISHING FOR AN INVITATION
MRS. WALDERSHARE presented a most charming picture, as she rustled into
Mrs. Gascoigne's great drawing-room, with her exquisitely gloved hands
eagerly extended. Her _entrée_ was accompanied by the rustling of silk,
a faint jingling of beads, and atmosphere of heliotrope. She wore an
elaborate white dress, a black plumed hat, both unmistakably French and
expensive.
"Oh, I am so ashamed!" she exclaimed; "I had to pay one or two other
calls, and like a greedy child with sweets, I kept the best for the
last. I had not the faintest idea it was so late."
"Better late than never," said her hostess, politely, and the gong at
that moment sounded for tiffin.
"You will stay, won't you?" she urged, little knowing that her visitor
had carefully timed her arrival in order to be sure of catching Philip
at home; "I'll send away the gharry."
"Oh, thank you, I must confess it is a great temptation; but do you
think the Blaines will mind?" and she looked at her hostess appealingly.
"I can write a line if you like. Philip," turning about as her husband
entered, "here is Mrs. Waldershare—she will stay to lunch."
Lola gave her former lover her hand, and a long, expressing glance;
then as Angel hurried out, she said: "What a charming home you have,
Philip."
"I am glad you like it," he said cheerfully.
"How funny to think of this being your house, Philip, and of you being
married and happy." She gazed up at him with soft interrogation as she
spoke, then dropped her voice and said, "And I am solitary and homeless
and poor—all my life, I've stood aside for others and—given up."
One of Lola's chief accomplishments was to tell the most dramatic and
delightful lies.
"I can't say that you answer your own description," replied Gascoigne,
ignoring her touching insinuations. "I never saw anyone that looked
more fit."
"Ah, appearances are deceitful," rejoined the lady with a sigh; "but
how well you are looking—so little changed," another wistful glance.
"Won't you come into tiffin," said Angel, appearing suddenly. "I
have sent off a note to Mrs. Blaine," and she led the way into the
dining-room.
"What a delightful bungalow this is," remarked Lola, after she had
helped herself carefully to mayonnaise; "so much larger than the
Blaines'. Quite double the size."
"Yes, I suppose it is," assented Angel, carelessly.
"They have only one spare room. Of course they are not old friends,
only board ship acquaintances, and it was so good of them to put me up;
but I've got to turn out."
"You are going on to Edgar?" said her host.
"Oh, no, such a bore. The Edgars are moving, and won't be settled for
a whole month. She is marching with the regiment to Seetapore, so I am
going to take my chance in the Imperial Hotel here."
And Lola looked down, and sighed profoundly.
"Will it be very bad, do you think?" she asked, suddenly raising her
eyes to Angel.
"I'm sure I cannot say; I've never stayed in a hotel in India, but a
great many globe-trotters put up there in the cold weather."
Philip gazed at his wife. Was she unable to recognise a broad hint, or
was she intentionally and exceptionally dense?
"By the way," continued Angel, "have you not a friend at Chitachar? I
heard a lady mention that she had been your bridesmaid."
"Oh, yes, my dear, pray don't speak of her—such a dull creature, with
a voice like a fog-horn. Philip, you remember Lucy Worsley at the
Parsonage?"
"Oh, yes, of course I do. She was a good sort, and had a first-rate
Airedale terrier."
"She was densely stupid, and always had chilblains, even in summer.
She is out here now, and telegraphed me to go and stay with her"—Mrs.
Waldershare had made full inquiries respecting Chitachar;—"but I
really cannot move again so soon."
"What brought you out to India? What put it into your head to come
East?"
"The instinct of exploration, I think; and I wanted so much to see dear
old Edgar again, and"—with a crooked smile—"you. As one grows older,
especially when one has no home or ties, one gets restless, and hankers
for the friends of one's childhood—don't you think so, Mrs. Gascoigne?"
"No, I can't say that I ever hankered after the friends of my
childhood, except one," she replied; "I have four half-brothers, whom
I never wish to see again."
Lola opened her eyes, until they looked a size larger, and gazed at
Angel in astonishment, and then broke into a laugh.
"I suppose you had a different experience to mine—we had a very good
time, had we not, Philip?" she appealed to him in her sweet, persuasive
voice.
