Produced by Suzanne Shell, Project Gutenberg Beginners

Projects, Riikka Talonpoika, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team

LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT

by ADA LEVERSON

First published London, 1916

(Book Three of THE LITTLE OTTLEYS)

TO TACITUS

CHAPTER I

An appalling crash, piercing shrieks, a loud, unequal quarrel on a staircase, the sharp bang of a door….

Edith started up from her restful corner on the blue sofa by the fire, where she had been thinking about her guest, and rushed to the door.

'Archie—Archie! Come here directly! What's that noise?'

A boy of ten came calmly into the room.

'It wasn't me that made the noise,' he said, 'it was Madame Frabelle.'

His mother looked at him. He was a handsome, fair boy with clear grey eyes that looked you straight in the face without telling you anything at all, long eyelashes that softened, but gave a sly humour to his glance, a round face, a very large forehead, and smooth straw-coloured hair. Already at this early age he had the expressionless reserve of the public school where he was to be sent, with something of the suave superiority of the university for which he was intended. Edith thought he inherited both of these traits from her.

* * * * *

She gazed at him, wondering, as she had often wondered, at the impossibility of guessing, even vaguely, what was really going on behind that large brow. And he looked back observantly, but not expressively, at her. She was a slim, fair, pretty woman, with more vividness and character than usually goes with her type. Like the boy, she had long-lashed grey eyes, and blond-cendre hair: her mouth and chin were of the Burne-Jones order, and her charm, which was great but unintentional, and generally unconscious, appealed partly to the senses and partly to the intellect. She was essentially not one of those women who irritate all their own sex by their power (and still more by their fixed determination) to attract men; she was really and unusually indifferent to general admiration. Still, that she was not a cold woman, not incapable of passionate feeling, was obvious to any physiognomist; the fully curved lips showed her generous and pleasure-loving temperament, while the softly glancing, intelligent, smiling eyes spoke fastidiousness and discrimination. Her voice was low and soft, with a vibrating sound in it, and she laughed often and easily, being very ready to see and enjoy the amusing side of life. But observation and emotion alike were instinctively veiled by a quiet, reposeful manner, so that she made herself further popular by appearing retiring. Edith Ottley might so easily have been the centre of any group, and yet—she was not! Women were grateful to her, and in return admitted that she was pretty, unaffected and charming. Today she was dressed very simply in dark blue and might have passed for Archie's elder sister.

'It isn't anything. It wasn't my fault. It was her fault. Madame Frabelle said she would teach me to take away her mandolin and use it for a cricket bat. She needn't teach me; I know already.'

'Now, Archie, you know perfectly well you've no right to go into her room when she isn't there.'

'How can I go in when she is there?… She won't let me. Besides, I don't want to.'

'It isn't nice of you; you ought not to go into her room without her permission.'

'It isn't her room; it's your room. At least, it's the spare room.'

'Have you done any harm to the mandolin?'

He paused a little, as he often did before answering, as if in absence of mind, and then said, as though starting up from a reverie:

'Er—no. No harm.'

'Well, what have you done?'

'I can mend it,' he answered.

'Madame Frabelle has been very kind to you, Archie. I'm sorry you're not behaving nicely to a guest in your mother's house. It isn't the act of a gentleman.'

'Oh. Well, there are a great many things in her room, Mother; some of them are rather jolly.'

'Go and say you're sorry, Archie. And you mustn't do it again.'

'Will it be the act of a gentleman to say I'm sorry? It'll be the act of a story-teller, you know.'

'What! Aren't you sorry to have bothered her?'

'I'm sorry she found it out,' he said, as he turned to the door.

'These perpetual scenes and quarrels between my son and my guest are most painful to me,' Edith said, with assumed solemnity.

He looked grave. 'Well, she needn't have quarrelled.'

'But isn't she very kind to you?'

'Yes, she isn't bad sometimes. I like it when she tells me lies about what her husband used to do—I mean stories. She's not a bad sort…. Is she a homeless refugette, Mother?'

'Not exactly that. She's a widow, and she's staying with us, and we must be nice to her. Now, you won't forget again, will you?'

'Right. But I can mend it.'

'I think I'd better go up and see her,' said Edith.

Archie politely opened the door for his mother.

'I shouldn't, if I were you,' he said.

Edith slowly went back to the fire.

'Well, I'll leave her a little while, perhaps. Now do go and do something useful.'

'What, useful? Gracious! I haven't got much more of my holidays,
Mother.'

'That's no reason why you should spend your time in worrying everybody, and smashing the musical instruments of guests that are under your roof.'

He looked up at the ceiling and smiled, as if pleased at this way of putting it.

'I suppose she's very glad to have a roof to her mouth—I mean to her head,' he hurriedly corrected. 'But, Mother, she isn't poor. She has an amber necklace. Besides, she gave Dilly sixpence the other day for not being frightened of a cow. If she can afford to give a little girl sixpence for every animal she says she isn't afraid of!'…

'That only proves she's kind. And I didn't say she was poor; that's not the point. We must be nice and considerate to anyone staying with us—don't you see?'

He became absent-minded again for a minute.

'Well, I shouldn't be surprised if she'll be able to use it again,' he said consolingly—'the mandolin, I mean. Besides, what's the good of it anyway? I say, Mother, are all foreigners bad-tempered?'

'Madame Frabelle is not a foreigner.'

'I never said she was. But her husband was. He used to get into frightful rages with her sometimes. She says he was a noble fellow. She liked him awfully, but she says he never understood her. Do you suppose she talked English to him?'

'That's enough, Archie. Go and find something to do.'

As he went out he turned round again and said:

'Does father like her?'

'Why, yes, of course he does.'

'How funny!' said Archie. 'Well, I'll say I'm sorry … when I see her again.'

