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twg_000000045000 | 'How? By asking?' 'Good heavens, no!' cried Edith. 'What an extraordinary idea!' Shopping Chez Soi Edith was expecting Aylmer to call that afternoon before he went away. She was surprised to find how perturbed she was at the idea of his going away. He had become almost a part of their daily existence, and seeing him was certainly quite the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045001 | most amusing and exciting experience she had ever had. And now it was coming to an end. Some obscure clairvoyance told her that his leaving and telling her of it in this vague way had some reference to her; but perhaps (she thought) she was wrong; perhaps it was simply that, after the pleasant intercourse and semi-intimacy of the last | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045002 | few weeks, he was going to something that interested him more? He was a widower; and still a young man. Perhaps he was in love with someone. This idea was far from agreeable, although except the first and second time they met he had never said a word that could be described even as flirtation. He showed admiration for her, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045003 | and pleasure in her society, but he rarely saw her alone. The few visits and _tte--ttes_ had always begun by conventional commonplace phrases and embarrassment, and had ended in a delightful sympathy, in animated conversation, in a flowing confidence and gaiety, and in long discussions on books, and art, and principally people. That was all. In fact he had become, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045004 | in two or three weeks, in a sense _l'ami de la maison_; they went everywhere with him and met nearly every day, and Bruce appeared to adore him. It was entirely different from her long and really intimate friendship with Vincy. Vincy was her confidant, her friend. She could tell _him_ everything, and she did, and he confided in her | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045005 | and told her all except one side of his life, of which she was aware, but to which she never referred. This was his secret romance with a certain girl artist of whom he never spoke, although Edith knew that some day he would tell her about that also. But with Aylmer there was, and would always be, less real | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045006 | freedom and impersonal frankness, because there was so much more selfconsciousness; in fact because there was an unacknowledged but very strong mutual physical attraction. Edith had, however, felt until now merely the agreeable excitement of knowing that a man she liked, and in whom she was immensely interested, was growing apparently devoted to her, while _she_ had always believed that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045007 | she would know how to deal with the case in such a way that it could never lead to anything more--that is to say, to more than _she_ wished. And now, he was going away. Why? And where? However, the first thing to consider was that she would see him today. The result of this consideration was the obvious one. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045008 | She must do some shopping. Edith was remarkably feminine in every attribute, in manner, in movement and in appearance; indeed, for a woman of the present day unusually and refreshingly feminine. Yet she had certain mental characteristics which were entirely unlike most women. One was her extreme aversion for shops, and indeed for going into any concrete little details. It | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045009 | has been said that her feeling for dress was sure and unerring. But it was entirely that of the artist; it was impressionistic. Edith was very clever, indeed, most ingenious, in managing practical affairs, as long as she was the director, the general of the campaign. But she did not like carrying out in detail her plans. She liked to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045010 | be the architect, not the workman. For example, the small household affairs in the flat went on wheels; everything was almost always perfect. But Edith did not rattle her housekeeping keys, or count the coals, nor did she even go through accounts, or into the kitchen every day. The secret was simple. She had a good cook and housekeeper, who | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045011 | managed all these important but tedious details admirably, under her suggestions. In order to do this Edith had to practise a little fraud on Bruce, a justifiable and quite unselfish one. She gave the cook and housekeeper a quarter of her dress allowance, in addition to the wages Bruce considered sufficient; because Bruce believed that they could not afford more | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045012 | than a certain amount for a cook, while he admitted that Edith, who had a few hundred pounds a year of her own, might need to spend this on dress. Very little of it went on dress, although Edith was not very economical. But she had a plan of her own; she knew that to be dressed in a very | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045013 | ordinary style (that is to say, simple, conventional, comme il