https://wodolei.ru/catalog/vodonagrevateli/Thermex/
she nodded. Desert said slowly:
“The moment I believe that, I shall go East.”
“East?”
“Not so stale as going West, but much the same–you don’t come back.”
Fleur thought: ‘The East? I should love to know the East! Pity one can’t manage that, too. Pity!’
“You won’t keep me in your Zoo, my dear. I shan’t hang around and feed on crumbs. You know what I feel–it means a smash of some sort.”
“It hasn’t been my fault, has it?”
“Yes; you’ve collected me, as you collect everybody that comes near you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Desert bent down, and dragged her hand to his lips.
“Don’t be riled with me; I’m too unhappy.”
Fleur let her hand stay against his hot lips.
“Sorry, Wilfrid.”
“All right, dear. I’ll go.”
“But you’re coming to dinner tomorrow?”
Desert said violently:
“TO-MORROW? Good God–no! What d’you think I’m made of?”
He flung her hand away.
“I don’t like violence, Wilfrid.”
“Well, good-bye; I’d better go.”
The words “And you’d better not come again” trembled up to her lips, but were not spoken. Part from Wilfrid–life would lose a little warmth! She waved her hand. He was gone. She heard the door closing. Poor Wilfrid! – nice to think of a flame at which to warm her hands! Nice but rather dreadful! And suddenly, dropping Ting-a-ling, she got up and began to walk about the room. To-morrow! Second anniversary of her wedding-day! Still an ache when she thought of what it had not been. But there was little time to think–and she made less. What good in thinking? Only one life, full of people, of things to do and have, of things wanted–a life only void of–one thing, and that–well, if people had it, they never had it long! On her lids two tears, which had gathered, dried without falling. Sentimentalism! No! The last thing in the world–the unforgivable offence! Whom should she put next whom tomorrow? And whom should she get in place of Wilfrid, if Wilfrid wouldn’t come–silly boy! One day–one night–what difference? Who should sit on her right, and who on her left? Was Aubrey Greene more distinguished, or Sibley Swan? Were they either as distinguished as Walter Nazing or Charles Upshire? Dinner of twelve, exclusively literary and artistic, except for Michael and Alison Charwell. Ah! Could Alison get her Gurdon Minho–just one writer of the old school, one glass of old wine to mellow effervescence? He didn’t publish with Danby and Winter; but he fed out of Alison’s hand. She went quickly to one of the old tea chests, and opened it. Inside was a telephone.
“Can I speak to Lady Alison–Mrs. Michael Mont… Yes… That you, Alison?… Fleur speaking. Wilfrid has fallen through tomorrow night… Is there any chance of your bringing Gurdon Minho? I don’t know him, of course; but he might be interested. You’ll try?… That’ll be ever so delightful. Isn’t the ‘Snooks’ Club meeting rather exciting? Bart says they’ll eat each other now they’ve split… About Mr. Minho. Could you let me know to-night? Thanks–thanks awfully!… Goodbye!”
Failing Minho, whom? Her mind hovered over the names in her address book. At so late a minute it must be some one who didn’t stand on ceremony; but except Alison, none of Michael’s relations would be safe from Sibley Swan or Nesta Gorse, and their subversive shafts; as to the Forsytes–out of the question; they had their own sub-acid humour (some of them), but they were not modern, not really modern. Besides, she saw as little of them as she could–they dated, belonged to the dramatic period, had no sense of life without beginning or end. No! If Gurdon Minho was a frost, it would have to be a musician, whose works were hieroglyphical with a dash of surgery; or, better, perhaps, a psycho-analyst. Her fingers turned the pages till she came to those two categories. Hugo Solstis? A possibility; but suppose he wanted to play them something recent? There was only Michael’s upright Grand, and that would mean going to his study. Better Gerald Hanks–he and Nesta Gorse would get off together on dreams; still, if they did, there would be no actual loss of life. Yes, failing Gurdon Minho, Gerald Hanks; he would be free–and put him between Alison and Nesta. She closed the book, and, going back to her jade-green settee, sat gazing at Ting-a-ling. The little dog’s prominent round eyes gazed back; bright, black, very old. Fleur thought: ‘I DON’T want Wilfrid to drop off.’ Among all the crowd who came and went, here, there and everywhere, she cared for nobody. Keep up with them, keep up with everything, of course! It was all frightfully amusing, frightfully necessary! Only–only–what?
Voices! Michael and Bart coming back. Bart had noticed Wilfrid. He WAS a noticing old Bart. She was never very comfortable when he was about–lively and twisting, but with something settled and ancestral in him; a little like Ting-a-ling–something judgmatic, ever telling her that she was fluttering and new. He was anchored, could only move to the length of his old-fashioned cord, but he could drop on to things disconcertingly. Still, he admired her, she felt–oh! yes.
Well! What had he thought of the cartoons? Ought Michael to publish them, and with letterpress or without? Didn’t he think that the cubic called ‘Still Life’–of the Government, too frightfully funny–especially the ‘old bean’ representing the Prime? For answer she was conscious of a twisting, rapid noise; Sir Lawrence was telling her of his father’s collection of electioneering cartoons. She did wish Bart would not tell her about his father; he had been so distinguished, and he must have been so dull, paying all his calls on horseback, with trousers strapped under his boots. He and Lord Charles Cariboo and the Marquis of Forfar had been the last three ‘callers’ of that sort. If only they hadn’t, they’d have been clean forgot. She had that dress to try, and fourteen things to see to, and Hugo’s concert began at eight-fifteen! Why did people of the last generation always have so much time? And, suddenly, she looked down. Ting-a-ling was licking the copper floor. She took him up: “Not that, darling; nasty!” Ah! the spell was broken! Bart was going, reminiscent to the last. She waited at the foot of the stairs till Michael shut the door on him, then flew. Reaching her room, she turned on all the lights. Here was her own style–a bed which did not look like one, and many mirrors. The couch of Ting-a-ling occupied a corner, whence he could see himself in three. She put him down, and said: “Keep quiet, now!” His attitude to the other dogs in the room had long become indifferent; though of his own breed and precisely his colouring, they had no smell and no licking power in their tongues–nothing to be done with them, imitative creatures, incredibly unresponsive.
