Circe's Daughter

The words stared hideously at her as they would stare at several thousand people who opened that page—friends, enemies, acquaintances. The blood sang in her ears as she tried to read the paragraph. She could hear their friends shouting with laughter, she could see the look of contempt on the faces of the people who mattered, she could hear the course chuckles, the resurrected stories.... Ugh! disgusting.

The newspaper, a popular halfpenny, recounted in well-worn journalistic phrases how The Girlie Girl of music-hall fame last night confessed that she had been married for several weeks to Captain Jack Iverson of the Blues, a grandson of Lord Creagh and the son of the famous society beauty whose picture, “Circe,” was known all over Europe. “The bridegroom,” said the paper, “has for some years been considered one of the richest and best-looking young bachelors in Mayfair, and its dovecots will be fluttered by the news of his marriage. It appears that they were married before a registrar and the utmost secrecy was observed, but truth will out, and last night Miss Fay Morris, better known as The Girlie Girl, was the recipient of much congratulation. Our reporter visited her between the first and second houses and found her dressing-room crowded with flowers. She is very popular in the profession, and has made her successes in America, South Africa and at home. She is very pretty, with a petite, perfect figure, and she possesses a considerable store of vitality and go, so much that she is billed as ‘The whirlwind dancer and mimic.’ Captain Iverson’s sister is the wife of the new K.C., Gilbert Currey, and is considered one of the most fascinating hostesses in Society.”

Johnson hardly recognized her as she looked up from the paper. It was just as bad as bad could be. The Girlie Girl! The Girlie Girl! Could anything be more vulgar and inane!

“You are through now,” said the maid, pushing the table that held the telephone nearer to the bedside. Claudia motioned her to leave the room.

Mrs. Iverson’s voice was almost lost in a kind of weird moan with which she punctuated her sentences.

“I knew something awful was going to happen,” she said. “I was warned by the spirits three times in succession ... they told me that disaster was coming closer and closer. It’s too awful, isn’t it? Of course, we can’t know her. Jack must be mad. I’ve sent for him to come to me at once, not, of course, that we can do anything now. I couldn’t sleep and I heard two of the servants talking about it while they did the stairs. He must divorce her or something. Fancy marrying a woman like that. Do you realize it, Claudia, I’m the mother-in-law of The Girlie Girl—I—I! My God, it’s incredible. Why, musical comedy would have been better. Why didn’t you stop it? Your father says he washes his hands of him, but that doesn’t prevent her being my daughter-in-law. If only the spirits had been more explicit in their warnings ... but spirits are always so vague.... I was afraid it meant that my masseur was going to die or my maid was going to leave me.... I’m prostrate.... What’s the good of Jules massaging me when I’ve got troubles like this? Do get dressed and come round—it’s as bad as having a funeral in the house, only, thank goodness, one doesn’t have to go into black.”

Claudia put back the receiver with a click, and Billie gave a bark to remind her that she had not greeted him kindly. She gave him an absent caress, her dark eyes, full of thought, looking out over his soft little head. How furious Gilbert would be! The Girlie Girl a sister-in-law of the rising young barrister! She had long ago divined his father’s and mother’s feeling against her own family, partly shared by Gilbert. Lady Currey would be delighted! A sarcastic smile curved her lips as Johnson came in again.

Johnson’s eyes were glittering with excitement, for servants love a good, rousing scandal.

In her excitement she called her mistress by her old name. “Miss Claudia, Mr. Jack is downstairs and wants to see you at once. I told him you were in bed and hadn’t had your breakfast——”

There was a knock on the door, followed by her brother’s voice.

“Claudia, let me come in. I must speak to you.”

Johnson looked at her, and for a moment Claudia’s hands clenched themselves in helpless rage at the folly of her brother. “Let him come in,” she said shortly, “and send me up my breakfast!”

Johnson opened the door and Jack came in, his face rather pitiable in its weakness and worry. He looked like a puppy that has lost its way. He was as smartly dressed and as well-groomed in person as usual—nothing short of an earthquake would have made him regardless of his attire, and then one felt he would have been resurrected trying to put his tie straight—but his usual placid expression of serene content with himself and that state of life into which Providence had pleased to call him was gone.

He looked at Claudia rather helplessly and yet appealingly, and some of the hardness of her glance melted. After all, it was the same silly old good-natured Jack.

“Johnson, wait a minute. Have you had some breakfast?”

“Yes—no—you never can get anything to eat at the flat.... I should like some coffee, Claudia. I think it might pull me together if it was strong and very hot.”

