In their several bedrooms at the Grange eight people were engaged in dressing for dinner, and perhaps only one of these bore a mind untroubled by worry, or vexations. That one was surely Miss Lola de Silva, and even she experienced feelings of slight annoyance at finding that not only had she to share her bathroom with Miss Fawcett and Mr. Guest, but that it was unprovided with a shower, further proof of Sir Arthur's incompetence.
Stephen Guest, occupying the bathroom after her, found it full of steam, rather damp underfoot, and redolent of an exotic perfume. It repulsed him; he found it impossible to enter the bath until he had washed any lingering taint of scent away, and since he was never one to require another to wait on him, he performed this disagreeable task himself. It did not improve his temper, which was already gloomy.
He had loved Fay for two years, at first in silence and from a distance, but with the unwavering tenacity of the very taciturn. With the exception of an incident in his youth, there had been no other woman in his life; he knew beyond need of averring it, that there would never be another. For Fay, so fragile and helpless, he had all a naturally rugged man's devotion, and without attempting to put such feelings into impassioned words he had long made up his mind that there could not be — indeed, must not be — anything that he would not do for her.
Accustomed during a life spent largely, as he himself said, in the tough spots still remaining in the world, to grasping what he wanted with a strong hand, he found himself now enmeshed by a net of conventions. This he would have torn ruthlessly down for his own ends, but he served not them, but Fay, and she had a shy woman's respect for conventions. To come as a guest into her husband's house and to remain passive in sight of her unhappiness was a greater test of his power of self-control than anyone merely observing his doggedly calm front could have imagined. He came because Fay wanted him. He did not accuse her even in his heart of selfishness; he was untroubled by qualms of conscience; if he could persuade her to it he would steal her from under her husband's very nose, and never, in the future, look back with the least sentiment of remorse.
But she seemed as far as ever from consenting to a step that seemed to her so dreadful, and ahead lay a week-end likely to be worse than any he had spent at the Grange. As he wrestled with a collar stud he wondered how best he could help Fay, whether by monopolising Lola, a prospect that filled him with alarm, or by trying to interpose his own solid person between Sir Arthur and the immediate scapegoat of his wrath. He thought perhaps Dinah would help: she was a good sort, Dinah.
Dinah too, slipping an evening frock off its hanger, foresaw a stormy week-end, but an irrepressible sense of humour prevented her from looking forward to it with unreasonable dread. Saving only her protective affection for Fay she could have enjoyed the situation provoked by Geoffy. and would have sat with folded hands, as an appreciative onlooker. But since Fay, incapable of fighting her own battles, would be the chief sufferer it behoved her to do what she could, even if the best she could do was only to draw Sir Arthur's fire.
Stalking through the communicating door between his room and Fay's, Sir Arthur was, in his own phrase, clearing the air. Every annoyance of this disastrous weekend was Fay's fault, from the unwelcome arrival of Dinah to the ill-assorted party assembled for dinner in half an hour's time. Anyone but a fool would have had the wit to wire regrets both to Dinah and to Guest. No otic but a fool would have invited the Vicar and his wife to dine on this of all evenings.
She faltered that the invitation had been given a week before; he snarled at her, and she thought, with a frightened leap of her heart, that he looked at her almost with dislike. She was wrong. He did not dislike her; he was even, in a contemptuous way, fond of her, but she had lost her charm and become instead of the blushing, adoring girl he had married, a shrinking, exasperatingly virginal woman who tried nervously to placate him, and whom it was impossible not to bully. Her worst crime in his eyes was that she had brought him no children, no promising son to console him for the disappointment of Geoffrey, that thorn in his flesh, child of the wife who had dragged his name through the mud twenty-one years ago, running off with some worthless civilian who had not even married her when it was all over.
There was his nephew too to annoy him. He was fond of Francis; Francis had gone into the Cavalry, just as all decent young fellows should, and his colonel spoke well of him. He wore the right clothes, looked a sahib, rode to hounds, and was a good man to ask down for a day's shooting. No damned humanitarian nonsense about Francis; he came of the right stock, not a doubt of that. But he was extravagant; seemed to think his uncle had nothing to do but to pay his debts. That would have to be stopped. If Master Francis had come to beg he would be taught a sharp lesson for once.
He could not blame Fay for Francis's visit. Francis had arrived without invitation. It irritated him that Fay should be blameless. He asked her why the devil she could not put some stuff on her face as other women did instead of going about looking pasty and colourless.