Stripping off her dress, Fleur held the new frock under her chin.
“May I kiss you?” said a voice, and there was Michael’s image behind her own reflection in the glass.
“My dear boy, there isn’t time! Help me with this.” She slipped the frock over her head. “Do those three top hooks. How do you like it? Oh! and–Michael! Gurdon Minho may be coming to dinner tomorrow–Wilfrid can’t. Have you read his things? Sit down and tell me something about them. All novels, aren’t they? What sort?”
“Well, he’s always had something to say. And his cats are good. He’s a bit romantic, of course.”
“Oh! Have I made a gaff?”
“Not a bit; jolly good shot. The vice of our lot is, they say it pretty well, but they’ve nothing to say. They won’t last.”
“But that’s just why they will last. They won’t date.”
“Won’t they? My gum!”
“Wilfrid will last.”
“Ah! Wilfrid has emotions, hates, pities, wants; at least, sometimes; when he has, his stuff is jolly good. Otherwise, he just makes a song about nothing–like the rest.”
Fleur tucked in the top of her undergarment.
“But, Michael, if that’s so, we–I’ve got the wrong lot.”
Michael grinned.
“My dear child! The lot of the hour is always right; only you’ve got to watch it, and change it quick enough.”
“But d’you mean to say that Sibley isn’t going to live?”
“Sib? Lord, no!”
“But he’s so perfectly sure that almost everybody else is dead or dying. Surely he has critical genius!”
“If I hadn’t more judgment than Sib, I’d go out of publishing tomorrow.”
“You–more than Sibley Swan?”
“Of course, I’ve more judgment than Sib. Why! Sib’s judgment is just his opinion of Sib–common or garden impatience of any one else. He doesn’t even read them. He’ll read one specimen of every author and say: ‘Oh! that fellow! He’s dull, or he’s moral, or he’s sentimental, or he dates, or he drivels’–I’ve heard him dozens of times. That’s if they’re alive. Of course, if they’re dead, it’s different. He’s always digging up and canonising the dead; that’s how he’s got his name. There’s always a Sib in literature. He’s a standing example of how people can get taken at their own valuation. But as to lasting–of course he won’t; he’s never creative, even by mistake.”
Fleur had lost the thread. Yes! It suited her–quite a nice line! Off with it! Must write those three notes before she dressed.
Michael had begun again.
“Take my tip, Fleur. The really big people don’t talk–and don’t bunch–they paddle their own canoes in what seem backwaters. But it’s the backwaters that make the main stream. By Jove, that’s a mot, or is it a bull; and are bulls mots or mots bulls?”
“Michael, if you were me, would you tell Frederic Wilmer that he’ll be meeting Hubert Marsland at lunch next week? Would it bring him or would it put him off?”
“Marsland’s rather an old duck, Wilmer’s rather an old goose–I don’t know.”
“Oh! do be serious, Michael–you never give me any help in arranging–No! Don’t maul my shoulders please.”
“Well, darling, I DON’T know. I’ve no genius for such things, like you. Marsland paints windmills, cliffs and things–I doubt if he’s heard of the future. He’s almost a Mathew Mans for keeping out of the swim. If you think he’d like to meet a Vertiginist–”
“I didn’t ask you if he’d like to meet Wilmer; I asked you if Wilmer would like to meet him.”
“Wilmer will just say: ‘I like little Mrs. Mont, she gives deuced good grub’–and so you do, ducky. A Vertiginist wants nourishing, you know, or it wouldn’t go to his head.”
Fleur’s pen resumed its swift strokes, already becoming slightly illegible. She murmured:
“I think Wilfrid would help–you won’t be there; one–two–three. What women?”
“For painters–pretty and plump; no intellect.”
Fleur said crossly:
“I can’t get them plump; they don’t go about now.” And her pen flowed on:
“DEAR WILFRID, – Wednesday–lunch; Wilmer, Hubert Marsland, two other women. Do help me live it down.
“Yours ever,
“FLEUR.”
“Michael, your chin is like a bootbrush.”
“Sorry, old thing; your shoulders shouldn’t be so smooth. Bart gave Wilfrid a tip as we were coming along.”
Fleur stopped writing. “Oh!”
“Reminded him that the state of love was a good stunt for poets.”
“A propos of what?”
“Wilfrid was complaining that he couldn’t turn it out now.”
“Nonsense! His last things are his best.”
“Well, that’s what I think. Perhaps he’s forestalled the tip. Has he, d’you know?”
Fleur turned her eyes towards the face behind her shoulder. No, it had its native look–frank, irresponsible, slightly faun-like, with its pointed ears, quick lips, and nostrils.
She said slowly:
“If YOU don’t know, nobody does.”
A snuffle interrupted Michael’s answer. Ting-a-ling, long, low, slightly higher at both ends, was standing between them, with black muzzle upturned. ‘My pedigree is long,’ he seemed to say; ‘but my legs are short–what about it?’