He came to the bedside and sat down rather heavily in a pink-cushioned chair. Mechanically he found his cigarette-case and opened it.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, old girl. I forgot it was your bedroom. It’s something to do.... You know all about it!”

She pointed without speaking to the paper flung in disgrace to the foot of the bed.

“Oh, well! you know, then. Everybody knows. She let it out last night. Women never can keep secrets.”

“Was she going to be your wife—secretly—for the rest of your life?” said Claudia sarcastically.

“Eh? Oh, well! I didn’t want people to know yet. She’s a clinking good sort, and don’t think”—with an expression like the puppy on the scent again—“that I regret marrying her. No, by Jove, I don’t. But she might have let me break the thing to—to everyone.”

“You can’t break things like that,” said Claudia sharply, “they break themselves. It’s like dropping an egg—it’s smash. Jack, I do believe this dog has got more sense than you have. I heard a rumour about this marriage last night, and I laughed at it. I had a certain amount of respect for your—social intelligence. Brains you never did have, but you always had good manners. I’m utterly disgusted with you, and I never want to see you—or your wife—again.”

“You haven’t seen her yet,” said Jack quickly. “So you can’t judge things.”

“I have no intention of seeing her,” said Claudia, her lips tightly compressed, her eyes flashing with anger. “Do you expect me to take The Girlie Girl to my bosom and swear I love her as a sister?”

“Look here, Claudia, say what you like about me—oh, yes! I know it was a fool thing to do, although I don’t regret it——” He passed his hand over his brow wearily, for his small brain, so little used, was unequalled to the strain. “I say again”—obstinately—“I don’t regret, and I’m awful fond of her—she’s a nut, I can’t tell you—but of course I can see how you and mother and everyone look at it. I never would have believed I could have done it—I’ve always jeered at other fellows who married beneath them—but I was just crazy about her. You’ll like her, Claudia,” he bent forward with pathetic eagerness, his hand again seeking his cigarette-case, “she’s not a bit like anyone else. All the men are in love with her, and she could have married most anyone she wanted.”

Claudia’s expression was so indicative of her feelings that he stopped. At that moment Johnson brought in the breakfast-tray. Jack looked at it with relief. It was something to do if only to eat and drink, and the cup of tea Polly had given him that morning had been “wash.”

He noticed that Claudia’s hand shook as she started to pour out the coffee, and at imminent danger to the tray and his own clothes, he caught hold of her hand.

“Give us your paw, Claud. I say, old girl, don’t you go against me. I came to you at once; you’ve always been such a good chap, though you do scold me.” With rough affection he put his arm round her and kissed her. “I said to myself, ‘Old Claudia will stand by me. She isn’t a conventional duffer like the others. She’ll see Fay’s fascination, and, after all, a fellow’s only got one life to live, and why can’t I do as I like?’ I’ve heard you say things like that time and time again, and Gilbert’s contradicted you. I daresay I’ve done a silly thing, but if I don’t regret it, what is it to anyone else? Only don’t you round on me. It makes me feel as if I’d gone to my bath and there wasn’t any water.”

Claudia had to laugh, at first a little uncertainly, and then with wild abandon. Jack’s similes, when he employed any, were always so absurd.

“Jack, get away, the point of your collar is puncturing my cheek.... Oh! you silly ass, how could you do it? Now you’re upsetting the tray, and I love those pink cushions.”

“Fay likes everything pale blue, but then, she’s got blue eyes. Such blue eyes! They’re ripping, Claud. I must give Billy some sugar—we’ll pretend it’s off the wedding-cake. Claudie, next to you—at least, no, because you’re so different, there isn’t any next-to—but you and she are the most ripping women I’ve ever meet. I say, I am glad of this coffee. I’m going to see that Fay has some decent servants. Polly’s a sketch, a fair sketch.”

He was so frankly and boyishly relieved that she had “made it up.” After all, he didn’t mind very much about his father and mother—luckily his income was his own—but Claudia did matter. And he was honestly sure that Claudia would be fond of Fay when she knew her.

After a while Claudia put the question: “She is going to give up her profession, of course?”

His brow clouded. “Well, I want her to, and I’ve talked till my throat has got dry, but she says she’s got ‘contracts,’ whatever that means, for the next six years. And she’s so proud of them, too. Funny set of people, you know. What there is to be proud of in having to work for six years more I can’t for the life of me see. But she tells everyone.”

“I suppose it means that she’s a success and has been secured by certain theatres,” said Claudia.