If Geoffrey and Francis and Dinah had only chosen some other week-end he would not have minded so much. But he had looked forward to the Hallidays' visit, and it was all spoiled. He had no objection to Guest's presence. Guest could sit and adore Fay as much as he liked; she was too damned chaste to let harm come of that; knew which side her bread was buttered on, too. He would have entertained Fay while her husband engaged in flirtation with Camilla. She was a seductive little woman, Camilla; out for what she could get, probably, but ready (or he was much mistaken) to pay for what she wanted. That husband of hers was a dull dog. Hadn't the sense to get a man's job, and blamed the War for it. Just like this damned puling generation, always grumbling at fate; no guts to 'em; he'd like to have a few of 'em in his old regiment.
And Basil Halliday, unhappily brushing his coat, Trying to think that his dress trousers were not so shiny after all, was despising Sir Arthur — hating him too, the libidinous old swine — and wondering what Camilla was up to. She couldn't like the man; of course she couldn't likes him. It was just her way to flirt with anyone who was handy, and it was no use worrying about that. It wasn't that he didn't trust her. Lord, hadn't she stuck by him when, God knew, she'd had chances enough to chuck him over? But he did wish he hadn't let her persuade him into coming down here. It was all very well to talk about free board and lodging, and naturally he saw the force of that argument, for that was the way one lived nowadays, making oneself agreeable to people for the sake of a dinner that hadn't been prepared by a slut of a cook who ruined everything she touched. If you liked soft living and pretty things you had to swallow your pride to get them when you were saddled with a rotten crock of a husband who couldn't earn more than five hundred a year if he lived to be ninety. He didn't blame Camilla; only this bloody soldier, with his money-bags and his loud voice and his greedy hands longing to paw her was surely coming it a bit thick. The man was stupid, too; one of those officers — he'd seen a lot of them during the war who thought the whole world was bounded by the British Army.
He cast a worried glance towards the door that led out of the dressing-room into the bedroom, where Camilla sat before the dressing-table, making up her face. He could just see her, absorbed, plucking a hair from the thin line of her brows. He didn't know what was in her mind; didn't like to ask. There was a little nagging ache behind his eyes. If he said anything to Camilla now it would lead to one of their frequent quarrels. Better to keep quiet; not play the jealous husband.
Camilla was making an elaborate toilet, determined to put Lola in the shade. She had chosen to wear the pink chiffon frock which wasn't paid for yet, but which might be soon — with luck. It had bands of pink sequins that glittered when she moved, and was cut very low across her breasts. Really it was rather too low; she had to pin a piece of silver lace inside it. All the other women would know that it was the wrong frock to wear at a country dinner party, but she didn't care what the women thought. The General would like it; it would make him want to fondle her (amorous old idiot!) and he could if he felt like that. It was a damned nuisance that this wretched cabaret dancer had turned up, putting the old boy in a bad temper. She'd need to handle him carefully, leading him on, listening to his ghastly stories about India, which always began "When I was at Peshawar," or Wellington, or some other damned place, and always ended with a hearty laugh. She'd have to give him a chance to mess her about a bit. She rather hated being kissed by men with toothbrush moustaches, but it couldn't be helped, and anyway in these days, when half the men you met arrived at kissing terms within half an hour, you soon got over that kind of squeamishness. In a way he was fairly easy to deal with. That was the best of these conceited men. She'd only got to play up to him for him to start hinting at things, and if she couldn't touch him for something handsome then she must be a pretty good fool. Only she'd have to take care not to let him give her some rotten trinket. Jewellery was no good these days; you got nothing for it, and God knew if she didn't lay her hands on solid cash soon she'd be in a nasty mess.
If only Basil would be sensible, everything would be all right. But he'd been looking like a sick herring the whole afternoon, poor old thing, and it would be just like him to get into one of his jealous rages and muck the whole show. He ought to know by now that her head was screwed on the right way. The trouble with him was that he'd got a lot of prewar ideas about women and honour. It was rather sweet of him, of course, but utterly pathetic in these hard times. Damn! it was ten to eight already, and she hadn't done her eyelashes. Oh, well, they'd have to stay as they were: no sense in putting the old man's brick up by being late for his filthy dinner-party.