Chapter III.
MUSICAL
According to a great and guiding principle, Fleur and Michael Mont attended the Hugo Solstis concert, not because they anticipated pleasure, but because they knew Hugo. They felt, besides, that Solstis, an Englishman of Russo–Dutch extraction, was one of those who were restoring English music, giving to it a wide and spacious freedom from melody and rhythm, while investing it with literary and mathematical charms. And one never could go to a concert given by any of this school without using the word ‘interesting’ as one was coming away. To sleep to this restored English music, too, was impossible. Fleur, a sound sleeper, had never even tried. Michael had, and complained afterwards that it had been like a nap in Liege railway station. On this occasion they occupied those gangway seats in the front row of the dress circle of which Fleur had a sort of natural monopoly. There Hugo and the rest could see her taking her place in the English restoration movement. It was easy, too, to escape into the corridor and exchange the word ‘interesting’ with side-whiskered cognoscenti; or, slipping out a cigarette from the little gold case, wedding present of Cousin Imogen Cardigan, get a whiff or two’s repose. To speak quite honestly, Fleur had a natural sense of rhythm which caused her discomfort during those long and ‘interesting’ passages which evidenced, as it were, the composer’s rise and fall from his bed of thorns. She secretly loved a tune, and the impossibility of ever confessing this without losing hold of Solstis, Baff, Birdigal, MacLewis, Clorane, and other English restoration composers, sometimes taxed to its limit a nature which had its Spartan side. Even to Michael she would not ‘confess’; and it was additionally trying when, with his native disrespect of persons, accentuated by life in the trenches and a publisher’s office, he would mutter: “Gad! Get on with it!” or: “Cripes! Ain’t he took bad!” especially as she knew that Michael was really putting up with it better than herself, having a more literary disposition, and a less dancing itch in his toes.
The first movement of the new Solstis composition–‘Phantasmagoria Piemontesque’–to which they had especially come to listen, began with some drawn-out chords. “What oh!” said Michael’s voice in her ear: “Three pieces of furniture moved simultaneously on a parquet floor!”
In Fleur’s involuntary smile was the whole secret of why her marriage had not been intolerable. After all, Michael was a dear! Devotion and mercury–jesting and loyalty–combined, they piqued and touched even a heart given away before it was bestowed on him. ‘Touch’ without ‘pique’ would have bored; ‘pique’ without ‘touch’ would have irritated. At this moment he was at peculiar advantage! Holding on to his knees, with his ears standing up, eyes glassy from loyalty to Hugo, and tongue in cheek, he was listening to that opening in a way which evoked Fleur’s admiration. The piece would be ‘interesting’–she fell into the state of outer observation and inner calculation very usual with her nowadays. Over there was L.S.D., the greater dramatist; she didn’t know him–yet. He looked rather frightening, his hair stood up so straight. And her eye began picturing him on her copper floor against a Chinese picture. And there–yes! Gurdon Minho! Imagine HIS coming to anything so modern! His profile WAS rather Roman–of the Aurelian period! Passing on from that antique, with the pleased thought that by this time tomorrow she might have collected it, she quartered the assembly face by face–she did not want to miss any one important.
“The furniture” had come to a sudden standstill.
“Interesting!” said a voice over her shoulder. Aubrey Greene! Illusive, rather moonlit, with his silky fair hair brushed straight back, and his greenish eyes–his smile always made her feel that he was ‘getting’ at her. But, after all, he was a cartoonist!
“Yes, isn’t it?”
He curled away. He might have stayed a little longer–there wouldn’t be time for any one else before those songs of Birdigal’s! Here came the singer Charles Powls! How stout and efficient he looked, dragging little Birdigal to the piano.
Charming accompaniment–rippling, melodious!
The stout, efficient man began to sing. How different from the accompaniment! The song hit every note just off the solar plexus. It mathematically prevented her from feeling pleasure. Birdigal must have written it in horror of some one calling it ‘vocal.’ Vocal! Fleur knew how catching the word was; it would run like a measle round the ring, and Birdigal would be no more! Poor Birdigal! But this was ‘interesting.’ Only, as Michael was saying: “O, my Gawd!”
Three songs! Powls was wonderful–so loyal! Never one note hit so that it rang out like music! Her mind fluttered off to Wilfrid. To him, of all the younger poets, people accorded the right to say something; it gave him such a position–made him seem to come out of life, instead of literature. Besides, he had done things in the war, was a son of Lord Mullyon, would get the Mercer Prize probably, for ‘Copper Coin.’ If Wilfrid abandoned her, a star would fall from the firmament above her copper floor. He had no right to leave her in the lurch. He must learn not to be violent–not to think physically. No! she couldn’t let Wilfrid slip away; nor could she have any more sob-stuff in her life, searing passions, cul de sacs, aftermaths. She had tasted of that; a dulled ache still warned her.
Birdigal was bowing, Michael saying: “Come out for a whiff! The next thing’s a dud!” Oh! ah! Beethoven. Poor old Beethoven! So out of date–one did RATHER enjoy him!
