She would stand sometimes in the centre of this room, thinking–how to ‘bunch’ her guests, how to make her room more Chinese without making it uncomfortable; how to seem to know all about literature and politics; how to accept everything her father gave her, without making him aware that his taste had no sense of the future; how to keep hold of Sibley Swan, the new literary star, and to get hold of Gurdon Minho, the old; of how Wilfrid Desert was getting too fond of her; of what was really her style in dress; of why Michael had such funny ears; and sometimes she stood not thinking at all–just aching a little.
When those three came in she was sitting before a red lacquer tea-table, finishing a very good tea. She always had tea brought in rather early, so that she could have a good quiet preliminary ‘tuck-in’ all by herself, because she was not quite twenty-one, and this was her hour for remembering her youth. By her side Ting-a-ling was standing on his hind feet, his tawny forepaws on a Chinese footstool, his snubbed black and tawny muzzle turned up towards the fruits of his philosophy.
“That’ll do, Ting. No more, ducky! NO MORE!”
The expression of Ting-a-ling answered:
‘Well, then, stop, too! Don’t subject me to torture!’
A year and three months old, he had been bought by Michael out of a Bond Street shop window on Fleur’s twentieth birthday, eleven months ago.
Two years of married life had not lengthened her short dark chestnut hair; had added a little more decision to her quick lips, a little more allurement to her white-lidded, dark-lashed hazel eyes, a little more poise and swing to her carriage, a little more chest and hip measurement; had taken a little from waist and calf measurement, a little colour from cheeks a little less round, and a little sweetness from a voice a little more caressing.
She stood up behind the tray, holding out her white round arm without a word. She avoided unnecessary greetings or farewells. She would have had to say them so often, and their purpose was better served by look, pressure, and slight inclination of head to one side.
With circular movement of her squeezed hand, she said:
“Draw up. Cream, sir? Sugar, Wilfrid? Ting has had too much–don’t feed him! Hand things, Michael. I’ve heard all about the meeting at ‘Snooks.’ You’re not going to canvass for Labour, Michael–canvassing’s so silly. If any one canvassed me, I should vote the other way at once.”
“Yes, darling; but you’re not the average elector.”
Fleur looked at him. Very sweetly put! Conscious of Wilfrid biting his lips, of Sir Lawrence taking that in, of the amount of silk leg she was showing, of her black and cream teacups, she adjusted these matters. A flutter of her white lids–Desert ceased to bite his lips; a movement of her silk legs–Sir Lawrence ceased to look at him. Holding out her cups, she said:
“I suppose I’m not modern enough?”
Desert, moving a bright little spoon round in his magpie cup, said without looking up:
“As much more modern than the moderns, as you are more ancient.”
“‘Ware poetry!” said Michael.
But when he had taken his father to see the new cartoons by Aubrey Greene, she said:
“Kindly tell me what you meant, Wilfrid.”
Desert’s voice seemed to leap from restraint.
“What does it matter? I don’t want to waste time with that.”
“But I want to know. It sounded like a sneer.”
“A sneer? From me? Fleur!”
“Then tell me.”
“I meant that you have all their restlessness and practical get-thereness; but you have what they haven’t, Fleur–power to turn one’s head. And mine is turned. You know it.”
“How would Michael like that–from YOU, his best man?”
Desert moved quickly to the windows.
Fleur took Ting-a-ling on her lap. Such things had been said to her before; but from Wilfrid it was serious. Nice to think she had his heart, of course! Only, where on earth could she put it, where it wouldn’t be seen except by her? He was incalculable–did strange things! She was a little afraid–not of him, but of that quality in him. He came back to the hearth, and said:
“Ugly, isn’t it? Put that dam’ dog down, Fleur; I can’t see your face. If you were really fond of Michael–I swear I wouldn’t; but you’re not, you know.”
Fleur said coldly:
“You know very little; I AM fond of Michael.”
Desert gave his little jerky laugh.
“Oh yes; not the sort that counts.”
Fleur looked up.
“It counts quite enough to make one safe.”
“A flower that I can’t pick.”
Fleur nodded.
“Quite sure, Fleur? Quite, quite sure?”
Fleur stared; her eyes softened a little, her eyelids, so excessively white, drooped over them; she nodded. Desert said slowly:
“The moment I believe that, I shall go East.”
“East?”
“Not so stale as going West, but much the same–you don’t come back.”
Fleur thought: ‘The East? I should love to know the East! Pity one can’t manage that, too. Pity!’