Downstairs, in the long white-paneled drawing-room, Fay, drilled into punctuality, had been awaiting her guests since twenty minutes to eight. She was looking tired, but pretty, in a flowered frock that was like the chintzes on the chairs — cool, and mistily tinted. Stephen Guest had come into the drawing-room behind her. She smiled at him, that wistful smile that tore at his heart, and put her hands to arrange his tie — a lamentable bow, already askew.
"Dear Stephen!" she murmured, the hint of a tender laugh in her voice. "Why don't you buy one with broad ends? It would be so much easier to tie."
He couldn't bear it when she stood so close to him, looking up at him with her gentle blue eyes. Suddenly he put his arms round her, holding her tightly to him. "Fay, you've got to come to it. We can't go on like this. I'm only n mortal, you know." His voice was thickened and rough, his mouth was seeking hers.
"Please don't, Stephen!" she said faintly. "Oh, please don't! Arthur — the servants. Stephen, be kind to me; be patient with me!"
He let her go, breathing rather fast, his square face flushed. "See here, Fay! You love me, and I love you. We're all hedged in here by these God-darned conventions. One of these days things'll get too much for me, and I'll go plumb through the lot of them, and there'll be one fine show-down. Can't you make up your mind to face the music, and come away with me? We won't stay in England — the Lord knows I've had enough of the place. Too much stiff shirt and kid gloves about it. I'll take you any place you say. We won't defend the case; you don't need to set foot inside the Divorce Courts."
"I couldn't. It's wicked of us! I oughtn't to have asked you to come, only I wanted you so. Dinah thinks it was rotten of me, and she's right. It is rotten; only if I'm never even to see you I might as well be dead."
At sight of her distress the angry colour in his face died. He took her hand and patted it clumsily. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to upset you, dear. You've got enough to worry you without me adding to it. Only, we've got to find some solution, haven't we? But we won't talk about it now. I'm just here to be leaned on, and to help you any way I can."
Her eyes filled. "You're so good to me, Stephen. I'm a rotter to let you waste your life for my sake."
He would have answered her, but Sir Arthur's voice sounded in the hall, and in another moment he had entered the room, followed by Finch, with a tray of cocktails which he set down on a table against the wall. Somewhere in the distance an electric bell rang, and Fay said with forced brightness: "I expect that's the Chudleighs. They're always on time."
It was not the Chudleighs, however, but Mrs. Twining who was presently announced.
Mrs. Twining was a widow who might have been any age between forty-five and sixty. She lived rather less than five miles away and was a frequent visitor at the Grange. She said that, having been acquainted with Arthur for so many years, she considered herself a privileged person. She was in the habit of making this observation with a faintly mocking lift of her arched brows, but the General, possibly because he knew her so well, usually refused to be drawn.
When she first took up her abode in the neighbourhood she was eyed a little suspiciously. She was so perfectly dressed that naturally people felt that she might nut be quite the type of person one wanted to know. She was obviously in comfortable circumstances, but she seemed to have no tangible roots. This was presently explained by the knowledge that she had spent the greater part of her life abroad, some of it in India, where she was understood to have buried the late Colonel Twining, and some of it in well-known military stations like Egypt and Malta. All this was perfectly respectable, and when it was made apparent that she was on terms of long-standing acquaintance with Sir Arthur Billington-Smith several ladies called upon her. She was found to be perfectly well-bred, though rather clever, and was in due course accepted by all the best people.
She came in now in her graceful, assured way, and shook hands with Fay, saying lightly: "I am so glad that I'm not late after all. I am told that every clock in my house is wrong, so I feared I might arrive to find you at dinner. How do you do, Arthur?"
"You remember Mr. Guest, don't you?" Fay said.
"Yes, perfectly," replied Mrs. Twining, smiling at him. "He told me a great deal that I didn't know about the western States."
"I hope I didn't bore you?" said Stephen, rather conscience-stricken.
Mrs. Twining sat down in a bergere chair, letting one hand rest upon its arm. "No. You interested me, Mr. Guest. Till then my knowledge of that part of the world had all been culled from various films it has been my misfortune to see. I never felt that they were really reliable."
The entrance of the Hallidays and Dinah interrupted Stephen in his assurance that the films Mrs. Twining had seen were probably quite inaccurate. Francis came in a minute later, looking rather sleeker than before, and Sir Arthur began — while his wife performed introductions to hand round cocktails. He took up a commanding position in front of the empty grate, when Francis relieved him of this duty, and set the ball of conversation rolling by remarking that it didn't look as if they were going to get any rain yet; he didn't know about Julia's garden, but his own wanted it badly.