faut) suited her, by throwing her unusual beauty into relief. Occasionally a touch of individuality was added, when she wanted to have a special effect. But she never entered a shop; very rarely interviewed a milliner. It was always done for her. She was easy to dress, being tall, slim | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045014 | and remarkably pretty. She thought that most women make a great mistake in allowing dress to be the master instead of the servant of their good looks; many women were, she considered, entirely crushed and made insignificant by the beauty of their clothes. The important thing was to have a distinguished appearance, and this cannot, of course, easily be obtained | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045015 | without expensive elegance. But Edith was twenty-eight, and looked younger, so she could dress simply. This morning Edith had telephoned to her friend, Miss Bennett, an old schoolfellow who had nothing to do, and adored commissions. Edith, sitting by the fire or at the 'phone, gave her orders, which were always decisive, short and yet meticulous. Miss Bennett was a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045016 | little late this morning, and Edith had been getting quite anxious to see her. When she at last arrived--she was a nondescript-looking girl, with a small hat squashed on her head, a serge coat and skirt, black gloves and shoes with spats--Edith greeted her rather reproachfully with: 'You're late, Grace.' 'Sorry,' said Grace. The name suited her singularly badly. She | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045017 | was plain, but had a pleasant face, a pink complexion, small bright eyes, protruding teeth and a scenario for a figure, merely a collection of bones on which a dress could be hung. She was devoted to Edith, and to a few other friends of both sexes, of whom she made idols. She was hard, abrupt, enthusiastic, ignorant and humorous. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045018 | 'Sorry, but I had to do a lot of--' 'All right,' interrupted Edith. 'You couldn't help it. Listen' to what I want you to do.' 'Go ahead,' said Miss Bennett, taking out a note-book and pencil. Edith spoke in her low, soft, impressive voice, rather slowly. 'Go anywhere you like and bring me back two or three perfectly simple tea-gowns--you | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045019 | know the sort of shape, rather like evening cloaks--straight lines--none of the new draperies and curves--in red, blue and black.' 'On appro.?' asked Miss Bennett. 'On anything you like, but made of Liberty satin, with a dull surface.' 'There's no such thing.' Grace Bennett laughed. 'You mean charmeuse, or crepe-de-chine, perhaps?' 'Call it what you like, only get it. You | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045020 | must bring them back in a taxi.' 'Extravagant girl!' 'They're not to cost more than--oh! not much,' added Edith, 'at the most.' 'Economical woman! Why not have a really good tea-gown while you're about it?' 'These _will_ be good. I want to have a hard outline like a Fergusson.' 'Oh, really? What's that?' 'Never mind. And suppose you can't get | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045021 | the shape, Grace.' 'Yes?' 'Bring some evening cloaks--the kimonoish kind--I could wear one over a lace blouse; it would look exactly the same.' 'Edith, what curious ideas you have! But you're right enough. Anything else?' said Miss Bennett, standing up, ready to go. 'I like shopping for you. You know what you want.' 'Buy me an azalea, not a large | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045022 | one, and a bit of some dull material of the same colour to drape round it.' 'How extraordinary it is the way you hate anything shiny!' exclaimed Miss Bennett, making a note. 'I know; I only like _mat_ effects. Oh, and in case I choose a light-coloured gown, get me just one very large black velvet orchid, too.' 'Right. That | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045023 | all?' Edith looked at her shoes; they were perfect, tiny, pointed and made of black sude. She decided they would do. 'Yes, that's all, dear.' 'And might I kindly ask,' said Miss Bennett, getting up, 'any particular reason for all this? Are you going to have the flu, or a party, or what?' 'No,' said Edith, who was always frank | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045024 | when it was possible. 'I'm expecting a visitor who's never seen me in anything but a coat and skirt, or in evening dress.' 'Oh! He wants a change, does he?' 