Edith kissed him, a proceeding that he bore heroically. He was kissable, but she seldom gave way to the temptation. Then she went back to the sofa. She wanted to go on thinking about that mystery, her guest.

CHAPTER II

Madame Frabelle had arrived about a fortnight ago, with a letter of introduction from Lady Conroy. Lady Conroy herself was a vague, amiable Irishwoman, with a very large family of children. She and Edith, who knew each other slightly before, had grown intimate when they met, the previous summer, at a French watering-place. The letter asked Edith, with urgent inconsequence, to be kind to Madame Frabelle, of whom Lady Conroy said nothing except that she was of good family—she had been a Miss Eglantine Pollard—and was the widow of a well-to-do French wine merchant.

She was described as a clever, interesting woman who wished to study English life in her native land. It did not surprise Lady Conroy in the least that an Englishwoman should wish to study English in England; but she was a woman who was never surprised at anything except the obvious and the inevitable.

Edith had not had the faintest idea of asking Madame Frabelle to stay at her very small house in Sloane Street, for which invitation, indeed, there seemed no possible need or occasion. Yet she found herself asking her visitor to stay for a few days until a house or a hotel should be found; and Bruce, who detested guests in the house, seconded the invitation with warmth and enthusiasm. As Bruce was a subconscious snob, he may have been slightly influenced by the letter from Lady Conroy, who was the wife of an unprominent Cabinet Minister and, in a casual way, rather grande dame, if not exactly smart. But this consideration could not weigh with Edith, and its effect on Bruce must have long passed away. Madame Frabelle accepted the invitation as a matter of course, made use of it as a matter of convenience, and had remained ever since, showing no sign of leaving. Edith was deeply interested in her.

* * * * *

And Bruce was more genuinely impressed and unconsciously bored by Madame Frabelle than by any woman he had ever met. Yet she was not at all extraordinary. She was a tall woman of about fifty, well bred without being distinguished, who could never have been handsome but was graceful, dignified, and pleasing. She was neither dark nor fair. She had a broad, good-natured face, and a pale, clear complexion. She was inclined to be fat; not locally, in the manner of a pincushion, but with the generally diffused plumpness described in shops as stock size. She was not the sort of modern woman of fifty, with a thin figure and a good deal of rouge, who looks young from the back when dancing or walking, and talks volubly and confidentially of her young men. She had, of course, nothing of the middle-aged woman of the past, who at her age would have been definitely on the shelf, doing wool-work or collecting recipes there. Nor did she resemble the strong-minded type in perpetual tailor-made clothes, with short grey hair and eye-glasses, who belongs to clubs and talks chiefly of the franchise. Madame Frabelle was soft, womanly, amiable, yet extremely outspoken, very firm, and inclined to lay down the law. She was certainly charming, as Bruce and Edith agreed every day (even now, when they were beginning to wonder when she was going away!). She had an extraordinary amount of personal magnetism, since she convinced both the Ottleys, as she had convinced Lady Conroy, that she was wonderfully clever: in fact, that she knew everything.

A fortnight had passed, and Edith was beginning to grow doubtful. Was she so clever? Did she know everything? Did she know anything at all? Long arguments, that grew quite heated and excited at luncheon or dinner, about the origin of a word, the author of a book, and various debatable questions of the kind, invariably ended, after reference to a dictionary or an encyclopaedia, in Madame Frabelle proving herself, with an air of triumph, to be completely and entirely wrong. She was as generally positive as she was fatally mistaken. Yet so intense a belief had she in her intuition as well as in her own inaccurate information that her hypnotised hosts were growing daily more and more under her thumb. She took it for granted that everyone would take her for granted—and everyone did.

Was all this agreeable or otherwise? Edith thought it must be, or how could they bear it at all? If it had not been extremely pleasant it would have been simply impossible.

The fair, gentle, pretty Edith, who was more subtle than she appeared on the surface, while apparently indolent, had a very active brain. Madame Frabelle caused her to use it more than she had ever done before. Edith was intensely curious and until she understood her visitor she could not rest satisfied. She made her a psychological study.

For example, here was a curious little point. Madame Frabelle did not look young for her age, nor did she seem in the least inclined to wish to be admired, nor ever to have been a flirt. The word 'fast', for example, would have been quite grotesque as associated with her, though she was by no means prudish as to subjects of conversation, nor prim in the middle-class way. Yet somehow it would not have seemed incongruous or surprising if one had found out that there was even now some romance in her life. But, doubtless, the most striking thing about her—and what made her popular—was her intense interest in other people. It went so far as to reach the very verge of being interference; but she was so pleasant that one could scarcely resent it either as curiosity or intrusion. Since she had stayed with the Ottleys, she appeared to think of no-one and nothing else in the world. One would think that no-one else existed for her. And, after all, such extreme interest is flattering. Bruce, Archie, Edith, even Dilly's nurse, all had, in her, an audience: interested, absorbed, enchanted. Who could help enjoying it?

* * * * *

Edith was still thinking about Madame Frabelle when a few minutes later,
Bruce came in.

Bruce also was fair, besides being tall, good-looking and well built. Known by their friends for some reason as the little Ottleys, these two were a rather fine-looking pair, and (at a casual glance) admirably suited to one another. They appeared to be exactly like thousands of other English married couples of the upper middle class between thirty and forty; he looked as manly (through being sunburnt from knocking a little ball over the links) as if he habitually went tiger-shooting; but, though not without charm, he had much less distinction than his wife. Most people smiled when Bruce's name was mentioned, and it was usual for his intimates to clap him on the back and call him a silly ass, which proves he was not unpopular. On the other hand, Edith was described as a very pretty woman, or a nice little thing, and by the more discriminating, jolly clever when you know her, and don't you forget it.