Every one had some contribution to make on this subject, from Camilla, who begged Sir Arthur not to wish for rain till Monday, to Stephen Guest, who observed that the country needed it.
Geoffrey slipped guiltily into the room in the middle of this discussion, but if he hoped to make his tardy entrance unnoticed he was disappointed. His father stood facing the door, and said in a bluff voice, through which lay an unmistakably threatening undercurrent: "A trifle late, my boy, aren't you? We were ready to receive our guests in my young days."
Geoffrey coloured angrily. It was just like Father to treat him as though he were a schoolboy in front of a roomful of people. He mumbled: "Sorry!" and walked over to the cocktail tray.
Sir Arthur said sharply: "Good God, sir, where have you left your manners? Say how do you do to Mrs. Twining!"
Geoffrey grew redder than ever. "I didn't see you, Aunt Julia. How do you do?"
Mrs. Twining patted a chair beside her. "Come and sit down, Geoffrey. It seems a long time since I saw you. I hear you are engaged to be married?" Something between a snort and a scornful laugh from the General made her turn her well-coiffed head. "I beg your pardon, Arthur?" she said smoothly.
"Time enough to talk of being married when he's done cutting his second teeth," said the General, moving away towards Camilla.
"The Reverend and Mrs. Chudleigh," announced Finch from the doorway.
The Vicar and his wife came in.
The Rev. Hilary Chudleigh was a man of late middle age, with a gentle austere countenance, and a permanent stoop to his shoulders. He had been vicar of the parish for only four years. The best years of his life had been spent working in the worst slums imaginable, and it was only when his health at last cracked that he consented to accept a living in the country. He was not really fitted to be a country vicar, for he disapproved of fox-hunting and pheasant-shooting, and was not at all fond of social intercourse. The General said that he was a namby-pamby fellow with a bee in his bonnet. The Vicar said, sadly but with conviction, that the General was living in sin. If it had not been for the arguments of his wife, and the advice of his very tactful bishop, Mr. Chudleigh would never have set foot inside the General's house. He did not recognise divorce. This, not unnaturally, was apt to produce a somewhat strained atmosphere on the rare occasions when, in duty bound, he visited the Grange. He had tried once to bring Sir Arthur to a realisation of his error. The result had not been happy, and it had taken six months to heal the breach. Left to himself, the Vicar would never again have approached Sir Arthur, but he was not left to himself. His bishop came to lunch one day, and was more tactful and persuasive than ever. The Rev. Hilary, who was growing old and rather tired, saw that the situation was too difficult for him to cope with. The bishop apparently recognised divorce and remarriage, and the bishop pointed out that Sir Arthur was not only one of the more influential landowners in the district, but a churchwarden as well. It seemed one could not ostracise rich men who occupied front pews every Sunday, contributed to the church restoration funds, and took leading parts in parochial meetings.
So he gave way, troubled in his conscience, and at least three times a year he and his wife dined at the Grange. It was certainly a little unfortunate that one of these dinners should occur when Miss de Silva was in the house. It annoyed the General very much to think that the Rev. Hilary (who had the impertinence to condemn his morals) was to be brought face to face with the abominable young woman Geoffrey had had the affrontery to bring down to the Grange. Lola would give the fellow a fine handle; she would give Mrs. Chudleigh something to talk about too, for weeks to come.
Mrs. Chudleigh was engaged at the moment in shaking hands with Fay, and explaining how she feared they might be a little late on account of their having walked up from the vicarage this lovely evening. She was a thin woman of about fifty, with a weather-beaten complection, and hair of that pepper-and-salt variety that might in her youth have been almost any colour. Kindly people said that she must have been pretty once, but she had not worn well, and did nothing now to improve her appearance. She wore pincenez, despised face powder and curling-tongs, and had a genius for acquiring frocks made according to the last fashion but one. Her weak sighted eyes had a trick of peering, which gave her an inquisitive air, and she had a voice that had probably, in her girlhood, been a childish treble, and had become, in the process of time, merely sharp.