“Eh? Oh, yes! I suppose it does mean that. Oh, yes! I see. That’s why she’s proud. What a nut you are, Claudia, you are the brainy one of the family, right enough. How’s Gilbert?”

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders under the silken matinée.

“Have you had a row over me?” he said quickly. “Of course, you couldn’t explain a thing like this to Gilbert.”

“You include him among the conventional duffers?” said his sister, with an enigmatic smile, patting Billie with one hand.

“Er—well—of course, he’s——”

“You’re quite right, my dear brother. He’s a conventional old duffer.” Then, with an abrupt change of key: “But, after all, as you say, we’ve only got one life and we must each decide for ourselves how we will live it. Live, love and be merry, for to-morrow we grow old!”

“By Jove, old girl, that’s the right spirit, and I really am awfully fond of Fay. And she’s gone on me, too.”

“You’ve been awfully in love with other girls before,” said Claudia running her fingers through her soft, loosened hair, “but you haven’t married them. How did it happen?”

He evidently concentrated on the subject for a moment before he answered:

“Blest if I quite know myself. I didn’t mean anything of the kind at first, because I knew that she ... I don’t know whether she put it in my head or I put it in hers.”

“You’re a very rich man,” said his sister softly.

“Yes, I know; and I daresay she wouldn’t have married me if I hadn’t had a good deal of oof.” Catching his sister’s look of surprise, he said quickly, “Oh! I don’t kid myself it was love, pure love. I don’t believe there is any such thing. And she’s as cute as they make them, only—she can be just the other way sometimes, too. She’ll interest you, Claudia, she really will. I bet you haven’t met anything like her before. You’ll find her a bit of a puzzle all right. But she’s got plenty of money of her own; she earns quite a big salary, she tells me, and though she lives in a sloppy sort of Bohemian way, there’s always plenty to it and no end of fluff and frills. Got plenty of jewellery, too, that—that admirers have given her. I want to replace it all one day.”

“She has had plenty of admirers, then?”

He coloured a little and looked away. “Oh, well! hang it all, who am I that I should hang out a blue ribbon?—no, that’s teetotal, isn’t it?—well, you know what I mean. But we’re both going to stick to one another in future.”

“But you haven’t told me yet why you wanted to marry her?”

He ruminatively twisted his small, fair moustache. “Well, I don’t know. She didn’t feel for me the way she felt for the other fellows, she said. Of course, they’re an awful set, though I haven’t told her so yet. And”—he got up and fidgeted with a photograph-frame, it contained a portrait of Colin Paton—“she’s a queer little person, Fay. She’s twenty-two and she says—she says it’s time she became a mother, and she wants—the father—to be a gentleman. I daresay she’d—she’d have had it the other way—things like that don’t matter so much to them—only, of course, I couldn’t. You see that, don’t you, old girl?”

Claudia’s voice was very tender and affectionate as she answered:

“Run away now, old boy, and let me get up. Yes, you couldn’t, of course, and I’ll do my best to smooth things over. Scribble down her address on that memorandum-tablet, will you?”

He came over to her and gave her a bear-like hug.

“You’re a brick, Claudia. I always knew it.... I say, you haven’t been looking the thing lately. Are you quite happy yourself?”

She unloosened a strand of hair from his coat-button with a little wince.

“Well, at any rate I married for love. And is anybody quite happy? I guess life is rather like those bottles of mixed sweets we used to have in the nursery. They were all called ‘sweets,’ but some of them were very sharp and acid, do you remember? We used to first dig out the sugary ones, but nurse afterwards insisted that we should eat the acid ones. Life is a thing of spots and streaks, Jack; that’s all there is to it.”

CHAPTER VI
UNE CHAMBRE À LOUER

There is some uncatalogued sense in man which seems immediately aware when a woman is at a loose end, when there is une chambre à louer in her heart. There is a story told of Don Juan which relates how the famous gallant was unsuccessful with three women in his life; one was a middle-class woman who adored her husband, the second was a nun who kept true to her vows, and the third was a cocotte who, having lived the “gay life” for many years and “ ... grown old in the service of pleasure, love no longer made any appeal.” The woman who is estranged from her husband, who no longer cares for him, has no need to proclaim the tidings upon the house-tops. Men are subtly and quickly aware that her heart is free, and consider not only that she is fair game for any arrows they may care to shoot, but that they are offering her something she cannot live without and that she is sure to accept from someone sooner or later. One often hears a man speak of an unhappy wife as that “poor little woman,” but he never doubts that he can make her happy where her spouse has failed.