When Bruce told his wife that no-one had ever regretted consulting him on a difficult, secret, and delicate matter, Edith had said she was quite sure they hadn't. Perhaps she thought no-one had ever regretted consulting him on such a subject, simply because no-one had ever tried.

'Oh, please don't move, Edith,' he said, in the tone which means, 'Oh, please do move.' 'I like to see you comfortable.'

There was something in his manner that made her feel apologetic, and she changed her position with the feeling of guilt about nothing, and a tinge of shame for something she hadn't done, easily produced by an air of self-sacrifice Bruce was apt to show at such moments.

'Your hair's coming down, Edith,' he said kindly, to add to her vague embarrassment.

As a matter of fact, a curl by the right ear was only about one-tenth of an inch farther on the cheek than it was intended to be But, by this observation, he got the advantage of her by giving the impression that she looked wild, unkempt, and ruffled, though she was, in reality, exactly as trim and neat as always.

'Well—about the delicate matter you were going to talk over with me,
Bruce?'

'Oh yes. Oh, by the way,' he said, 'before we go into that, I wonder if you could help me about something? You could do me a really great service by helping me to find a certain book.'

'Why, of course, Bruce, with pleasure. What is the book?' asked the amiable wife, looking alert.

Bruce looked at her with pity.

'What is the book? My dear Edith, don't you see I shouldn't have come to you about it if I knew what the book was.'

'I beg your pardon, Bruce,' said Edith, now feeling thoroughly in the wrong, and looking round the room. 'But if you can't give me the name of the book I scarcely see how I can find it.'

'And if I knew its name I shouldn't want your assistance.'

It seemed a deadlock.

Going to the bookcase, Edith said:

'Can't you give me some idea of what it's like?'

'Certainly I can. I've seen it a hundred times in this very room; in fact it's always here, except when it's wanted.'

Edith went down on her knees in front of the bookcase and cross-questioned Bruce on the physiognomy of the volume. She asked whether it was a novel, whether it was blue, whether it belonged to the library, whether it was Stevenson, whether it was French, or if it was suitable for the children.

To all of these questions he returned a negative.

'Suitable for the children?' he repeated. 'What a fantastic idea! Do you think I should take all this trouble to come and request your assistance and spend hours of valuable time looking for a book that's suitable for the children?'

'But, Bruce, if you request my assistance without having the slightest idea of what book it is, how shall I possibly be able to help?'

'Quite so … quite so. Never mind, Edith, don't trouble. If I say that it's a pity there isn't more order in the house you won't regard it, I hope, dear, as a reproach in any way. If there were a place for everything, and everything in its place—However! Never mind. It's a small matter, and it can't be helped. I know, Edith dear, you were not brought up to be strictly orderly. Some people are not. I don't blame you; not in the least. Still, when Dilly grows up I shall be sorry if—'

'Bruce, it's nothing to do with order. The room is perfectly tidy. It's a question of your memory. You don't remember the name of the book.'

'Pardon me, it's not a question of remembering the name; that would be nothing. Anyone can forget a name. That wouldn't matter.'

'Oh, then, you mean you don't even know in the least what you want?'

At this moment Bruce decided it was time to find the book, and suddenly sprang, like a middle-aged fawn, at the writing-table, seizing a volume triumphantly.

'There it is—the whole time!' he said, 'staring at you while you are helplessly looking for it. Oh, Edith, Edith!' he laughed amiably. 'How like a woman that is! And the very book a few inches from your hand! Well, well, never mind; it's found at last. I hope, dear, in the future you will be more careful. We'll say no more about it now.'

Edith didn't point out to Bruce that the book was a novel; that it was blue; that it belonged to the library, was French, and that it was still suitable for the children.

'Well, well,' he said, sitting down with the book, which he had never wanted at all, and had never even thought of when he came to the room first, 'well, well, here it is! And now for the point I was going to tell you when I came in.'

'Shall we have tea, dear?' said Edith.

'Tea? Oh, surely not. It's only just four. I don't think it's good for the servants having tea half-an-hour earlier than usual. It's a little thing—yes, I know that, but I don't believe in it. I like punctuality, regularity—oh, well, of course, dear, if you wish it.'

'No, I don't at all! I thought you might.'

'Oh no. I like punctuality, er—and, as a matter of fact, I had tea at the club.'

Laughing, Edith rang the bell.

Bruce lighted a cigarette, first, with his usual courtesy, asking her permission.

'I'll tell you about that when Woodhouse has gone,' he said mysteriously.

'Oh, can't you tell me anything about it now? I wouldn't have ordered tea if I'd known that!'

He enjoyed keeping her waiting, and was delighted at her interest. He would have made it last longer, but was unable to bear his own suspense; so he said:

'Before I say any more, tell me: where is Madame Frabelle?'

CHAPTER III

'Madame Frabelle's in her own room. She stays there a good deal, you know. I fancy she does it out of tactfulness.' Edith spoke thoughtfully.

'What does she do there?' Bruce asked with low-toned curiosity, as he stood up and looked in the glass.

'She says she goes there to read. She thinks it bores people to see a visitor sitting reading about the house; she says it makes them get tired of the sight of her.'

'But she can't be reading all those hours, surely?' and Bruce sat down, satisfied with his appearance.

'One would think not. I used to think she was probably lying on the sofa with cold cream on her face, or something of that sort. But she doesn't. Once I went in,' Edith smiled, 'and found her doing Swedish exercises.'

'Good heavens! What a wonderful woman she is! Do you mean to say she's learning Swedish, as well as all the other languages she knows?'

'No, no. I mean physical exercises. But go on, Bruce. I'm getting so impatient.'