“You won’t keep me in your Zoo, my dear. I shan’t hang around and feed on crumbs. You know what I feel–it means a smash of some sort.”
“It hasn’t been my fault, has it?”
“Yes; you’ve collected me, as you collect everybody that comes near you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Desert bent down, and dragged her hand to his lips.
“Don’t be riled with me; I’m too unhappy.”
Fleur let her hand stay against his hot lips.
“Sorry, Wilfrid.”
“All right, dear. I’ll go.”
“But you’re coming to dinner tomorrow?”
Desert said violently:
“TO-MORROW? Good God–no! What d’you think I’m made of?”
He flung her hand away.
“I don’t like violence, Wilfrid.”
“Well, good-bye; I’d better go.”
The words “And you’d better not come again” trembled up to her lips, but were not spoken. Part from Wilfrid–life would lose a little warmth! She waved her hand. He was gone. She heard the door closing. Poor Wilfrid! – nice to think of a flame at which to warm her hands! Nice but rather dreadful! And suddenly, dropping Ting-a-ling, she got up and began to walk about the room. To-morrow! Second anniversary of her wedding-day! Still an ache when she thought of what it had not been. But there was little time to think–and she made less. What good in thinking? Only one life, full of people, of things to do and have, of things wanted–a life only void of–one thing, and that–well, if people had it, they never had it long! On her lids two tears, which had gathered, dried without falling. Sentimentalism! No! The last thing in the world–the unforgivable offence! Whom should she put next whom tomorrow? And whom should she get in place of Wilfrid, if Wilfrid wouldn’t come–silly boy! One day–one night–what difference? Who should sit on her right, and who on her left? Was Aubrey Greene more distinguished, or Sibley Swan? Were they either as distinguished as Walter Nazing or Charles Upshire? Dinner of twelve, exclusively literary and artistic, except for Michael and Alison Charwell. Ah! Could Alison get her Gurdon Minho–just one writer of the old school, one glass of old wine to mellow effervescence? He didn’t publish with Danby and Winter; but he fed out of Alison’s hand. She went quickly to one of the old tea chests, and opened it. Inside was a telephone.
“Can I speak to Lady Alison–Mrs. Michael Mont… Yes… That you, Alison?… Fleur speaking. Wilfrid has fallen through tomorrow night… Is there any chance of your bringing Gurdon Minho? I don’t know him, of course; but he might be interested. You’ll try?… That’ll be ever so delightful. Isn’t the ‘Snooks’ Club meeting rather exciting? Bart says they’ll eat each other now they’ve split… About Mr. Minho. Could you let me know to-night? Thanks–thanks awfully!… Goodbye!”
Failing Minho, whom? Her mind hovered over the names in her address book. At so late a minute it must be some one who didn’t stand on ceremony; but except Alison, none of Michael’s relations would be safe from Sibley Swan or Nesta Gorse, and their subversive shafts; as to the Forsytes–out of the question; they had their own sub-acid humour (some of them), but they were not modern, not really modern. Besides, she saw as little of them as she could–they dated, belonged to the dramatic period, had no sense of life without beginning or end. No! If Gurdon Minho was a frost, it would have to be a musician, whose works were hieroglyphical with a dash of surgery; or, better, perhaps, a psycho-analyst. Her fingers turned the pages till she came to those two categories. Hugo Solstis? A possibility; but suppose he wanted to play them something recent? There was only Michael’s upright Grand, and that would mean going to his study. Better Gerald Hanks–he and Nesta Gorse would get off together on dreams; still, if they did, there would be no actual loss of life. Yes, failing Gurdon Minho, Gerald Hanks; he would be free–and put him between Alison and Nesta. She closed the book, and, going back to her jade-green settee, sat gazing at Ting-a-ling. The little dog’s prominent round eyes gazed back; bright, black, very old. Fleur thought: ‘I DON’T want Wilfrid to drop off.’ Among all the crowd who came and went, here, there and everywhere, she cared for nobody. Keep up with them, keep up with everything, of course! It was all frightfully amusing, frightfully necessary! Only–only–what?
Voices! Michael and Bart coming back. Bart had noticed Wilfrid. He WAS a noticing old Bart. She was never very comfortable when he was about–lively and twisting, but with something settled and ancestral in him; a little like Ting-a-ling–something judgmatic, ever telling her that she was fluttering and new. He was anchored, could only move to the length of his old-fashioned cord, but he could drop on to things disconcertingly.
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