The face of life seemed now to change for Claudia. Her admirers were bolder with their compliments, more pressing in their invitations; and although some of them were secretly rather intimidated by her direct-glancing, critical eyes and occasionally cynical tongue, they gave her plainly to understand that she need not waste her sweetness upon the desert air. She had lost that happy, absorbed look a woman wears when she is in love, but her personality had gained from the social point of view, for she was more arresting, more vivid, and she had always been accounted a good companion and conversationalist. But Claudia had not studied le monde où l’on s’ennuie for some years for nothing, and though she had hitherto kept a little aloof from certain phases, she was not ignorant, nor likely to let her vanity lead her into foolishness. The obvious love-hunter only amused her, and she used such men just as much as it suited her convenience.

Besides Frank Hamilton she found only one man that really interested her and whose companionship she enjoyed—Charles Littleton, the American publisher. She had met him since their first dinner-party at one or two houses she frequented, and a sort of cheery understanding had grown up between them. Her brain was much more subtle than his, but he always responded when she led the way. He had a sense of humour and all sorts of stories to tell her of authors whom she only knew between bookcovers. His talk was always racy, and he occasionally used quaint idioms and expressions that gave his conversation a different flavour from that which was usually poured into her ears at dinners and at homes.

The breach between Claudia and Gilbert had not been lessened by Jack’s mésalliance. Gilbert writhed under the publicity, and though he knew it was a nine-days’ wonder and would soon evaporate, he was infuriated with the house of Iverson and the offspring of Circe. A letter from his mother, quite illogical and trying to make him appear responsible for the marriage, made him more irritable. His reply to it was dignified, pointing out her untenable position—the attitude of a strong man towards women must be maintained, even with a mother—but he felt the sting of it all the same. His father, whom he met the next day, was not illogical, but there was an atmosphere of chilliness and silence on the subject which was probably more unpleasant to him than his mother’s letter. A comic paper came out with a cartoon showing him giving advice on her contracts to The Girlie Girl. In view of it all, Claudia’s attitude was the worst of all. She took up Jack’s own attitude, that he was at liberty to do as he pleased with his life. She was logical and perfectly calm during their discussions, and Gilbert, to his great disgust, found himself forced into becoming illogical, which is enough to exasperate any lawyer, even a briefless one.

“It’s a disgrace to us all,” he said stormily, his sombre grey eyes dark under the lowered lids, “a beastly scandal.”

“Why are we disgraced?” said Claudia calmly, also forced to assume a position she had never meant to take. “She’s not your wife, she’s Jack’s.” A satirical smile curved her lips as she tried to imagine Gilbert married to The Girlie Girl.

“A family stands or falls together,” said Gilbert heavily, noting the smile with inward resentment. Lately he had often seen that smile on his wife’s lips.

“Oh! surely not, nowadays. It is hard enough to have your own sins come home to roost, but to have your sister’s and your brother’s and your cousin’s and your aunt’s—Oh! life would be too hard!”

“Don’t be flippant; we are discussing a serious matter.”

“All the more reason not to lose our sense of humour. Undiluted seriousness is—the devil. After all, aren’t we making a great fuss over nothing in particular? I confess I was furious at first, but—Jack isn’t a German Crown Prince or the heir of great possessions, you know. I daresay it’s a lucky escape for some nice girl.”

“A pretty way to speak of your own brother!” he flung at her.

“Oh, Gilbert! how old-fashioned you are! Don’t you know a brother may be a friend or a stranger nowadays? I’m fond of Jack, but I don’t think he is cut out to take a firm and virtuous position on the family hearthrug. He’s always been much too good-looking and too rich to acquire goodness or have it thrust upon him. He seems genuinely fond of her. I am quite curious to see her.”

She settled herself more comfortably in the corner of the couch and took up a book, as if to indicate that the subject was exhausted. Gilbert stood looking down upon her in his golfing kit. He made spasmodic efforts to take exercise—he had put on a couple of stone since their marriage—and being Saturday, he was free from his chambers. They both belonged to the club at Sunningdale, but lately he never suggested that she should accompany him. Secretly, he was ashamed that she should see how badly out of form he was, for Claudia played fairly regularly, and had a good, clean stroke of her own.

“See her?” he ejaculated. “I must ask you not to try and see her or identify yourself with this disastrous marriage in any way.” He made use of the word ask, but the tone made it equivalent to forbid. He did not want to go and play golf, although he felt he ought to, and the picture that Claudia made in her soft silken draperies, snugly ensconced in the well-warmed room, gave an additional edge to his tone.

Claudia raised her expressive eyebrows and turned a page of the book.