The corridor, and refectory beyond, were swarming with the restoration movement. Young men and women with faces and heads of lively and distorted character, were exchanging the word ‘interesting.’ Men of more massive type, resembling sedentary matadors, blocked all circulation. Fleur and Michael passed a little way along, stood against the wall, and lighted cigarettes. Fleur smoked hers delicately–a very little one in a tiny amber holder. She had the air of admiring blue smoke rather than of making it; there were spheres to consider beyond this sort of crowd–one never knew who might be about! – the sphere, for instance, in which Alison Charwell moved, politico-literary, catholic in taste, but, as Michael always put it, “Convinced, like a sanitary system, that it’s the only sphere in the world; look at the way they all write books of reminiscence about each other!” They might, she always felt, disapprove of women smoking in public halls. Consorting delicately with iconoclasm, Fleur never forgot that her feet were in two worlds at least. Standing there, observant of all to left and right, she noted against the wall one whose face was screened by his programme. ‘Wilfrid,’ she thought, ‘and doesn’t mean to see me!’ Mortified, as a child from whom a sixpence is filched, she said:
“There’s Wilfrid! Fetch him, Michael!”
Michael crossed, and touched his best man’s sleeve; Desert’s face emerged, frowning. She saw him shrug his shoulders, turn and walk into the throng. Michael came back.
“Wilfrid’s got the hump to-night; says he’s not fit for human society–queer old son!”
How obtuse men were! Because Wilfrid was his pal, Michael did not see; and that was lucky! So Wilfrid really meant to avoid her! Well, she would see! And she said:
“I’m tired, Michael; let’s go home.”
His hand slid round her arm.
“Sorry, old thing; come along!”
They stood a moment in a neglected doorway, watching Woomans, the conductor, launched towards his orchestra.
“Look at him,” said Michael; “guy hung out of an Italian window, legs and arms all stuffed and flying! And look at the Frapka and her piano–that’s a turbulent union!”
There was a strange sound.
“Melody, by George!” said Michael.
An attendant muttered in their ears: “Now, sir, I’m going to shut the door.” Fleur had a fleeting view of L.S.D. sitting upright as his hair, with closed eyes. The door was shut–they were outside in the hall.
“Wait here, darling; I’ll nick a rickshaw.”
Fleur huddled her chin in her fur. It was easterly and cold.
A voice behind her said:
“Well, Fleur, am I going East?”
Wilfrid! His collar up to his ears, a cigarette between his lips, hands in pockets, eyes devouring.
“You’re very silly, Wilfrid!”
“Anything you like; am I going East?”
“No; Sunday morning–eleven o’clock at the Tate. We’ll talk it out.”
“Convenu!” And he was gone.
Alone suddenly, like that, Fleur felt the first shock of reality. Was Wilfrid truly going to be unmanageable? A taxicab ground up; Michael beckoned; Fleur stepped in.
Passing a passionately lighted oasis of young ladies displaying to the interested Londoner the acme of Parisian undress, she felt Michael incline towards her. If she were going to keep Wilfrid, she must be nice to Michael. Only:
“You needn’t kiss me in Piccadilly Circus, Michael!”
“Sorry, duckie! It’s a little previous–I meant to get you opposite the Partheneum.”
Fleur remembered how he had slept on a Spanish sofa for the first fortnight of their honeymoon; how he always insisted that she must not spend anything on him, but must always let him give her what he liked, though she had three thousand a year and he twelve hundred; how jumpy he was when she had a cold–and how he always came home to tea. Yes, he was a dear! But would she break her heart if he went East or West tomorrow?
Snuggled against him, she was surprised at her own cynicism.
A telephone message written out, in the hall, ran: “Please tell Mrs. Mont I’ve got Mr. Gurding Minner. Lady Alisson.”
It was restful. A real antique! She turned on the lights in her room, and stood for a moment admiring it. Truly pretty! A slight snuffle from the corner–Ting-a-ling, tan on a black cushion, lay like a Chinese lion in miniature; pure, remote, fresh from evening communion with the Square railings.
“I see you,” said Fleur.
Ting-a-ling did not stir; his round black eyes watched his mistress undress. When she returned from the bathroom he was curled into a ball. Fleur thought: ‘Queer! How does he know Michael won’t be coming?’ And slipping into her well warmed bed, she too curled herself up and slept.
But in the night, contrary to her custom, she awoke. A cry–long, weird, trailing, from somewhere–the river–the slums at the back–rousing memory–poignant, aching–of her honeymoon–Granada, its roofs below, jet, ivory, gold; the watchman’s cry, the lines in Jon’s letter:
“Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping
Spanish City darkened under her white stars.
What says the voice–its clear, lingering anguish?
Just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety?
Just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song?
No! ’Tis one deprived, whose lover’s heart is weeping,
Just his cry: ‘How long?’”
A cry, or had she dreamed it? Jon, Wilfrid, Michael! No use to have a heart!
Chapter IV.
DINING
Lady Alison Charwell, born Heathfield, daughter of the first Earl of Campden, and wife to Lionel Charwell, K.C., Michael’s somewhat young uncle, was a delightful Englishwoman brought up in a set accepted as the soul of society. Full of brains, energy, taste, money, and tinctured in its politico-legal ancestry by blue blood, this set was linked to, but apart from ‘Snooks’ and the duller haunts of birth and privilege. It was gay, charming, free-and-easy, and, according to Michael, “Snobbish, old thing, aesthetically and intellectually, but they’ll never see it. They think they’re the top notch–quick, healthy, up-to-date, well-bred, intelligent; they simply can’t imagine their equals. But you see their imagination is deficient. Their really creative energy would go into a pint pot. Look at their books–they’re always ON something–philosophy, spiritualism, poetry, fishing, themselves; why, even their sonnets dry up before they’re twenty-five. They know everything–except mankind outside their own set. Oh! they work–they run the show–they have to; there’s no one else with their brains, and energy, and taste. But they run it round and round in their own blooming circle. It’s the world to them–and it might be worse. They’ve patented their own golden age;
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22
“The moment I believe that, I shall go East.”