Both she and her husband refused cocktails, but the Vicar accepted instead a glass of sherry, remarking to Dinah that he had never learned to like the modern apperitif. His mild gaze travelled to Camilla, who was talking to Francis, and had given vent to her rather empty laugh. He blinked a little, as well he might, for the pink sequins sparkled dazzlingly as the light caught them, and inclined his head a little towards Dinah. "I am afraid I did not catch that lady's name," he said apologetically. "My wife tells me that it is quite a tiresome failing of mine, but I am a little deaf, you know."
"I think most people mumble introductions," replied Dinah. "That is Mrs. Halliday."
"Ah, indeed?" The Vicar looked at Camilla with renewed interest. "I knew a Halliday once. A dear fellow; we were at Lincoln together. But I dare say he would be no relation."
The sound of the grandfather clock in the hall striking the hour penetrated to the drawing-room. The General consulted his wrist-watch, as though to verify it.
"You see, we were not late after all, Hilary," said Mrs. Chudleigh, with an air of self-congratulation.
Dinah slipped unobtrusively towards Geoffrey, who was standing moodily behind Mrs. Twining's chair. "If you don't want Arthur to start making gobbling noises, go and hurry your betrothed," she said in an urgent undertone.
Geoffrey spoke from a wider experience of Lola. "She's always late," he said simply.
Mrs. Twining turned her head. Her cool grey eyes held a gleam of amusement. "Of course!" she said softly. "Gobbling noises!"
Dinah blushed. "You weren't meant to hear that, Mrs. Twining. But he does, you know."
"He always did," replied Mrs. Twining. "Geoffrey, my dear, I really think you would be wise to take Dinah's advice. Already this party seems to me to be showing signs of wear."
"It wouldn't be any good," said Geoffrey. "She doesn't like to be hurried."
His voice, breaking a momentary lull in the noise of conversation, attracted the attention of Mrs. Chudleigh. She came towards him immediately, various gold chains which she wore about her neck chinking together as she exclaimed. "Why, here is Geoffrey!" she exclaimed, holding out her hand. "I actually didn't see you. I must really have my glasses seen to. And how are you? What a long time it seems since we met!"
"Yes, I've been in town," said Geoffrey, shaking hands.
"Very busy with your writing, I expect," nodded Mrs. Chudleigh. "I read a little verse of yours in a magazine not so long ago. Of course I didn't understand it, but it was very clever, I'm sure. I used to scribble verses myself when I was young — not that they were ever good enough to be printed. We used to write them in one another's autograph albums, but I believe that has quite gone out of fashion."
Geoffrey, who perpetrated, very seriously, fugitive poems without rhyme or (said the uninitiated), reason, shuddered visibly and mumbled something in his throat.
"You must tell me all about yourself," invited Mrs. Chudleigh paralysingly. "I expect you meet a great many interesting people up in London and have quite a gay time with all your writing friends."
The General's voice interrupted her. "I don't know how long your — fiancée — intends to keep us waiting for dinner, but I should like to point out to you that it is now ten minutes past eight," he said with awful emphasis.
At that Mrs. Chudleigh's eyes gleamed with interest, and she said: "Well! So you're engaged to be married, Geoffrey! I had no idea! And is your fiancée actually staying here? This is quite an occasion, then! An engagement-party!"
"Nothing of the sort!" said Sir Arthur, who had been betrayed into divulging Lola's identity through his inability to bring himself to utter her confounded outlandish name.
Mrs. Chudleigh looked sharply from him to Geoffrey, scenting discord. "Well, I am sure this is a great surprise," she declared. "Quite unexpected! I am most anxious to meet her, though I feel quite sorry for her having to enter a roomful of people all staring at her."
The door was flung open; there was just a moment's pause, sufficient to allow every one time to turn their heads, and Miss de Silva swam into the room.
It was easy to see what had made her late. Her raven locks, which she had worn earlier in the day in ringlets low on her neck, had all been curled and frizzed into a stiff mass up the back of her head to form a sort of halo for her face. She was made up in the Parisian style — a dead white with vivid red lips and heavily blacked eyelashes. She wore a frock of black velvet rising to a point at the base of her throat and held there by a diamond collar. It fitted her like a glove; it was utterly plain, with a long train lined with scarlet, and no back at all until her trim waist was reached. A quantity of diamond (or, as Mrs. Chudleigh strongly suspected, paste) bracelets glittered up each arm, and in one hand she carried a fan of cock's feathers dyed scarlet. She was arresting, magnificent, and quite incongruous, and her appearance rendered her host speechless.