“Really, Gilbert, I will not ask her here to meet you——”

“I should think not, indeed!”

“—but I have promised Jack that I will go and see her. What I do in future depends on—her and myself. After all, she is Jack’s wife and he is fond of her.”

“Do you know this woman is—is notorious, that she is what men call ‘hot stuff’? Can’t you see that she has only married your brother to fleece him and degrade his family?”

His eyes were black with anger and his lower lip protruded pugnaciously, just as his father’s did. Claudia watched him, fascinated, for this was the first real quarrel they had had. In the midst of a pregnant silence the door opened, and the manservant announced “Mr. Paton.”

They were both so angry that they had not time enough to pull down the blinds before Paton was in the room, and he saw two people as he had never seen them before. Then they both recovered themselves—Claudia more easily than her husband—and went forward to greet him.

“Colin, what a delightful surprise!” cried Claudia, taking his hand in hers. “I am glad to see you again.” Perhaps there was also a little relief at the interruption of an unpleasant scene, but she was unfeignedly glad to feel his firm hand-clasp once more. She was almost surprised herself to find how glad she was.

“Hallo, old chap, back again, then?” said Gilbert. “It’s good to see you. Safe and sound, eh? You look fit enough,” he added, ruefully casting a look down at himself. “Why do some men put on fat and others don’t?”

Paton laughed. “I suppose I belong to the lean kine. Yes, I think you have put on flesh, Gilbert.”

In truth he was a little shocked at the deterioration in his old friend’s appearance. He had always been rather heavy for his age, but now a heaviness of the spirit as well as of the body seemed to have settled upon him. Surely the lids drooped more over the rather lifeless eyes, and his chin and jowl were coarser? He himself was much the same as when he had left England before the wedding, spare, erect, in obvious good form.

“It’s abominable,” said Gilbert. “It isn’t what I eat, either.”

The manservant opened the door again. “The car is at the door, sir.”

“Going golfing?” smiled Paton. “Ah! I haven’t done that for a great while. Sounds sort of homely and English. I’m sure you could beat me into a cocked hat, Claudia, and I used to give you—how many strokes a hole?”

“Ah! but I’ve been practising religiously with the deadly purpose of defeating you when you returned,” laughed Claudia gaily, the colour back again in her smooth, creamy cheeks. It was jolly to see Colin again. One could always talk nonsense or sense to Paton, and she suddenly realized that nobody had ever taken his place in that respect. “I’ll take you on to-morrow at Stoke Poges. I am thirsting for vengeance for old affronts.”

“I say! I shall expect at least to get a ball in my eye or a gentle tap with the brassie. Still, let me like a golfer fall! I’ll take you on. And, Gilbert, what’s your form?”

“Oh! he’s going down to see his parents to-morrow,” replied Claudia carelessly, ringing for the tea. “When did you land?”

“Yesterday.”

Claudia was pleased. He had lost no time in coming to see them.

Although Paton had been his friend long before he had known Claudia, Gilbert had a curious feeling that he was not wanted. He felt they were eager to talk over many things. Paton would probably tell her all about his travels—well, travellers’ tales were apt to be boring.

“I shall see you again soon, Colin. I’d arranged to go this afternoon.”

“Let’s have lunch together early next week.”

“I will if I can, but I’m infernally busy just now. Get a vacation soon though, thank goodness.”

The door closed behind him, and as if the impulse were mutual, they found themselves shaking hands again.

“Colin, what a long time you’ve been away. Don’t dare to tell me you’ve any plans for going away again, because I shall really hit you on the head with the brassie and incapacitate you.”

It was a woman who teased him now, not the fresh, eager-eyed girl he had left. But from most men’s point of view she had gained more, much more than she had lost. She had acquired a nice, physical balance, that had been wanting before. She had the charm of early maturity. She was a woman who knew her power over men, and knew just what that power meant. She was on the surface even more frankly gay and charming, but it hid certain reserves. She would pretend to be more confidential and open, but would be less so. She would never shut a door with a bang in anybody’s face, but it would be shut quietly all the same. In the few minutes that he had been with her, Colin realized all this and, mingled with his admiration for her development—for he found her far handsomer than she had been—there was a touch of regret for the girl who had talked about anything and everything, and as frankly answered questions as she asked them. She was Gilbert’s wife, a woman of the world, and—a great deal more.

“Taking stock of me?” she laughed, meeting his eyes. “But I don’t think Topsy had growed much this time.”

“On the contrary, I think she has grown a good deal,” he said quietly. “You haven’t grown into a giraffe or a fat Boy Joey, but all the same you have grown.”