Bruce settled himself down comfortably, blew a ring of smoke, and then began slowly:

'I never dreamt, Edith—'

'Oh, Bruce, are you going to tell me everything you never dreamt? We shall take weeks getting to the point.'

'Don't be absurd. I'll get to the point at once then. Look here; I think we ought to give a dinner for Madame Frabelle!'

'Oh, is that all? Of course! I've been wondering that you didn't wish to do it long before now.'

'Have you? I'll tell you why. Thinking Madame Frabelle was a pal, er—a friend—of the Conroys, it stood to reason, don't you see, that she knew everyone in London; or could, if she liked—everyone worth knowing, I mean. Under these circumstances there was no point in—well—in showing off our friends to her. But I found out, only last night'—he lowered his voice—'what do you think? She isn't an intimate friend of Lady Conroy's at all! She only made her acquaintance in the drawing-room of the Royal Hotel two days before she came to London!'

Edith laughed.

'How delightful! Then why on earth did Lady Conroy send her to us with a letter of introduction? Why just us?'

'Because she likes you. Besides, it's just like her, isn't it? And she never said she had known her all her life. We jumped to that conclusion. It was our own idea.'

'And how did you find it out?'

'Why, when you went up to the children and left me alone with Madame Frabelle yesterday evening, she told me herself; perfectly frankly, in her usual way. She's always like that, so frank and open. Besides, she hadn't the slightest idea we didn't know it.'

'I hope you didn't let her think—' Edith began.

'Edith! As if I would! Well, that being so'—he lit another cigarette—'and under the circumstances, I want to ask some people to meet her. See?'

'She seems very happy with us alone, doesn't she? Not as if she cared much for going out.'

'Yes, I know; that's all very well. But I don't want her to think we don't know anyone. And it seems a bit selfish, too, keeping her all to ourselves like this.'

'Who do you want her to meet, dear?'

'I want her to meet the Mitchells,' said Bruce. 'It's only a chance, of course, that she hasn't met them already here, and I've told Mitchell at the Foreign Office a good deal about her. He's very keen to know her. Very keen indeed,' he added thoughtfully.

'And then the Mitchells will ask her to their house, of course?'

'I know they will,' said Bruce, rather jealously. 'Well, I shan't mind her going there—once or twice—it's a very pleasant house, you know, Edith. And she likes celebrities, and clever people, and that sort of thing.'

'Mrs Mitchell will count her as one, no doubt.'

'I daresay! What does that matter? So she is.'

'I know she is, in a way; but, Bruce, don't you wonder why she stays here so long? I mean, there's no question of its not being for—well, for, say, interested reasons. I happen to know for a fact that she has a far larger income for herself alone than we have altogether. She showed me her bank-book one day.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. She's so confidential, and perhaps she wanted me to know how she was placed. And—she's not that sort of person—she's generous and liberal, rather extravagant I should say.'

'Quite so. Still, it's comfortable here, and saves trouble—and she likes us.'

Bruce again looked up toward the mirror, though he couldn't see it now.

'Well, I don't mind her being here; it's a nice change, but it seems odd she hasn't said a word about going. Well, about the dinner. Who else shall we have, Edith? Let it be a small, intimate, distinguished sort of dinner. She hates stiffness and ceremony. She likes to have a chance to talk.'

'She does, indeed. All right, you can leave it to me, Bruce. I'll make it all right. We'll have about eight people, shall we?'

'She must sit next to me, on my left,' Bruce observed. 'And not lilies of the valley—she doesn't like the scent.'

Madame Frabelle was usually designated between them by the personal pronoun only.

'All right. But what was the delicate, difficult matter that someone consulted you about, Bruce?'

'Ah, I was just coining to that…. Hush!'

The door opened. Madame Frabelle came in, dressed in a violet tea-gown.

'Tea?' said Edith, holding out a cup.

'Yes, indeed! I'm always ready for tea, and you have such delightful tea, Edith dear!' (They had already reached the point of Christian names, though Edith always found Eglantine a little difficult to say.) 'It's nice to see you back so early, Mr Ottley.'

'Wouldn't you like a slice of lemon?' said Bruce.

To offer her a slice of lemon with tea was, from Bruce, a tribute to the lady's talents.

'Oh no! Cream and sugar, please.'

Madame Frabelle was looking very pleasant and very much at her ease as she sat down comfortably, taking the largest chair.

'I'm afraid that Archie has been bothering you today,' Edith said, as she poured out tea.

'What!' exclaimed Bruce, with a start of horror.

'Oh no, no, no! Not the least in the world, Mr Ottley! He's a most delightful boy. We were only having some fun together—about my mandolin; that was all!'

(Edith thought of the sounds she had heard on the stairs.)

'I'm afraid I got a little cross. A thing I very seldom do.' Madame Frabelle looked apologetically at Edith. 'But we've quite made it up now! Oh, and by the way, I want to speak to you both rather seriously about your boy,' she went on earnestly. She had a rather powerful, clear, penetrating voice, and spoke with authority, decision, and the sort of voluble fluency generally known as not letting anyone else get a word in edgeways.

'About our boy?' said Bruce, handing the toast to her invitingly, while Edith put a cushion behind her back, for which Madame Frabelle gave a little gracious smile.

'About your boy. Do you know, I have a very curious gift, Mr Ottley. I can always see in children what they're going to make a success of in life. Without boasting, I know you, Edith, are kind enough to believe that I'm an extraordinary judge of character. Oh, I've always been like that. I can't help it. I'll tell you now what you must make of your boy,' she pursued. 'He is a born musician!'

'A musician!' exclaimed both his parents at once, in great astonishment.

Madame Frabelle nodded. 'That boy is a born composer! He has genius for music. Look at his broad forehead! Those grey eyes, so wide apart! I know, just at first one thinks too much from the worldly point of view of the success of one's son in life. But why go against nature? The boy's a genius!'