"I am late, that is certain," she announced, "but I shall not be blamed, because it was the fault of Geoffrey, who was so stupid to bring me in a little car that would not take my luggage. And I do not drink cocktails with gin: they are to me quite abominable. So there is not the need to wait any longer for dinner, and I do not disarrange my one at all."
The Vicar bent towards Dinah's ear, and, with an intonation of incredulity, inquired in the peculiarly penetrating whisper of all deaf persons: "I beg your pardon. Did I understand you to say that it was Geoffrey's fiancée?"
"Yes," said Dinah, carefully averting her gaze from Mrs. Chudleigh's stiffening form. "Er — yes." Then she unwisely allowed herself to look at Sir Arthur, and felt uncontrollable laughter bubbling up. She retired hastily into the background.
Fay was introducing Lola to the assembled company with an air of spurious brightness. Mrs. Twining said in her faintly drawling way: "My dear, I am sure there is no need to introduce Miss de Silva, for we must all have heard of her, and of her dancing."
"It is true," agreed Lola affably. "I am very famous, not only in England, but everywhere."
"Dinner is served, my lady," said Finch, enacting Providence from the doorway.
The General wheeled round, and, still speechless, offered his arm to Mrs. Twining.
Behind them, in sedate couples, the rest of the guests walked in to dinner.
The dining-room lay at the end of the hall, and was on the opposite side of the front door to the study. It was a large, somewhat sombre apartment, with mahogany furniture and crimson hangings. A number of dark-looking oil paintings in very massive gilt frames hung on the walls, and to one of these, unfortunately placed in her direct line of vision, Lola took instant exception. It depicted, with faithful verisimilitude, a large assortment of garden produce, scattered most unsuitably round a brace of pheasants and a dead hare. Lola had hardly seated herself when she caught sight of this masterpiece, and she at once uttered an outraged cry and got up again. "Ah, but it is impossible that I should sit opposite to that picture, which I find entirely disgusting. There is a dead animal with blood on it, and I shall immediately faint if I must look at it."
"It's only a hare, darling," said Geoffrey, feeling that it was for him to smooth over this breach.
"But naturally I can see that it is a hare. I am not blind. And I must tell you that to see a hare is extremely unlucky. I am already quite upset, but I perceive that it is not possible to remove such a big picture. It will be better if I sit where I cannot look at it."
The General found his voice. "Upon my soul!" he burst out. "Do you imagine, young woman, that I am going to remove my pictures to please -"
Dinah sprang up. "All right," she said hurriedly. "Change places with me, Miss de Silva."
Lola walked composedly round the table and sat down between Francis and the Vicar. "So it arranges itself," she said.
The Vicar, who had turned round to study the offending picture in all its detail, addressed her with an interested and more kindly light in his eye. "You do not like things to be killed, Miss de Silva? I am sure we must all sympathise with you."
"I do not mind that they should be killed, but I do not at all like to see a picture of a dead hare with blood on its nose when I am to eat my dinner," replied Lola firmly.
Since the Vicar was a vegetarian and a pacifist this remark was not a happy one, and he drew back, disappointed and perturbed. His wife, always his champion, bucklering him against the world with a kind of fierce protectiveness, at once entered into the discussion and said across the table: "We do not all consider it folly to disapprove of bloodshed, I can assure you, Miss de Silva. A great many people today consider all bloodshed to be wrong."
"In my country," said Lola, applying herself to her soup, "we do not think that."
"Lola is a Mexican, you know," confided Geoffrey, seated next to Mrs. Chudleigh.
"A Mexican!" echoed Mrs. Chudleigh. "Oh, dear me! Of course that would account for it. Such a dreadful country! One feels that something ought to be done about it, but then they're all Roman Catholics, aren't they? And so Miss de Silva is a dancer, I think you said? On the stage, of course? Well, I always say it takes all sorts to make a world, and I hope I am sufficiently broad-minded… I see you have Mr. Guest staying with you again. He is quite a frequent visitor, is he not?"
Fay, overhearing this remark, coloured faintly, and lost the thread of the Vicar's painstaking conversation. Beyond him Lola was recounting the tale of her triumphs to Francis, while Camilla Halliday, seated on his left, sought doggedly to capture his attention. The General addressed himself solely to Mrs. Twining and Mrs. Chudleigh, but occasionally sent a smouldering look down the table towards Lola. Stephen Guest said nothing in particular; Geoffrey listened in adoring silence to what Lola was saying to his cousin, and Dinah pursued a futile conversation with Basil Halliday.