She rested her head on her hand, her elbow propped on the arm of the couch, and looked speculatively at him. He reminded her of those days before her marriage, when she had spelt marriage with a capital letter. And—yes—she did look back at herself from one side of a huge gulf. Was that gulf growth? She realized more what life meant, and might mean. She had touched hard facts, unalterable laws of nature, great moments, petty awakenings ... was all that growth?

“Perhaps you are right,” she said slowly.

“I am sure I am right. You have shot up at an alarming rate. You think before you speak now, a most potent symptom! In the old days you would have blurted out ‘I haven’t grown,’ with great suddenness and force, and I should have been laid low by your vehemence.”

Claudia smiled. “You mean I begin to know that I don’t know. I think I do realize that my landmarks are shifting.”

“An awfully good sign,” he said cheerfully. “I’m always pulling up mine and planting them again. A constantly uprooted landmark gathers no moss.... Do I smell the smell of muffins? Claudia, this is heaven, indeed, and you are the ministering angel.”

“There isn’t much of an angel about me,” said Claudia, rather jerkily, when the servant had withdrawn. “If I’m growing—I’m growing much nastier. I’m growing so short-tempered and prickly, and——”

She stopped. She had heard a faint, a very faint sound at the door. Paton, whose hearing was as quick as her own, had heard it too.

“Is that my old friend, Billie the Blessed Dachshund?” he asked. “Bless his stumpy legs! May I let him in?”

She nodded, surprised to find that her eyes had suddenly filled with tears. Why, she did not know. What had she been about to confess to him? It was just as well Billie had interrupted.

Billie gave Paton a royal welcome, a most unusual welcome for him. For of all the hands that caressed him, he liked Paton’s next to his adored mistress. Billie would have told you that there are hands and hands. Some are heavy as lead on small dogs’ heads, some are blunt and stupid, some are cold and clammy, and send a shiver down a dog’s spine, and there are hands that are delicate and sensitive, and convey a sense of liking that is most comforting to the canine tribe.

“Verdict—not grown!”

They both laughed heartily, and Billie stood with a smile—it certainly was a smile—and with his tail wagging surveying them both.

“You have preserved your figure admirably, Billie. I’ll proceed to put it in jeopardy with this lump of sugar.... How nice of you, Claudia, to remember no milk in my tea.”

“I suppose you saw that Gilbert and I were having—what shall I call it?—a row when you came in?” said Claudia calmly, her hands busy among the silver. “Oh! we were in a most exciting part when the door opened.”

“All couples quarrel occasionally, don’t they?” he said lightly. “That’s part of the joys of married life, isn’t it? Marriage is a sort of licence to quarrel and afterwards make it up.”

“Oh! we don’t quarrel as a rule. Perhaps it would be better if we did. No, this was a special and particular quarrel, with a particular verse and chapter. You’ve heard of Jack’s asinine marriage, of course?”

“Yes it was in the papers when I landed.”

“What do you think about it?”

“Now, what is the good of asking me that? Do you want me to tell you what I wouldn’t have done, or what I think he should have done? What’s the use? He’s done what he wanted to do.”

“Ah! you take that attitude too.”

“What can one say about a man’s marriage, except perhaps to regret or be glad? I don’t pretend that if I were a boy’s father, I shouldn’t be horribly annoyed with him for doing a thing that will probably be a failure. It was a surprise to you?”

“Absolutely. You know the sort of man Jack is. There have always been Girlie Girls of sorts. Only marriage is a different proposition, isn’t it? ‘Blest be the tie that binds,’ et cetera.”

He nodded. “A great pity, of course. Have you seen her? What is she like?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her yet. That was the finishing touch to our quarrel. I’ve promised Jack to go and see her. After all, Jack is my brother, and he put it in such a way that—well, I felt I wanted to see her. I suppose she will be too awful for words?”

He hesitated for a moment. He wondered why it jarred on him, the idea of her going to see Fay Morris. He had heard a good many stories about her, and he had several times come in contact with music-hall artistes—there had been some on the boat he went out on. But he was catholic in his tastes and mind, and personally he would never have drawn aside from contact with another human being. But Claudia with Fay Morris, Claudia in the Bohemian, over-heated atmosphere of the music-hall!

“Yes, I see, you think it will be all that. I suppose Jack is quite mad.”

He forced himself to be just. “I don’t think we can say that. You know, all sorts of stories go round about such people, and she may be quite—quite maligned. She is young, only twenty-two, and there’s every chance with youth, you know. She can’t be viciously fair, fat and forty. And you were always interested in humans, Claudia.”

