Harry Pallant was never more desperately in love with his wife Louie
than on the night of that delightful dance at the Vernon Ogilvies'. She
wore her pale blue satin, with the low bodice, and her pretty necklet of
rough amber in natural lumps, which her husband had given her for a
birthday present just three days earlier. Harry wasn't rich, and he
wasn't able to do everything that he could have wished for Louie--a
young barrister, with no briefs to speak of, even if he ekes out his
petty professional income with literary work, can't afford to spend very
much in the way of personal adornment upon the ladies of his family--but
he loved his pretty little wife dearly, and nothing pleased him better
than to see Louie admired as she ought to be by other people. And that
evening, to be sure, she was looking her very sweetest and prettiest.
Flushed a little with unwonted excitement, in the glow of an innocent
girlish flirtation, as she stood there talking to Hugh Ogilvie in the
dim recess by the door of the conservatory, Harry, watching her
unobserved from a nook of the refreshment-room, thought he had never in
his life seen her look more beautiful or more becomingly animated.
Animation suited Louie Pallant, and Hugh Ogilvie thought so too, as he
half whispered his meaningless compliments in her dainty little ear, and
noted the blush that rose quickly to her soft cheek, and the sudden
droop of her long eyelashes above her great open hazel-grey eyes.
"Hugh's saying something pretty to Louie, I'm sure," Harry thought to
himself with a smile of pleasure, as he looked across at the sweet
little graceful girlish figure. "I can see it at once in her face, and
in her hands, playing so nervously with the edge of her fan. Dear child,
how she lets one read in her eyes and cheeks her every tiny passing
feeling! Her pretty wee mouth is like an open book! Hugh's telling her
confidentially now that she's the belle of the evening. And so she is;
there's not a doubt about it. Not a girl in the place fit to hold a
candle to my Louie; especially when she blushes--she's sweet when she
blushes. Now she's colouring up again. By Jove, yes, he must be
positively making love to her. There's nothing I enjoy so much as seeing
Louie enjoying herself, and being made much of. Too many girls, bright
young girls, when they marry early, as Louie has done, settle down at
once into household drudges, and never seem to get any happiness worth
mentioning out of their lives in any way. I won't let it be so with
Louie. Dear little soul, she shall flit about as much as she likes, and
enjoy herself as the fancy seizes her, like a little butterfly, just
like a butterfly. I love to see it!" And he hugged one clasped hand upon
the other silently.
Whence the astute reader will readily infer that Harry Pallant was still
more or less in love with his wife Louie, although they had been married
for five years and upwards.
Presently Louie and Hugh went back into the ballroom, and for the first
time Harry noticed that the music had struck up some minutes since for
the next waltz, for which he was engaged to Hugh's sister, Mrs. Wetherby
Ferrand. He started hastily at the accusing sound, for in watching his
wife he had forgotten his partner. Returning at once in search of Mrs.
Ferrand, he found her sitting disconsolate in a corner waiting for him,
and looking (as was natural) not altogether pleased at his ungallant
treatment.
"So you've come at last, Harry!" Mrs. Ferrand said, with evident pique.
They had been friends from childhood, and knew one another well enough
to use both their Christian names and the critical freedom of old
intimacy.
"Yes, Dora, I've come at last," Harry answered, with an apologetic bow,
as he offered her his arm, "and I'm so sorry I've kept you waiting; but
the fact is I was watching Louie. She's been dancing with Hugh, and she
looks perfectly charming, I think, this evening."
Mrs. Ferrand bit her lip. "She does," she answered coldly, with half a
pout. "And you were so busy watching her, it seems, you forgot all about
_me_, Harry."
Harry laughed. "It was pardonable under the circumstances, you know,
Dora," he said lightly. "If it had been the other way, now, Louie might
have had some excuse for being jealous."
"Who said I was jealous?" Mrs. Ferrand cried, colouring up. "Jealous of
you, indeed! What right have I got to be jealous of you, Harry? She may
dance with Hugh all night long, for all I care for it. She's danced with
him now three times already, and I dare say she'll dance with him as
often again. You men are too conceited. You always think every woman on
earth is just madly in love with you."
"My dear child," Harry answered, with a faint curl of his lip, "you
quite misunderstand me. Heaven knows I at least am not conceited. What
on earth have I got to be conceited of? I never thought any woman was in
love with me in all my life except Louie; and what in the name of
goodness even she can find to fall in love with in me--a fellow like
me--positively passes my humble comprehension."
"She's going to dance the next waltz but one with Hugh, he tells me,"
Mrs. Ferrand replied drily, as if changing the conversation.
"Is she? Hugh's an excellent fellow," Harry answered carelessly, resting
for a moment a little aside from the throng, and singling out Louie at
once with his eye among the whirling dancers. "Ah, there she is, over
yonder. Do you see?--there, with that Captain Vandeleur. How sweetly she
dances, Dora! And how splendidly she carries herself! I declare, she's
the very gracefullest girl in all the room here."
Mrs. Ferrand dropped half a mock curtsey. "A polite partner would have
said 'bar one,' Harry," she murmured petulantly. "How awfully in love
with her you are, my dear boy. It must be nice to have a man so
perfectly devoted to one.... And I don't believe either she half
appreciates you. Some women would give their very eyes, do you know, to
be as much loved by any man as she's loved by you, Harry." And she
looked at him significantly.
"Well, but Ferrand----"
"Ah, poor Wetherby! Yes, yes; of course, of course, I quite agree with
you. You're always right, Harry. Poor Wetherby is the worthiest of men,
and in his own way does his very best, no doubt, to make me happy. But
there is devotion and devotion, Harry. _Il y a fagots et fagots._ Poor
dear Wetherby is no more capable----"
"Dora, Dora, for Heaven's sake, I beg of you, no confidences. As a legal
man, I must deprecate all confidences, otherwise than strictly in the
way of business. What got us first into this absurd groove, I wonder? Oh
yes, I remember--Louie's dancing. Shall we go on again? You must have
got your breath by this time. Why, what's the matter, Dora? You look
quite pale and flurried."
"Nothing, Harry. Nothing--nothing, I assure you. Not quite so tight,
please; go quietly--I'm rather tired.... Yes, that'll do, thank you.
The room's so very hot and close this evening. I can hardly breathe, I
feel so stifled. Tight-lacing, I suppose poor dear Wetherby would say. I
declare, Louie isn't dancing any longer. How very odd! She's gone back
again now to sit by Hugh there. What on earth can be the reason, I
wonder!"
"Captain Vandeleur's such an awfully bad waltzer, you know," Harry
answered unconcernedly. "I dare say she was glad enough to make some
excuse or other to get away from him. The room's so very hot and
stifling."
"Oh, you think so," and Dora Ferrand gave a quiet little smile, as one
who sees clearly below the surface. "I dare say. And she's not sorry
either to find some good reason for another ten minutes' chat with Hugh,
I fancy."
But Harry, in his innocence, never noticed her plain insinuation. "He's
as blind as a bat," Dora Ferrand thought to herself, half
contemptuously. "Just like poor dear Wetherby! Poor dear Wetherby never
suspects anything! And that girl Louie doesn't half appreciate Harry
either. Just like me, I suppose, with that poor dear stupid old
stockbroker. Stockbroker, indeed! What in the name of all that's
sensible could ever have induced me to go and marry a blind old stick of
a wealthy stockbroker? If Harry and I had only our lives to live
again--but there, what's the use of bothering one's head about it? We've
only got one life apiece, and that we generally begin by making a mull
of."