It was not a comfortable dinner-party, and at times it was in danger of becoming quite cataclysmic, as, for instance, when Lola produced a tiny Russian cigarette between the entree and the bird, and requested Francis to light it for her. The General looked daggers at his wife, and since she felt herself powerless to intervene, began to say in his most unpleasant voice: "Would you have the goodness to refrain —"
"A foreign custom, my dear Arthur," interposed Mrs. Twining, and took her own case out of her bag. Under her host's astonished glare she drew out a cigarette, and placed it between her lips. "A match, please," she said calmly.
"What the devil's the matter with you, Julia?" demanded Sir Arthur. "Since when have you taken to that disgusting habit?"
She raised her brows. "You ought to know by now that I am eminently adaptable," she said. "Ah, thank you, Mr. Guest. So kind of you."
Mrs. Chudleigh gave a shrill laugh. "I must say I did not expect to see you smoking at table, Julia," she remarked. "We live and learn. I wonder what Hilary would have to say to me if I were suddenly to light a cigarette in the middle of dinner?"
"Oh, every one does it nowadays," Geoffrey assured her. "I do myself, you know."
"In this house," said his father, "you do nothing of the kind, let me tell you!"
"I'm sure it can't be good for you," Mrs. Chudleigh said earnestly. "I always say tobacco is the curse of the modern generation. It goes through all classes. You would hardly believe it possible, but I actually discovered a housemaid of mine smoking in her bedroom once. I had suspected that she did, and I managed to catch her red-handed!"
This recollection was received by Geoffrey in gloomy silence, but provoked Camilla, who was ruffled by her failure to lure Francis away from Lola, to say lightly: "Poor wretch, why shouldn't she? Live and let live is my motto!"
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Chudleigh, her eyes snapping dangerously. "We all have our own ideas, of course. Personally I always consider myself directly responsible for the moral tone of any servant under my roof."
"Moral tone?" repeated Camilla. "It sounds as though they were going to have a baby, or something."
Mrs. Chudleigh turned quite scarlet and sat very straight in her chair. "Really, if you will excuse me, I think it is time we ceased this conversation, Mrs. — er — Halliday. No doubt I am old-fashioned, but there are some subjects I was brought up to consider unfit for dinner-table discussion."
As she enunciated this speech with great precision, it not unnaturally caught the ears of nearly everybody in the room. There was a moment's awkward silence. Lola's voice filled it. "And I must tell you that when I danced in Rio I had a success quite enormous, and a man shot himself outside my hotel, which was a compliment of the most distinguished, and also," she added practically, "very good publicity, in Rio."
"How very romantic!" said Fay, in a shattered voice. "Do have a salted almond, Mr. Chudleigh!"
The Vicar was regarding Lola in shocked amazement. "My dear Miss de Silva, you speak very calmly of this dreadful tragedy! It must surely have appalled you to know that this unfortunate man had committed the terrible sin of taking his own life for — one might almost say — your sake!"
"Yes, truly I was sorry for him," agreed Lola, "but I had my picture in all the papers, and one is forced to think of these things."
"Talking of newspapers," said Stephen Guest, coming staunchly to the rescue, "I saw a queer thing in one the other day…"
With one accord those at the bottom end of the table turned gratefully towards him, greeting his laboured reminiscence with extravagant enthusiasm.
"You see!" said the General to Mrs. Twining, in a furious undertone. "Insufferable! In my own house! The young whippersnapper having the damnable effrontery to bring the woman here. Not by my invitation, mark you! Well, I flatter myself it will be the last time my fine son makes a fool of himself under this roof! I've no doubt you'll have a great deal to say on his behalf. You're very fond of taking his part, aren't you? But I don't want to hear it! Do you understand? I don't want to hear it!"
"Perfectly," said Mrs. Twining. "I always did understand you, Arthur, and you have not changed in the least."
The General's already high colour darkened. He opened his mouth to retort, and became aware of Mrs. Chudleigh, avidly listening to his confidences. By a superhuman effort of will he changed what he was about to say into a rasping cough.
The long dinner seemed interminable, but it came to an end at last, and Fay rose, and the women went out in procession.