“Oh, yes! I still am, more so than ever. If someone were just taking me to see her as a curiosity, it would be different. But, Colin, she’s my sister-in-law! Suppose she talks Cockney, and drops her aitches, and calls me ‘dearie’ or something!”

“Perhaps it won’t be as bad as that,” suggested Colin, not liking the picture at all, and wishing he could go with her. “What does Jack say about her?”

“Oh! nothing that tells you anything. And I can’t ask such questions of him, can I? Of course, Gilbert is furious at the idea of my going to see her. I think—I think he was going to forbid me to go and visit her, when you came in. What do you think?”

He hesitated, for he knew it was a ticklish matter to arbitrate, or attempt to do so, between husband and wife.

“I don’t need to think at all,” he said, after a pause. “You’re his sister, and you’ve got to do the thinking. And what you think should go, as the Americans say.”

“Ah!” She drew a deep breath and put her hand impulsively on his arm, a little trick she had with people she liked. “You are a real comfort, Colin. In future I shall throw all my problems on you.”

Frank Hamilton came in, as he was patting her hand, the two standing close together, and instant jealousy and suspicion filled him at the sight. It was the first time he had ever seen Claudia show any particular favour to a man, she was rather difficult to approach, and though it encouraged him not to be too diffident, he was also very angry with her. A couple of years ago he would have shown by his manner that he had noticed the little incident, but he had learned some of the usages of Mayfair, and he controlled himself. It showed itself, however, in a little stiffness.

“Oh! Mr. Hamilton, let me introduce you to my old friend, Mr. Colin Paton. He has just come back from the Argentine, where I suppose there are no pictures?”

“Only Nature’s, and those of the most wonderful. I read an account of one of your exhibitions in a paper that was sent out to me, Mr. Hamilton. I should have liked to see that show.”

“Mr. Paton educated my taste in pictures,” said Claudia, with a friendly glance at him. “He insisted on my liking the good things, and then I really did.”

“Don’t believe her, Mr. Hamilton, she was always an excellent natural judge of pictures.”

“But I did like them rather painty, at first, Colin, you must admit that. Do you remember that Leighton I adored and the Dicksee I found so poetical? And I made you stand and gaze at them, too. You must have stored up many a grudge against me for that.”

Hamilton had heard Claudia speak of “a friend now abroad,” who had been her constant companion at picture-galleries and who had lent her several art books. But he had somehow got the idea that the friend was middle-aged, if not old. He wondered how he had got the idea, but something in Claudia’s tone had conveyed it to his mind. The man that he saw was neither quite young, middle-aged, nor old, and yet Hamilton felt there was a steady fund of youth in him. He instinctively understood that this man’s judgment would be worth having, that those quiet, keen eyes would make short work of his careless and meretricious paintings. For, though usually he was amply content with his own ability, he was aware at intervals that some of it left much to be desired, both in form and execution. He had a heaven-born gift for catching a likeness, and a great feeling for colour, but his technique was faulty, and lately he had done too much and too little.

“I shall be giving another exhibition next month. I hope you will come to it,” he replied.

“I shall make a point of doing so.”

“We’ll go together,” said Claudia promptly, so promptly and so simply that some of the sting went out of his jealousy. After all, this man was exceedingly good form, and all that, but he was not good-looking, and though he knew about art, apparently he did nothing in that line. And Claudia had told him that she liked people who did things.

He determined to make a possible enemy into a friend. “Mr. Paton, if you are interested in the service of art, do persuade your friend here to give me some more sittings for her portrait. I made a ghastly failure of my first attempt, but I think I can do much better now. I’ve got the thing in my mind and I’m aching to begin.”

“Having your portrait painted, Claudia? That’s good news. To increase the joy of nations you must give him some sittings.”

“It’s so tiresome sitting still,” said Claudia, looking at him plaintively out of the corners of her eyes. “I never was great at sitting still.” Woman-like, she did not give the real reason. She had begun to be afraid of those sittings, and as she met Frank’s eyes she felt that feeling re-awaken. He was too good-looking, too attractive to sit to.

“There!” exclaimed Frank. “That’s what an artist has to contend with. Laziness, pure laziness! And she calls herself interested in art!”

“Paint Mrs. Jacobs instead,” teased Claudia, with a gleam of mischief in her eyes, which set his blood afire.

“I’ve said it—inwardly.... Mr. Paton, help me.”

“I would like to see a good portrait of you,” said Colin earnestly. “You ought to make such a good subject. I quite understand Mr. Hamilton’s anxiety to paint you. Do it—for the sake of your friends.”