“East?”
“Not so stale as going West, but much the same–you don’t come back.”
Fleur thought: ‘The East? I should love to know the East! Pity one can’t manage that, too. Pity!’
“You won’t keep me in your Zoo, my dear. I shan’t hang around and feed on crumbs. You know what I feel–it means a smash of some sort.”
“It hasn’t been my fault, has it?”
“Yes; you’ve collected me, as you collect everybody that comes near you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Desert bent down, and dragged her hand to his lips.
“Don’t be riled with me; I’m too unhappy.”
Fleur let her hand stay against his hot lips.
“Sorry, Wilfrid.”
“All right, dear. I’ll go.”
“But you’re coming to dinner tomorrow?”
Desert said violently:
“TO-MORROW? Good God–no! What d’you think I’m made of?”
He flung her hand away.
“I don’t like violence, Wilfrid.”
“Well, good-bye; I’d better go.”
The words “And you’d better not come again” trembled up to her lips, but were not spoken. Part from Wilfrid–life would lose a little warmth! She waved her hand. He was gone. She heard the door closing. Poor Wilfrid! – nice to think of a flame at which to warm her hands! Nice but rather dreadful! And suddenly, dropping Ting-a-ling, she got up and began to walk about the room. To-morrow! Second anniversary of her wedding-day! Still an ache when she thought of what it had not been. But there was little time to think–and she made less. What good in thinking? Only one life, full of people, of things to do and have, of things wanted–a life only void of–one thing, and that–well, if people had it, they never had it long! On her lids two tears, which had gathered, dried without falling. Sentimentalism! No! The last thing in the world–the unforgivable offence! Whom should she put next whom tomorrow? And whom should she get in place of Wilfrid, if Wilfrid wouldn’t come–silly boy! One day–one night–what difference? Who should sit on her right, and who on her left? Was Aubrey Greene more distinguished, or Sibley Swan? Were they either as distinguished as Walter Nazing or Charles Upshire? Dinner of twelve, exclusively literary and artistic, except for Michael and Alison Charwell. Ah! Could Alison get her Gurdon Minho–just one writer of the old school, one glass of old wine to mellow effervescence? He didn’t publish with Danby and Winter; but he fed out of Alison’s hand. She went quickly to one of the old tea chests, and opened it. Inside was a telephone.
“Can I speak to Lady Alison–Mrs. Michael Mont… Yes… That you, Alison?… Fleur speaking. Wilfrid has fallen through tomorrow night… Is there any chance of your bringing Gurdon Minho? I don’t know him, of course; but he might be interested. You’ll try?… That’ll be ever so delightful. Isn’t the ‘Snooks’ Club meeting rather exciting? Bart says they’ll eat each other now they’ve split… About Mr. Minho. Could you let me know to-night? Thanks–thanks awfully!… Goodbye!”
Failing Minho, whom? Her mind hovered over the names in her address book. At so late a minute it must be some one who didn’t stand on ceremony; but except Alison, none of Michael’s relations would be safe from Sibley Swan or Nesta Gorse, and their subversive shafts; as to the Forsytes–out of the question; they had their own sub-acid humour (some of them), but they were not modern, not really modern. Besides, she saw as little of them as she could–they dated, belonged to the dramatic period, had no sense of life without beginning or end. No! If Gurdon Minho was a frost, it would have to be a musician, whose works were hieroglyphical with a dash of surgery; or, better, perhaps, a psycho-analyst. Her fingers turned the pages till she came to those two categories. Hugo Solstis? A possibility; but suppose he wanted to play them something recent? There was only Michael’s upright Grand, and that would mean going to his study. Better Gerald Hanks–he and Nesta Gorse would get off together on dreams; still, if they did, there would be no actual loss of life. Yes, failing Gurdon Minho, Gerald Hanks; he would be free–and put him between Alison and Nesta. She closed the book, and, going back to her jade-green settee, sat gazing at Ting-a-ling. The little dog’s prominent round eyes gazed back; bright, black, very old. Fleur thought: ‘I DON’T want Wilfrid to drop off.’ Among all the crowd who came and went, here, there and everywhere, she cared for nobody. Keep up with them, keep up with everything, of course! It was all frightfully amusing, frightfully necessary! Only–only–what?
Voices! Michael and Bart coming back. Bart had noticed Wilfrid. He WAS a noticing old Bart. She was never very comfortable when he was about–lively and twisting, but with something settled and ancestral in him; a little like Ting-a-ling–something judgmatic, ever telling her that she was fluttering and new. He was anchored, could only move to the length of his old-fashioned cord, but he could drop on to things disconcertingly. Still, he admired her, she felt–oh! yes.
Well! What had he thought of the cartoons? Ought Michael to publish them, and with letterpress or without? Didn’t he think that the cubic called ‘Still Life’–of the Government, too frightfully funny–especially the ‘old bean’ representing the Prime? For answer she was conscious of a twisting, rapid noise; Sir Lawrence was telling her of his father’s collection of electioneering cartoons. She did wish Bart would not tell her about his father; he had been so distinguished, and he must have been so dull, paying all his calls on horseback, with trousers strapped under his boots. He and Lord Charles Cariboo and the Marquis of Forfar had been the last three ‘callers’ of that sort. If only they hadn’t, they’d have been clean forgot. She had that dress to try, and fourteen things to see to, and Hugo’s concert began at eight-fifteen! Why did people of the last generation always have so much time? And, suddenly, she looked down. Ting-a-ling was licking the copper floor. She took him up: “Not that, darling; nasty!” Ah! the spell was broken! Bart was going, reminiscent to the last. She waited at the foot of the stairs till Michael shut the door on him, then flew. Reaching her room, she turned on all the lights. Here was her own style–a bed which did not look like one, and many mirrors. The couch of Ting-a-ling occupied a corner, whence he could see himself in three. She put him down, and said: “Keep quiet, now!” His attitude to the other dogs in the room had long become indifferent; though of his own breed and precisely his colouring, they had no smell and no licking power in their tongues–nothing to be done with them, imitative creatures, incredibly unresponsive.