'But,' ventured Edith, 'Archie hasn't the slightest ear for music!'

'He dislikes music intensely,' said Bruce. 'Simply loathes it.'

'He cried so much over his piano lessons that we were obliged to let him give them up. It used to make him quite ill—and his music mistress too,' Edith said. 'I remember she left the last time in hysterics.'

'Yes, by Jove, I remember too. Pretty girl she was. She had a nervous breakdown afterwards,' said Bruce rather proudly.

'No, dear; you're thinking of the other one—the woman who began to teach him the violin.'

'Oh, am I?'

Madame Frabelle nodded her head with a smile.

'Nothing on earth to do with it, my dear! The boy's a born composer all the same. With that face he must be a musician!'

'Really! Funny he hates it so,' said Bruce thoughtfully. 'But still, I have no doubt—'

'Believe me, you can't go by his not liking his lessons,' assured Madame
Frabelle, as she ate a muffin. 'That has nothing to do with it at all.
The young Mozart—'

'Mozart? I thought he played the piano when he was only three?'

'Handel, I mean—or was it Meyerbeer? At any rate you'll see I'm right.'

'You really think we ought to force him against his will to study music seriously, with the idea of his being a composer when he grows up, though he detests it?' asked his mother.

Madame Frabelle turned to Edith.

'Won't you feel proud when you see your son conducting his own opera, to the applause of thousands? Won't it be something to be the mother of the greatest English composer of the twentieth century?'

'It would be rather fun.'

'We shan't hear quite so much about Strauss, Elgar, Debussy and all those people when Archie Ottley grows up,' declared Madame Frabelle.

'I hear very little about them now,' said Bruce.

'Well, how should you at the Foreign Office, or the golf-links, or the club?' asked Edith.

Bruce ignored Edith, and went on: 'Perhaps he'll turn out to be a Lionel Monckton or a Paul Rubens. Perhaps he'll write comic opera revues or musical comedies.'

'Oh dear, no,' said their guest, shaking her head decidedly. 'It will be the very highest class, the top of the tree! The real thing!'

'Madame Frabelle may be right, you know,' said Bruce.

She leant back, smiling.

'I know I'm right! There's simply no question about it.'

'Well, what do you think we ought to do about it?' said Edith. 'He goes to a preparatory school now where they don't have any music lessons at all.'

'All the better,' she answered. 'The sort of lessons he would get at a school would be no use to him.'

'So I should think,' murmured Edith.

'Leave it, say, for the moment, and when he comes back for his next holidays put him under a good teacher—a really great man. And you'll see!'

'I daresay we shall,' said Bruce, considerably relieved at the postponement. 'Funny though, isn't it, his not knowing one tune from another, when he's a born musician?'

It flashed across Edith what an immense bond of sympathy it was between Bruce and Madame Frabelle that neither of them was burdened with the slightest sense of humour.

When he presently went out (each of them preferred talking to Her alone, and She also enjoyed a tête-à-tête most) Madame Frabelle drew up her chair nearer to Edith and said:

'My dear, I'm going to tell you something. Don't be angry with me, or think me impertinent, but you've been very kind to me, and I look upon you as a real friend.'

'It's very sweet of you,' said Edith, feeling hypnotised, and as if she would gladly devote her life to Madame Frabelle.

'Well, I can see something. You are not quite happy.'

'Not happy!' exclaimed Edith.

'No. You have a trouble, and I'd give anything to take it away.'

Madame Frabelle looked at her with sympathy, pressed her hand, then looked away.

Edith knew she was looking away out of delicacy. Delicacy about what? It was an effort not to laugh; but, oddly enough, it was also an effort not to feel secretly miserable. She wondered, though, what she was unhappy about. She need not have troubled, for Madame Frabelle was quite willing to tell her. She was, indeed, willing to tell anyone anything. Perhaps that was the secret of her charm.

CHAPTER IV

It was utterly impossible, literally out of the question, that Madame Frabelle could know anything about the one trouble, the one danger, that so narrowly escaped being almost a tragedy, in Edith's life.

It was three years since Bruce, always inclined to vague, mild flirtations, had been positively carried off his feet, and literally taken away by a determined young art student, with red hair, who had failed to marry a friend of his. While Edith, with the children, was passing the summer holidays at Westgate, Bruce had sent her the strangest of letters, informing her that he and Mavis Argles could not live without one another, and had gone to Australia together, and imploring her to divorce him. The complication was increased by the fact that at that particular moment the most charming man Edith had ever met, Aylmer Ross, that eloquent and brilliant barrister, had fallen in love with her, and she had become considerably attracted to him. Her pride had been hurt at Bruce's conduct, but she had certainly felt it less bitterly, in one way, because she was herself so much fascinated by Aylmer and his devotion.

* * * * *

But Edith had behaved with cool courage and real unselfishness. She felt certain that Brace's mania would not last, and that if it did he would be miserable. Strangely, then, she had declined to divorce him, and waited. Her prophecy turned out correct, and by the time they arrived at their journey's end the red-haired lady was engaged to a commercial traveller whom she met on the boat. By then Bruce and she were equally convinced that in going to Australia they had decidedly gone too far.

* * * * *

So Brace came back, and Edith forgave him. She made one condition only (which was also her one revenge), that he should never speak about it, never mention the subject again.

Aylmer Ross, who had taken his romance seriously to heart, refused to be kept as l'ami de la maison, and as a platonic admirer. Deeply disappointed—for he was prepared to give his life to Edith and her children (he was a widower of independent means)—he had left England; she had never seen him since.