The worst must be over, thought Dinah, bringing up the rear. But all the same when they reached the drawing-room she walked over to one of the open windows, and drew back the curtains, saying: "It's a gorgeous night. Do come on to the terrace, Miss de Silva!"
"Dinah," said Mrs. Twining emphatically, as Lola followed Miss Fawcett out, "deserves a good husband and I hope she finds one."
"What a ghastly reward!" remarked Camilla, busily powdering her face. "I didn't know there were such things."
Mrs. Chudleigh, who had not forgiven her for her behaviour at dinner, said with a steely brightness; "That is a very cynical remark, and one that I am sure I hope you don't mean. I am proud to say that I have a husband who is more than good."
"You are fortunate, Emmy," said Mrs. Twining dryly. She moved towards the sofa, and sat down, disposing her long skirt with one practised hand. "Well, Fay, I am sorry for you, but you may console yourself with the reflection that Geoffrey is not, after all, your son. For once, I am almost sorry for Arthur. A most unnerving young woman."
"But it is dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Chudleigh, her eyes gleaming through her glasses. "To think of that poor boy in the clutches of such a woman! You must forgive me, Lady Billington-Smith, but I feel most strongly on the subject, and I do trust that some effort will be made to rescue him from such a disastrous entanglement! In my position as a clergyman's wife I do feel that I have some right to speak. And my husband and I have always been most fond of Geoffrey. I am sure we should both of us be quite distressed to think of him ruining his life like this."
"I don't think you need worry," said Mrs. Twining. "Long experience of Arthur induces me to think that he will place every conceivable obstacle in the way of the marriage."
"Well, I must say I hope he will manage to stop it," said Mrs. Chudleigh. "But one can't help feeling that it needs tact. I am sure Hilary would be only too glad to have a little talk with Geoffrey."
"It's very kind of you, but I think it would be much better to let it die a natural death," replied Fay with quiet dignity.
Mrs. Chudleigh gave a tight-lipped smile. "Ah, you are young, Lady Billington-Smith, and naturally optimistic. I am afraid I have lived too long in the world to share your optimism. From what I can see of that woman she exercises a Fatal Fascination for men. Of course, if you admire that bold kind of good looks, I suppose you might call her pretty. Personally, I never trust people with brown eyes, and I should not be at all surprised to hear that she was no better than she should be. And you heard for yourself what she had to say. Really, I was never more shocked in my life! About that unfortunate man who committed suicide."
"I hope you are not suggesting, Emmy, that Geoffrey is likely to follow his example?" inquired Mrs. Twining, idly surveying her rings.
"If you don't mind my saying so, I shouldn't think he'd have the guts," said Camilla negligently.
Mrs. Chudleigh's thin bosom swelled. "If by that expression — which, I must confess, I imagined till now to be confined to schoolboys' use — you mean that he would not have the courage, I am afraid you betray your ignorance of human nature, Mrs. Halliday. Not that I wish to imply for an instant that Geoffrey would even contemplate doing such a dreadful thing."
"Surely we are taking this a little too seriously?" suggested Mrs. Twining. "I for one am not led to suppose that Miss de Silva's affections are of a very permanent mature. I wish you would tell me, Fay, what you do to your roses to make them so much more perfect than i nine."
"It isn't me," Fay answered, sitting down beside her. "Arthur looks after the garden, you know. He is very keen on it."
"Ah, yes, of course," said Mrs. Twining, watching Camilla stroll out on to the terrace. "My dear, will you allow a very old friend of your husband to suggest that if you can induce him to take this affair calmly it might be a very excellent thing?"
"I know," Fay said unhappily. "I — I will try, only — it isn't always easy — when Arthur's annoyed — to — to manage him, you know." She flushed a little, and turned with relief as Dinah came in through the French window. "Oh, darling, there you are! Did you manage to make her understand at all?"
"It isn't possible," said Dinah despairingly. "We shall have to make up our minds to it. She's going to be the life and soul of the party."
"Oh, dear, how awful! What on earth shall I do?" demanded Fay helplessly.
"You can't do anything. I warned her there'd be bridge, but she says it will be better if we dance to the radio." She paused, and delivered her final bombshell. "And she thinks Francis looks as though he could tango, and she is going to do an exhibition tango with him for us all to watch. And I should think," concluded Miss Fawcett thoughtfully, "that it'll be pretty lush, what's more."