"Yes, we made things fairly lively for ourselves and others."
"It's one thing that cannot be taken from us—our memories. Do you
remember the day the piebald pony ran away with us, and jumped the
gate?"
"That is hardly a happy memory."
"No; but the picnics to Tancliffe Abbey, our cooking and dressing
up—our—oh"—with a quick little gesture of abandonment—"our
_everything_."
Gascoigne laughed. "We were awfully keen on half-raw potatoes, the
cinders of birds, and corking our faces on the smallest provocation.
How one's tastes change!"
"Aunt General Gascoigne, and dear Aunt Ven—how lovely she was,"
continued the guest. Philip shrank like a sensitive plant; he did not
wish her to speak of his mother. Lola, with her quick perception, was
instantly aware of this, and added in almost the next breath, "And do
you remember the nest in the Clock Tower, that I dared you to get?"
Philip rose and said, "I am afraid I must remember events of to-day,
and ask you to excuse me—I have to see the General before three. Angel
and you can have a talk, and she will drive you home after tea."
"Oh, I cannot stay to-day, I've heaps to do," protested Lola piteously;
"but I'll just smoke a cigarette with Mrs. Gascoigne—no, I really must
call her Angel—I daresay she smokes?"
"I did," acknowledged Angel, "but I've given it up."
"Why?"
Angel made no reply beyond a laugh; she had given it up to please
Philip. At last she said, "Well, I suppose we outgrow our habits."
"Do we? I never outgrow mine, and smoking gives us all the pleasures of
hope and of memory. Let us sit in two corners of this sofa and talk; I
do want to know you."
"It is very kind of you to say so," responded Angel quietly. Lola gave
a long comprehensive glance round the luxurious room, and blew a cloud
of smoke through her nostrils.
"You must be very well off," she remarked suddenly.
"We are," admitted her companion; "an old friend of Philip's mother, a
lover, I believe, died a year ago, and left him three thousand a year."
"Nonsense," sitting erect; "fancy remaining in this country."
"Philip likes it—his heart is in his work. He would hate to retire,
and just live in London clubs and in a house in Mayfair."
"What do you know of Mayfair?"
"Not much, but I lived there once." A pause, and then Angel suddenly
said, "Please tell me about Philip's mother."
"Oh, Aunt Ven, as we called her. She was beautiful; such a lovely
face, a little sad—a good woman. It was said that in her first season,
she took London by storm, also her second, and at the height of her
glory she dropped out of the firmament; and was seen no more."
"Was there not a reason?"
"None, beyond a mere surmise; people hinted at a love affair—and
a mischief-maker. Ten years after she reappeared as Mrs.
Gascoigne—married someone who did not expect a whole heart-devouring
passion. Her son," again that crooked smile, "you see has done the
same."
"You mean in marrying me," said Angel quickly.
Lola pulled herself together. Had that glass of Burgundy gone to her
head? She must be more wary. This kind of talk was so full of pitfalls.
"Of course," she replied, taking Angel's hand in hers, "you make him
far happier than I could have done, and you are just the right age—the
early twenties."
"But you look in the twenties yourself. How do you manage it?"
"Oh, I try to get the very most out of life, by keeping in touch with
what is pleasing. I never see or hear anything disagreeable—be gay,
and you remain young." And Lola released her companion's fingers with a
squeeze.
"But if you feel things terribly, and are sorry for people, and
animals, and misery?"
"Oh, that is fatal, it means bad nights, and wrinkles, and horrors; I
cannot afford to be emotional, I am a poor solitary woman. If you read
sad books, and sing sad songs, and mix with sad people, you become sad
yourself. Do you know that you look rather sad—it was the first thing
that struck me when I saw you."
"Oh, but I'm not," rejoined Angel, and the colour rose to her face;
"I'm really supposed to be rather frivolous and——"
"And here is my gharry coming back," interrupted the visitor, "and,
alas! I must go. I'll see you at the theatre this evening, won't I?
And you are going to see a great deal of _me_, dear. I hope you won't
mind." As she spoke, Mrs. Waldershare embraced the astonished Angel
with much _empressment_, went gracefully down the steps, ascended into
her hired conveyance, and was presently rattled away.