SCENE _The conservatory of No. 300 Grosvenor Square. Hour, close on
midnight. A ball is in progress, and dreamy waltz music is heard in the
distance._
LADY ALINE DE VAUX _enters, leaning on the arm of_ MR. HARRISON
CROCKSTEAD.
LADY ALINE _is a tall, exquisitely-gowned girl, of the
conventional and much-admired type of beauty. Put her in any
drawing-room in the world, and she would at once be recognised as
a highborn Englishwoman. She has in her, in embryo, all those
excellent qualities that go to make a great lady: the icy stare,
the haughty movement of the shoulder, the disdainful arch of the
lip; she has also, but only an experienced observer would notice
it, something of wistfulness, something that speaks of a sore and
wounded heart--though it is sufficiently evident that this organ
is kept under admirable control. A girl who has been placed in a
position of life where artificiality rules, who has been taught
to be artificial and has thoroughly learned her lesson; yet one
who would unhesitatingly know the proper thing to do did a camel
bolt with her in the desert, or an eastern potentate invite her
to become his two hundred and fifty-seventh wife. In a word, a
lady of complete self-possession and magnificent control._ MR.
CROCKSTEAD _is a big, burly man of forty or so, and of the kind
to whom the ordinary West End butler would consider himself
perfectly justified in declaring that her ladyship was not at
home. And yet his evening clothes sit well on him; and there is a
certain air of command about the man that would have made the
butler uncomfortable. That functionary would have excused himself
by declaring that_ MR. CROCKSTEAD _didn't look a gentleman. And
perhaps he doesn't. His walk is rather a slouch; he has a way of
keeping his hands in his pockets, and of jerking out his
sentences; a way, above all, of seeming perfectly indifferent to
the comfort of the people he happens to be addressing. The
impression he gives is one of power, not of refinement; and the
massive face, with its heavy lines, and eyes that are usually
veiled, seems to give no clue whatever to the character of the
man within._
_The couple break apart when they enter the room;_ LADY ALINE _is
the least bit nervous, though she shows no trace of it;_ MR.
CROCKSTEAD _absolutely imperturbable and undisturbed._
CROCKSTEAD. [_Looking around._] Ah--this is the place--very quiet,
retired, romantic--et cetera. Music in the distance--all very appropriate
and sentimental.
[_She leaves him, and sits, quietly fanning herself; he stands, looking
at her._] You seem perfectly calm, Lady Aline?
ALINE. [_Sitting._] Conservatories are not unusual appendages to a
ball-room, Mr. Crockstead; nor is this conservatory unlike other
conservatories.
CROCKSTEAD [_Turning to her._] I wonder why women are always so evasive?
ALINE. With your permission we will not discuss the sex. You and I are too
old to be cynical, and too young to be appreciative. And besides, it is a
rule of mine, whenever I sit out a dance, that my partner shall avoid the
subjects of women--and golf.
CROCKSTEAD. You limit the area of conversation. But then, in this
particular instance, I take it, we have not come here to talk?
ALINE. [_Coldly._] I beg your pardon!
CROCKSTEAD. [_Sitting beside her._] Lady Aline, they are dancing a
cotillon in there, so we have half an hour before us. We shall not be
disturbed, for the Duchess, your aunt, has considerately stationed her
aged companion in the corridor, with instructions to ward off intruders.
ALINE. [_Very surprised._] Mr. Crockstead!
CROCKSTEAD. [_Looking hard at her._] Didn't you know? [ALINE _turns aside,
embarrassed._] That's right--of course you did. Don't you know why I have
brought you here? That's right; of course you do. The Duchess, your aunt,
and the Marchioness, your mother--observe how fondly my tongue trips out
the titles--smiled sweetly on us as we left the ball-room. There will be
a notice in the _Morning Post_ to-morrow: "A Marriage Has Been Arranged
Between--"