Stripping off her dress, Fleur held the new frock under her chin.
“May I kiss you?” said a voice, and there was Michael’s image behind her own reflection in the glass.
“My dear boy, there isn’t time! Help me with this.” She slipped the frock over her head. “Do those three top hooks. How do you like it? Oh! and–Michael! Gurdon Minho may be coming to dinner tomorrow–Wilfrid can’t. Have you read his things? Sit down and tell me something about them. All novels, aren’t they? What sort?”
“Well, he’s always had something to say. And his cats are good. He’s a bit romantic, of course.”
“Oh! Have I made a gaff?”
“Not a bit; jolly good shot. The vice of our lot is, they say it pretty well, but they’ve nothing to say. They won’t last.”
“But that’s just why they will last. They won’t date.”
“Won’t they? My gum!”
“Wilfrid will last.”
“Ah! Wilfrid has emotions, hates, pities, wants; at least, sometimes; when he has, his stuff is jolly good. Otherwise, he just makes a song about nothing–like the rest.”
Fleur tucked in the top of her undergarment.
“But, Michael, if that’s so, we–I’ve got the wrong lot.”
Michael grinned.
“My dear child! The lot of the hour is always right; only you’ve got to watch it, and change it quick enough.”
“But d’you mean to say that Sibley isn’t going to live?”
“Sib? Lord, no!”
“But he’s so perfectly sure that almost everybody else is dead or dying. Surely he has critical genius!”
“If I hadn’t more judgment than Sib, I’d go out of publishing tomorrow.”
“You–more than Sibley Swan?”
“Of course, I’ve more judgment than Sib. Why! Sib’s judgment is just his opinion of Sib–common or garden impatience of any one else. He doesn’t even read them. He’ll read one specimen of every author and say: ‘Oh! that fellow! He’s dull, or he’s moral, or he’s sentimental, or he dates, or he drivels’–I’ve heard him dozens of times. That’s if they’re alive. Of course, if they’re dead, it’s different. He’s always digging up and canonising the dead; that’s how he’s got his name. There’s always a Sib in literature. He’s a standing example of how people can get taken at their own valuation. But as to lasting–of course he won’t; he’s never creative, even by mistake.”
Fleur had lost the thread. Yes! It suited her–quite a nice line! Off with it! Must write those three notes before she dressed.
Michael had begun again.
“Take my tip, Fleur. The really big people don’t talk–and don’t bunch–they paddle their own canoes in what seem backwaters. But it’s the backwaters that make the main stream. By Jove, that’s a mot, or is it a bull; and are bulls mots or mots bulls?”
“Michael, if you were me, would you tell Frederic Wilmer that he’ll be meeting Hubert Marsland at lunch next week? Would it bring him or would it put him off?”
“Marsland’s rather an old duck, Wilmer’s rather an old goose–I don’t know.”
“Oh! do be serious, Michael–you never give me any help in arranging–No! Don’t maul my shoulders please.”
“Well, darling, I DON’T know. I’ve no genius for such things, like you. Marsland paints windmills, cliffs and things–I doubt if he’s heard of the future. He’s almost a Mathew Mans for keeping out of the swim. If you think he’d like to meet a Vertiginist–”
“I didn’t ask you if he’d like to meet Wilmer; I asked you if Wilmer would like to meet him.”
“Wilmer will just say: ‘I like little Mrs. Mont, she gives deuced good grub’–and so you do, ducky. A Vertiginist wants nourishing, you know, or it wouldn’t go to his head.”
Fleur’s pen resumed its swift strokes, already becoming slightly illegible. She murmured:
“I think Wilfrid would help–you won’t be there; one–two–three. What women?”
“For painters–pretty and plump; no intellect.”
Fleur said crossly:
“I can’t get them plump; they don’t go about now.” And her pen flowed on:
“DEAR WILFRID, – Wednesday–lunch; Wilmer, Hubert Marsland, two other women. Do help me live it down.
“Yours ever,
“FLEUR.”
“Michael, your chin is like a bootbrush.”
“Sorry, old thing; your shoulders shouldn’t be so smooth. Bart gave Wilfrid a tip as we were coming along.”
Fleur stopped writing. “Oh!”
“Reminded him that the state of love was a good stunt for poets.”
“A propos of what?”
“Wilfrid was complaining that he couldn’t turn it out now.”
“Nonsense! His last things are his best.”
“Well, that’s what I think. Perhaps he’s forestalled the tip. Has he, d’you know?”
Fleur turned her eyes towards the face behind her shoulder. No, it had its native look–frank, irresponsible, slightly faun-like, with its pointed ears, quick lips, and nostrils.
She said slowly:
“If YOU don’t know, nobody does.”
A snuffle interrupted Michael’s answer. Ting-a-ling, long, low, slightly higher at both ends, was standing between them, with black muzzle upturned. ‘My pedigree is long,’ he seemed to say; ‘but my legs are short–what about it?’