All this had been a real event, a real break in Edith's life. For the first few months after she suffered, missing the excitement of Aylmer's controlled passion, and his congenial society. Gradually she made herself—not forget it—but put aside, ignore the whole incident. It gave her genuine satisfaction to know that she had made a sacrifice for Bruce's sake. She was aware that he could not exist really satisfactorily without her, though perhaps he didn't know it. He needed her. At first she had endeavoured to remain separated from him, while apparently living together, from who knows what feeling of romantic fidelity to Aylmer, or pique at the slight shown her by her husband. Then she found that impossible. It would make him more liable to other complications and the whole situation too full of general difficulties. So now, for the last three years, they had been on much the same terms as they were before. Bruce had become, perhaps, less patronising, more respectful to her, and she a shade more gentle and considerate to him, as to a child. For she was generous and did not forgive by halves. There were moments of nervous irritation, of course, and of sentimental regret. On the whole, though, Edith was glad she had acted as she did. But if occasionally she felt her life a little dull and flat, if she missed some of the excitement of that eventful year, it was impossible for anyone to see it by her manner.

What could Madame Frabelle possibly know about it? What did that lady really suppose was the matter?

* * * * *

'What do you think I'm unhappy about?' Edith repeated.

Madame Frabelle, as has been mentioned, was willing to tell her. She told her, as usual, with fluency and inaccuracy.

Edith was much amused to find how strangely mistaken was this authoritative lady as to her intuitions, how inevitably à faux with her penetrations and her instinctive guesses. Madame Frabelle said that she believed Edith was beginning to feel the dawn of love for someone, and was struggling against it. (The struggle of course in reality had long been over.)

Who was the person?

'I haven't met him yet,' Madame Frabelle said; 'but isn't there a name I hear very often? Your husband is always talking about him; he told me I was to make the acquaintance of this great friend of his. Something tells me it is he. I shall know as soon as I see him. You can't hide it from me!'

Who was the person Bruce was always mentioning to Madame Frabelle?
Certainly not Aylmer Ross—he had apparently forgotten his existence.

'Are you referring to—?'

Madame Frabelle looked out of the window and nodded.

'Yes—Mr Mitchell!'

Edith started, and a smile curved her lips.

'It's always the husband's great friend, unfortunately,' sighed Eglantine. 'Oh, my dear' (with the usual cheap, ready-made knowingness of the cynic), 'I've seen so much of that. Now I'm going to help you. I'm determined to leave you two dear, charming people without a cloud, when I go.'

'You're not thinking of going?'

'Not yet … no. Not while you let me stay here, dear. I've friends in London, and in the country, but I haven't looked them up, or written to them, or done anything since I've been here. I've been too happy. I couldn't be bothered. I am so interested in you! Another thing—may I say?—for I feel as if I'd known you for years. You think your husband doesn't know it. You are wrong.'

'Am I really?'

'Quite. Last night a certain look when he spoke of the Mitchells showed me that Bruce is terribly jealous. He doesn't show it, but he is.'

'But—Mrs Mitchell?' suggested Edith. 'She's one of our best friends—a dear thing. By the way, we're asking them to dine with us on Tuesday.'

'I'm delighted to hear it. I shall understand everything then. Isn't it curious—without even seeing them—that I know all about it? I think I've a touch of second sight.'

'But, Eglantine, aren't you going a little far? Hadn't you better wait until you've seen them, at least. You've no idea how well the Mitchells get on.'

'I've no doubt of it,' she replied, 'and, of course, I don't know that he—Mr Mitchell, I mean—even realises what you are to him. But I do!'

Edith was really impressed at the dash with which Madame Frabelle so broadly handled this vague theme.

'Wait till you do see them,' she said, rather mischievously, declining to deny her friend's suggestion altogether.

'Odd I should have guessed it, isn't it?' Madame Frabelle was evidently pleased. 'You'll admit this, Edith, from what your husband says I gather you see each other continually, don't you?'

'Very often.'

'Bruce and he are together at the Foreign Office. Bruce thinks much of him, and admires him. With it all I notice now and then a tinge of bitterness in the way he speaks. He was describing their fancy-dress ball to me the other day, and really his description of Mr Mitchell's costume would have been almost spiteful in any other man.'

'Well, but Mr Mitchell is over sixty. And he was got up as a black poodle.'

'Yes; quite so. But he's a fine-looking man, isn't he? And very pleasant and hospitable?'

'Oh yes, of course.'

'On your birthday last week that magnificent basket of flowers came from
Mr Mitchell,' stated Eglantine.

'Certainly; from the Mitchells rather. But, really, that's nothing. I think you'll be a little disappointed if you think he's at all of the romantic type.'

'I didn't think that,' she answered, though of course she had; 'but something told me—I don't know why—that there's some strange attraction…. I never saw a more perfect wife than you, nor a more perfect mother. But these things should be nipped in the bud, dear. They get hold of you sometimes before you know where you are. And think,' she went on with relish, 'how terrible it would be practically to break up two homes!'

'Oh, really, I must stop you there,' cried Edith. 'You don't think of elopements, do you?'

'I don't say that, necessarily. But I've seen a great deal of life. I've lived everywhere, and just the very households—ménages, as we say abroad—that seem most calm and peaceful, sometimes—It would be, anyhow, very dreadful, wouldn't it—to live a double life?'

Edith thought her friend rather enjoyed the idea, but she said:

'You don't imagine, I hope, that there's anything in the nature of an intrigue going on between me and Mr Mitchell?'

'No, no, no—not now—not yet—but you don't quite know, Edith, how one can be carried away. As I was sitting up in my room—thinking—'

'You think too much,' interrupted Edith.

'Perhaps so—but it came to me like this. I mean to be the one to put things right again, if I can. My dear child, a woman of the world like myself sees things. You two ought to be ideally happy. You're meant for one another—I mean you and Bruce.'

'Do you think so?'