She looked at Hamilton, but she really answered Paton. After all, she had not too many real friends, and he was the best of them all, the most faithful, the most reliable and unchanging.

“Very well. I’ll make a martyr of myself in the cause of friendship. I’ll come one day next week. Will that do?”

CHAPTER VII
“MISS FAY MORRIS THAT WAS”

It was still only a little past five when the two men departed, and Claudia found herself alone with a very restless mood. Had it been earlier she would have gone out and walked in the Park, for she often tramped away a mood of restlessness. But it was grey and dismal outside. She glanced at the piano, but that was not the right thing. She picked up her book—one of Anatole France’s—but that also she put down again in a very few minutes. Then the idea came to her. Her eyes opened widely and she caught her under-lip with her small teeth. Would she?

Billie looked at her, and he knew she was going out.

“No, Billie, can’t take you this time. Oh! well, yes, you can stop in the car.”

“What hat will madame wear?” said Johnson, her hand on the cupboard that contained her hats.

Claudia considered carefully, and decided on her most becoming one. It was a delightful possession, mostly composed of pearl-grey feather shading to the softest pink, and round her neck she wore a little necklet to match. Johnson wondered why she was so excited that she pulled a button off her gloves and demanded a fresh pair. It seemed as though her mistress was not going to make an ordinary call.

“Now, Billiken, we must be off. I wonder! I wonder!”

She went over first to her writing-table and abstracted a little bit of paper. Jack’s writing was atrocious, but she could decipher it with some difficulty. 25A, Gilchrist Mansions, Bloomsbury.

The car threaded its way through the crowded streets, and after what seemed a long time to Claudia, it stopped before a large block of flats, very red and very white, and obviously trying to show how gloomy was the rest of the square. Evidently it was a new block, and for this Claudia was thankful. Ugly youth is better than ugly age.

There was a lift, which she entered, with a rather obsequious and yet familiar liftman, who, when she asked—after some natural hesitation—for Mrs. Iverson, said, “Miss Fay Morris that was, you mean, madam? Oh, yes! it’s the third floor.” Claudia fancied that he eyed her curiously as he manipulated the wires. She tried to brace herself for the ordeal, for now she was ascending in the lift she felt like hurriedly descending and running away. There was no doubt it was an ordeal. It is quite bad enough in the ordinary way to have to make the first call on a new sister-in-law, but when she is “Miss Fay Morris that was,” whose portraits adorned the entrances of several music-halls, it is a colossal undertaking. She wished most heartily she had asked Jack to take her. Why had she not thought of that? How foolish of her. But now she was here she must face the music. Perhaps Jack would be there. If so, it would be all right. And yet, in a way she would rather not have him there, for though he was as stupid as an owl, there was a sort of understanding between them, and he would know what impression his wife was making on her.

She rang the bell and waited. There was no answer. Ah! a reprieve. She was turning away, but the liftman said reassuringly, “Ring again, ma’am. She’s in, I know. But the parrot makes such a noise they can’t hear the bell.”

So that was the meaning of the curious screeching she had heard while waiting, like someone at the mercy of a clumsy dentist. How could anyone stand such awful sounds!

The door opened and a servant, still in a print dress, nodded when she asked if Mrs. Iverson were at home. The screeching had grown worse, and Claudia quite understood why the servant nodded. She noticed that she wore no cap and that her hair was outrageously frizzed and curled. Was this the servant Jack had called “a sketch, a fair sketch”?

The good-sized hall was cheery enough with plenty of red paper and red carpet, perhaps a thought too cheerful, as though the decorator had said, “Now let’s have a cheerful hall, a very cheerful hall.” There was a large imitation oak stand, crowded with oddments in the way of coats. Claudia caught glimpses of a white knitted coat, a long squirrel one, a dark fur stole and two or three overcoats. There were any amount of umbrellas, walking-sticks, etc., and over all was a strong smell of cooking.

“Chuck it! Chuck it! Chuck it!” shrieked the parrot from somewhere near at hand. Claudia gave a start.

“Only that blessed bird,” said the servant. “She’s in there, miss.”

She jerked her head in the direction of a door that was a little ajar and suddenly departed. Claudia opened her lips to speak, but the maid had gone.

“Chuck it! Chuck it!” came more faintly from evidently the kitchen regions.

Claudia felt a strong desire to laugh. Then she heard a voice singing in a room on her right. It seemed to be the door the servant had indicated. The voice was untrained, but of a good quality, sweet and rather high-pitched.