Chapter III.
MUSICAL
According to a great and guiding principle, Fleur and Michael Mont attended the Hugo Solstis concert, not because they anticipated pleasure, but because they knew Hugo. They felt, besides, that Solstis, an Englishman of Russo–Dutch extraction, was one of those who were restoring English music, giving to it a wide and spacious freedom from melody and rhythm, while investing it with literary and mathematical charms. And one never could go to a concert given by any of this school without using the word ‘interesting’ as one was coming away. To sleep to this restored English music, too, was impossible. Fleur, a sound sleeper, had never even tried. Michael had, and complained afterwards that it had been like a nap in Liege railway station. On this occasion they occupied those gangway seats in the front row of the dress circle of which Fleur had a sort of natural monopoly. There Hugo and the rest could see her taking her place in the English restoration movement. It was easy, too, to escape into the corridor and exchange the word ‘interesting’ with side-whiskered cognoscenti; or, slipping out a cigarette from the little gold case, wedding present of Cousin Imogen Cardigan, get a whiff or two’s repose. To speak quite honestly, Fleur had a natural sense of rhythm which caused her discomfort during those long and ‘interesting’ passages which evidenced, as it were, the composer’s rise and fall from his bed of thorns. She secretly loved a tune, and the impossibility of ever confessing this without losing hold of Solstis, Baff, Birdigal, MacLewis, Clorane, and other English restoration composers, sometimes taxed to its limit a nature which had its Spartan side. Even to Michael she would not ‘confess’; and it was additionally trying when, with his native disrespect of persons, accentuated by life in the trenches and a publisher’s office, he would mutter: “Gad! Get on with it!” or: “Cripes! Ain’t he took bad!” especially as she knew that Michael was really putting up with it better than herself, having a more literary disposition, and a less dancing itch in his toes.
The first movement of the new Solstis composition–‘Phantasmagoria Piemontesque’–to which they had especially come to listen, began with some drawn-out chords. “What oh!” said Michael’s voice in her ear: “Three pieces of furniture moved simultaneously on a parquet floor!”
In Fleur’s involuntary smile was the whole secret of why her marriage had not been intolerable. After all, Michael was a dear! Devotion and mercury–jesting and loyalty–combined, they piqued and touched even a heart given away before it was bestowed on him. ‘Touch’ without ‘pique’ would have bored; ‘pique’ without ‘touch’ would have irritated. At this moment he was at peculiar advantage! Holding on to his knees, with his ears standing up, eyes glassy from loyalty to Hugo, and tongue in cheek, he was listening to that opening in a way which evoked Fleur’s admiration. The piece would be ‘interesting’–she fell into the state of outer observation and inner calculation very usual with her nowadays. Over there was L.S.D., the greater dramatist; she didn’t know him–yet. He looked rather frightening, his hair stood up so straight. And her eye began picturing him on her copper floor against a Chinese picture. And there–yes! Gurdon Minho! Imagine HIS coming to anything so modern! His profile WAS rather Roman–of the Aurelian period! Passing on from that antique, with the pleased thought that by this time tomorrow she might have collected it, she quartered the assembly face by face–she did not want to miss any one important.
“The furniture” had come to a sudden standstill.
“Interesting!” said a voice over her shoulder. Aubrey Greene! Illusive, rather moonlit, with his silky fair hair brushed straight back, and his greenish eyes–his smile always made her feel that he was ‘getting’ at her. But, after all, he was a cartoonist!
“Yes, isn’t it?”
He curled away. He might have stayed a little longer–there wouldn’t be time for any one else before those songs of Birdigal’s! Here came the singer Charles Powls! How stout and efficient he looked, dragging little Birdigal to the piano.
Charming accompaniment–rippling, melodious!
The stout, efficient man began to sing. How different from the accompaniment! The song hit every note just off the solar plexus. It mathematically prevented her from feeling pleasure. Birdigal must have written it in horror of some one calling it ‘vocal.’ Vocal! Fleur knew how catching the word was; it would run like a measle round the ring, and Birdigal would be no more! Poor Birdigal! But this was ‘interesting.’ Only, as Michael was saying: “O, my Gawd!”
Three songs! Powls was wonderful–so loyal! Never one note hit so that it rang out like music! Her mind fluttered off to Wilfrid. To him, of all the younger poets, people accorded the right to say something; it gave him such a position–made him seem to come out of life, instead of literature. Besides, he had done things in the war, was a son of Lord Mullyon, would get the Mercer Prize probably, for ‘Copper Coin.’ If Wilfrid abandoned her, a star would fall from the firmament above her copper floor. He had no right to leave her in the lurch. He must learn not to be violent–not to think physically. No! she couldn’t let Wilfrid slip away; nor could she have any more sob-stuff in her life, searing passions, cul de sacs, aftermaths. She had tasted of that; a dulled ache still warned her.
Birdigal was bowing, Michael saying: “Come out for a whiff! The next thing’s a dud!” Oh! ah! Beethoven. Poor old Beethoven! So out of date–one did RATHER enjoy him!