'Absolutely. But this—what shall I say?—this fascination is coming between you, and, though you don't realise it, it's saddening Bruce's life; it will sadden yours too. At first, no doubt, at the stage you're in, dear, it seems all romance and excitement. But later on—Now, Edith, promise me you won't be angry with me for what I've said? It's a terrible freedom that I've taken, I know. Really a liberty. But if I were your'—she glanced at the mirror—'elder sister, I couldn't be fonder of you. Don't think I'm a horrid, interfering old thing, will you?'

'Indeed I don't; you're a dear.'

'Well, we won't speak of it any more till after Tuesday,' said Madame
Frabelle, 'and take my advice: throw yourself into other things.'

She glanced round the room.

'It's a splendid idea to divert your thoughts; why don't you refurnish your boudoir?'

Edith had often noticed the strange lack in Eglantine of any sense of decoration. She dressed charmingly, but with regard to surroundings she was entirely devoid of taste. She had the curious provincialism so often seen in cosmopolitans who have lived most of their lives in hotels, without apparently noticing or caring about their surroundings.

Edith made rather a hobby of decoration, and she had a cultured and quiet taste, and much knowledge on the subject. She guessed Madame Frabelle thought her rooms too plain, too colourless. Instead of the dull greys and blues, and surfaces without design, she felt sure her friend would have preferred gorgeous patterns, and even a good deal of gilt. Probably at heart Madame Frabelle's ideal was the crimson plush and stamped leather and fancy ceilings of the lounge in a foreign hotel.

'I rather like my room, you know,' said Edith.

'And so do I. It's very charming. But a change, dear—a change of entourage, as we say abroad, would do you good.'

'Well, we must really think that out,' said Edith.

'That's right. And you're not cross?'

'Cross? I don't know when I've enjoyed a conversation so much,' said
Edith, speaking with perfect truth.

CHAPTER V

The Ottleys and Madame Frabelle were in the drawing-room awaiting their guests. (I say advisedly their guests, for no-one could help regarding Madame Frabelle as essentially the hostess, and queen of the evening.) One would fancy that instead of entertaining more or less for the last twelve years the young couple had never given a dinner before; so much suppressed excitement was in the air. Bruce was quiet and subdued now from combined nervousness and pride, but for the few days previous he had been terribly trying to his unfortunate wife; nothing, according to him, could be good enough for the purpose of impressing Madame Frabelle, and he appeared to have lost all his confidence in Edith's undeniable gift for receiving.

The flowers, the menu, the arrangement of the eight people—for the dinner was still small, intimate and distinguished, as he had first suggested—had been subjected to continual and maddening changes in its scheme. Everyone had been disengaged and everyone had accepted—then he wished he had asked other people instead.

When Edith was dressed Bruce put the last touch to his irritating caprices by asking Edith to take out of her hair a bandeau of blue that he had first asked her to put in. Every woman will know what agony that must have caused. The pretty fair hair was waved and arranged specially for this ornament, and when she took it out the whole scheme seemed to her wrong. However, she looked very pretty, dressed in vaporous tulle of a shade of blue which only a faultless complexion can bear.

Edith's complexion was her strong point. When she was a little flushed she looked all the better for it, and when she was pale it seemed to suit her none the worse. Hers was the sort of skin with a satiny texture that improves under bright sunshine or electric light; in fact the more brilliantly it was lighted the better it looked.

Madame Frabelle (of course) was dressed in black, décolletée, and with a good deal of jet. A black aigrette, like a lightning conductor, stood up defiantly in her hair. Though it did not harmonise well with the somewhat square and bourgeois shape of her head and face, and appeared to have dropped on her by accident, yet as a symbol of smartness it gave her a kind of distinction. It appeared to have fallen from the skies; it was put on in the wrong place, and it did not nestle, as it should do, and appear to grow out of the hair, since that glory of womanhood, in her case of a dull brown, going slightly grey, was smooth, scarce and plainly parted. Madame Frabelle really would have looked her best in a cap of the fashion of the sixties. But she could carry off anything; and some people said that she did.

Edith had been allowed by her husband carte blanche in the decoration of their house.

This was fortunate, as mise-en-scène was a great gift of hers; no-one had such a sense as Edith for arranging a room. She had struck the happy mean between the eccentric and the conventional. Anything that seemed unusual did not appear to be a pose, or a strained attempt at being different from others, but seemed to have a reason of its own. For example, she greatly disliked the usual gorgeous endimanché drawing-room and dark conventional dining-room. The room in which she received her guests was soft and subdued in colour and not dazzling with that blaze of light that is so trying to strangers just arrived and not knowing their way about a house (or certain of how they are looking). The room seemed to receive them kindly; make them comfortable, and at their ease, hoping they looked their best. The shaded lights, not dim enough to be depressing, were kind to those past youth and gave confidence to the shy. There was nothing ceremonious, nothing chilly, about the drawing-room; it was essentially at once comfortable and becoming, and the lights shone like shaded sunshine from the dull pink corners of the room.

On the other hand, the dining-room helped conversation by its stimulating gaiety and daintiness.

The feminine curves of the furniture, such as is usually kept for the drawing-room, were all pure Louis-Quinze. It was deliriously pretty in its pink and white and pale green.

In the drawing-room the hosts stood by one of those large, old-fashioned oaken fireplaces so supremely helpful to conversation and tête-à-têtes. In Edith's house there was never any general conversation except at dinner. People simply made friends, flirted, and enjoyed themselves.

As the clock struck eight the Mitchells were announced. Edith could scarcely control a laugh as Mr Mitchell came in, he looked so utterly unlike the dangerous lover Madame Frabelle had conjured up. He was immensely tall, broad, loosely built, large-shouldered, with a red beard, a twinkle in his eye, and the merriest of laughs. He was a delightful man, but there was no romance about him. Besides, Edith remembered him as a black poodle.