The corridor, and refectory beyond, were swarming with the restoration movement. Young men and women with faces and heads of lively and distorted character, were exchanging the word ‘interesting.’ Men of more massive type, resembling sedentary matadors, blocked all circulation. Fleur and Michael passed a little way along, stood against the wall, and lighted cigarettes. Fleur smoked hers delicately–a very little one in a tiny amber holder. She had the air of admiring blue smoke rather than of making it; there were spheres to consider beyond this sort of crowd–one never knew who might be about! – the sphere, for instance, in which Alison Charwell moved, politico-literary, catholic in taste, but, as Michael always put it, “Convinced, like a sanitary system, that it’s the only sphere in the world; look at the way they all write books of reminiscence about each other!” They might, she always felt, disapprove of women smoking in public halls. Consorting delicately with iconoclasm, Fleur never forgot that her feet were in two worlds at least. Standing there, observant of all to left and right, she noted against the wall one whose face was screened by his programme. ‘Wilfrid,’ she thought, ‘and doesn’t mean to see me!’ Mortified, as a child from whom a sixpence is filched, she said:
“There’s Wilfrid! Fetch him, Michael!”
Michael crossed, and touched his best man’s sleeve; Desert’s face emerged, frowning. She saw him shrug his shoulders, turn and walk into the throng. Michael came back.
“Wilfrid’s got the hump to-night; says he’s not fit for human society–queer old son!”
How obtuse men were! Because Wilfrid was his pal, Michael did not see; and that was lucky! So Wilfrid really meant to avoid her! Well, she would see! And she said:
“I’m tired, Michael; let’s go home.”
His hand slid round her arm.
“Sorry, old thing; come along!”
They stood a moment in a neglected doorway, watching Woomans, the conductor, launched towards his orchestra.
“Look at him,” said Michael; “guy hung out of an Italian window, legs and arms all stuffed and flying! And look at the Frapka and her piano–that’s a turbulent union!”
There was a strange sound.
“Melody, by George!” said Michael.
An attendant muttered in their ears: “Now, sir, I’m going to shut the door.” Fleur had a fleeting view of L.S.D. sitting upright as his hair, with closed eyes. The door was shut–they were outside in the hall.
“Wait here, darling; I’ll nick a rickshaw.”
Fleur huddled her chin in her fur. It was easterly and cold.
A voice behind her said:
“Well, Fleur, am I going East?”
Wilfrid! His collar up to his ears, a cigarette between his lips, hands in pockets, eyes devouring.
“You’re very silly, Wilfrid!”
“Anything you like; am I going East?”
“No; Sunday morning–eleven o’clock at the Tate. We’ll talk it out.”
“Convenu!” And he was gone.
Alone suddenly, like that, Fleur felt the first shock of reality. Was Wilfrid truly going to be unmanageable? A taxicab ground up; Michael beckoned; Fleur stepped in.
Passing a passionately lighted oasis of young ladies displaying to the interested Londoner the acme of Parisian undress, she felt Michael incline towards her. If she were going to keep Wilfrid, she must be nice to Michael. Only:
“You needn’t kiss me in Piccadilly Circus, Michael!”
“Sorry, duckie! It’s a little previous–I meant to get you opposite the Partheneum.”
Fleur remembered how he had slept on a Spanish sofa for the first fortnight of their honeymoon; how he always insisted that she must not spend anything on him, but must always let him give her what he liked, though she had three thousand a year and he twelve hundred; how jumpy he was when she had a cold–and how he always came home to tea. Yes, he was a dear! But would she break her heart if he went East or West tomorrow?
Snuggled against him, she was surprised at her own cynicism.
A telephone message written out, in the hall, ran: “Please tell Mrs. Mont I’ve got Mr. Gurding Minner. Lady Alisson.”
It was restful. A real antique! She turned on the lights in her room, and stood for a moment admiring it. Truly pretty! A slight snuffle from the corner–Ting-a-ling, tan on a black cushion, lay like a Chinese lion in miniature; pure, remote, fresh from evening communion with the Square railings.
“I see you,” said Fleur.
Ting-a-ling did not stir; his round black eyes watched his mistress undress. When she returned from the bathroom he was curled into a ball. Fleur thought: ‘Queer! How does he know Michael won’t be coming?’ And slipping into her well warmed bed, she too curled herself up and slept.
But in the night, contrary to her custom, she awoke. A cry–long, weird, trailing, from somewhere–the river–the slums at the back–rousing memory–poignant, aching–of her honeymoon–Granada, its roofs below, jet, ivory, gold; the watchman’s cry, the lines in Jon’s letter:
“Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping
Spanish City darkened under her white stars.
What says the voice–its clear, lingering anguish?
Just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety?
Just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song?
No! ’Tis one deprived, whose lover’s heart is weeping,
Just his cry: ‘How long?’”
A cry, or had she dreamed it? Jon, Wilfrid, Michael! No use to have a heart!
Chapter IV.
DINING
Lady Alison Charwell, born Heathfield, daughter of the first Earl of Campden, and wife to Lionel Charwell, K.C., Michael’s somewhat young uncle, was a delightful Englishwoman brought up in a set accepted as the soul of society. Full of brains, energy, taste, money, and tinctured in its politico-legal ancestry by blue blood, this set was linked to, but apart from ‘Snooks’ and the duller haunts of birth and privilege. It was gay, charming, free-and-easy, and, according to Michael, “Snobbish, old thing, aesthetically and intellectually, but they’ll never see it. They think they’re the top notch–quick, healthy, up-to-date, well-bred, intelligent; they simply can’t imagine their equals. But you see their imagination is deficient. Their really creative energy would go into a pint pot. Look at their books–they’re always ON something–philosophy, spiritualism, poetry, fishing, themselves; why, even their sonnets dry up before they’re twenty-five. They know everything–except mankind outside their own set. Oh! they work–they run the show–they have to; there’s no one else with their brains, and energy, and taste. But they run it round and round in their own blooming circle. It’s the world to them–and it might be worse. They’ve patented their own golden age;
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