* * * * *

Mrs. Mitchell struck a useful note, and seemed a perfect complement to her husband, the ideal wife for him. She was about forty-five, but being slim, animated, and well dressed (though entirely without chic), she seemed a good deal younger.

Mr. Mitchell might have been any age between sixty and sixty-five, and had the high spirits and vitality of a boy.

It was impossible to help liking this delightful couple; they fully deserved their popularity. In the enormous house at Hampstead, arranged like a country mansion, where they lived, Mr. Mitchell made it the object of his life to collect Bohemians as other people collect Venetian glass, from pure love of the material. His wife, with a silly woman's subtlety, having rather lower ideals—that is to say, a touch of the very human vulgarity known as social ambition—made use of his Bohemianism to help her on in her mundane success. This was the principle of the thing. If things were well done—and they always were at her house—would not a duke, if he were musical, go anywhere to hear the greatest tenor in Europe? And would not all the greatest celebrities go anywhere to meet a duke?

* * * * *

Next the two young Conistons were announced.

Miss Coniston was a thin, amiable, artistic girl, who did tooling in leather, made her own dresses, recited, and had a pale, good-looking, too well-dressed, disquieting young brother of twenty-two, who seemed to be always going out when other people came in, but was rather useful in society, being musical and very polite. The music that he chose generally gave his audience a shock. Being so young, so pale, and so contemporary, one expected him to sing thin, elusive music by Debussy, Fauré, or Ravel. He seemed never to have heard of these composers, but sang instead threatening songs, such as, 'I'll sing thee Songs of Araby!' or defiant, teetotal melodies, like 'Drink to Me only with thine Eyes!' His voice was good, and louder and deeper than one would expect. He accompanied himself and his sister everywhere. She, by the way, to add to the interest about her, was said to be privately engaged to a celebrity who was never there. Alice and Guy Coniston were orphans, and lived alone in a tiny flat in Pelham Gardens. He had been reading for the Bar, but when the war broke out he joined the New Army, and was now in khaki.

* * * * *

But the clou and great interest of the evening was the arrival of Sir Tito Landi, that most popular of all Italian composers. With his white moustache, pink and white complexion, and large bright blue eyes, his dandified dress, his eyeglass and buttonhole, he had the fresh, fair look of an Englishman, the dry brilliance of a Parisian, the naïveté of a genius, the manners of a courtier, and behind it all the diabolic humour of the Neapolitan. He was small, thin and slight, with a curious dignity of movement.

* * * * *

'Ah, Tito,' cried Bruce cordially. 'Here you are!'

The dinner was bright and gay from the very beginning, even before the first glass of champagne. It began with an optimistic view of the war, then, dropping the grave subject, they talked of people, theatres, books, and general gossip. In all these things Madame Frabelle took the lead. Indeed, she had begun at once laying down the law in a musical voice but with a determined manner that gave those who knew her to understand only too well that she intended to go steadily on, and certainly not to stop to breathe before the ices.

Sir Tito Landi, fixing his eyeglass in his bright blue eye, took in
Madame Frabelle in one long look, and smiled at her sympathetically.

'What do you think of her?' murmured Edith to Landi.

Hypnotised and slightly puzzled as she was by her guest, she was particularly curious for his opinion, as she knew him to be the best judge of character of her acquaintance. He had some of the capriciousness of the spoilt, successful artist, which showed itself, except to those whom he regarded as real friends, in odd variations of manner, so that Edith could not tell at all by his being extremely charming to Madame Frabelle that he liked her, or by his being abrupt and satirical that he didn't. An old friend and a favourite, she could rely on what he told her.

'C'est une bonne vieille,' he said. 'Bonne, mais bête!'

'Really?' Edith asked, surprised.

Landi laughed. 'Bête comme ses pieds, ma chère!'

Returning to decent language and conventional tone, he went on with a story he was telling about an incident that had happened when he was staying with some royalties. His stories were short, new, amusing, and invariably suited to his audience. Anything about the Court he saw, at a glance, would genuinely interest Madame Frabelle. Edith was amused as she saw that lady becoming more and more convinced of Landi's importance, and of his respectful admiration.

* * * * *

Long before dinner was over there was no doubt that everyone was delighted with Madame Frabelle. She talked so well, suited herself to everyone, and simply charmed them all. Yet why? Edith was still wondering, but by the time she rose to go upstairs she thought she began to understand her friend's secret. People were not charmed with Eglantine because she herself was charming, but because she was charmed. Madame Frabelle was really as much interested in everyone to whom she spoke as she appeared to be; the interest was not assumed. A few little pretences and affectations she might have, such as that of knowing a great deal about every subject under the sun—of having read everything, and been everywhere, but her interest in other people was real. That was what made people like her.

Young Coniston, shy, sensitive and reserved as he was, had nevertheless told her all about his training at Braintree, the boredom of getting up early, the dampness of the tents, and how much he wanted to be sent to the front. She admired his valour, was interested in his music, and at her persuasion he promised to sing her songs of Araby after dinner.

When the ladies were alone Eglantine's universal fascination was even more remarkable. Mrs. Mitchell, at her desire, gave her the address of the little dressmaker who ran up Mrs. Mitchell's blouses and skirts. This was an honour for Mrs. Mitchell; nothing pleased her so much as to be asked for the address of her dressmaker by a woman with a foreign name.

As to Miss Coniston, she was enraptured with Eglantine. Madame Frabelle arranged to go and see her little exhibition of tooled leather, and coaxed out of the shy girl various details about the celebrity, who at present had an ambulance in France. She adored reciting, and Miss Coniston, to gratify her, offered to recite a poem by Emile Cammaerts on the spot.