'Don't be vulgar, Grace. Thanks awfully, dear. You're really kind.' They both laughed, and Edith gently pushed her friend out of the room. Then she sat down on a sofa, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045025 | put up her feet, and began to read _Rhythm_ to divert her thoughts. Vincy had brought it to convert her to Post-Impressionism. When Archie and Dilly were out, and Edith, who always got up rather early, was alone, she often passed her morning hours in reading, dreaming, playing the piano, or even in thinking. She was one of the few | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045026 | women who really can think, and enjoy it. This morning she soon put down the mad clever little prophetic Oxford journal. Considering she was usually the most reposeful woman in London, she was rather restless today. She glanced round the little room; there was nothing in it to distract or irritate, or even to suggest a train of thought; except | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045027 | perhaps the books; everything was calming and soothing, with a touch of gaiety in the lightness of the wall decorations. An azalea, certainly, would be a good note. The carpet, and almost everything in the room, was green, except the small white enamelled piano. Today she felt that she wanted to use all her influence to get Aylmer to confide | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045028 | in her more. Perhaps he was slipping away from her--she would have been only a little incident in his existence--while she certainly wished it to go on. Seeing this, perhaps it oughtn't to go on. She wondered if he would laugh or be serious today... whether... * * * * * Miss Bennett had come up in the lift with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045029 | a heap of cardboard boxes, and the azalea. A taxi was waiting at the door. Edith opened the boxes, cutting the string with scissors. She put four gowns out on the sofa. Grace explained that two were cloaks, two were gowns--all she could get. 'That's the one,' said Edith, taking out one of a deep blue colour, like an Italian | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045030 | sky on a coloured picture post-card. It had a collar of the same deep blue, spotted with white--a birdseye effect. Taking off her coat Edith slipped the gown over her dress, and went to her room (followed closely by Miss Bennett) to see herself in the long mirror. 'Perfect!' said Edith. 'Only I must cut off those buttons. I hate | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045031 | buttons.' 'How are you going to fasten it, then, dear?' 'With hooks and eyes. Marie can sew them on.' The deep blue with the white spots had a vivid and charming effect, and suited her blonde colouring; she saw she was very pretty in it, and was pleased. 'Aren't you going to try the others on, dear?' asked Grace. 'No; | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045032 | what's the good? This one will do.' 'Right. Then I'll take them back.' 'You're sweet. Won't you come back to lunch?' 'I'll come back to lunch tomorrow,' said Miss Bennett, 'and you can tell me about your tea-party. Oh, and here's a little bit of stuff for the plant. I suppose you'll put the azalea into the large pewter vase?' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045033 | 'Yes, and I'll tie this round its neck.' 'Sorry it's cotton,' said Miss Bennett. 'I couldn't get any silk the right colour.' 'Oh, I like cotton, if only it's not called sateen! Good-bye, darling. You're delightfully quick!' 'Yes, I don't waste time,' said Miss Bennett. 'Mother says, too, that I'm the best shopper in the world.' She turned round to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045034 | add, 'I'm dying to know why you want to look so pretty. Who is it?' With a quiet smile, Edith dismissed her. P.P.C. 'It always seems to me so unlike you,' Aylmer said (he had arrived punctually at twenty minutes to four)--'your extreme fondness for newspapers. You're quite celebrated as a collector of Last Editions, aren't you?' 'I know it's | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045035 | very unliterary of me, but I enjoy reading newspapers better than reading anything else in the world. After all, it's contemporary history, that's my defence. But I suppose it is because I'm so intensely interested in life.' 'Tell me exactly, what papers do you really read?' She laughed. 'Four morning papers--never mind their names--four evening papers; five Sunday papers: _The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045036 | Academy, The Saturday Review, The Bookman, The World, The English Review_.' 'Well, I think it's wicked of you to encourage all this frivolity. And what price _The Queen, Horrie Notes, or The Tatler_?' 'Oh, we have those too--for Bruce.' 'And does Archie show any of this morbid desire for journalism?' 'Oh yes. He takes in _Chums and Little Folks_.' 'And | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045037 | I see you're reading _Rhythm_. That's Vincy's fault, of course.' 'Perhaps it is.' 'How do you find time for all this culture?' 'I read quickly, and what I have to do I do rather quickly.' 'Is that why you never seem in a hurry? I think you're the only leisured-looking woman I know in London.' 'I do think I've solved | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045038 | the problem of labour-saving; I've reduced it to a science.' 'How?' 'By not working, I suppose.' 'You're wonderful. And that blue....' 'Do you really think so?' He was beginning to get carried away. He stood up and looked out of the window. The pink and white hyacinths were strongly scented in the warm air. He turned round. She said demurely: | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045039 | 'It will be nice weather for you to go away now, won't it?' 'I don't think so.' He spoke impulsively. 'I shall hate it; I shall be miserable.' 'Really!' in a tone of great surprise. 'You're dying to ask me something,' he said. 'Which am I dying to ask you: _where_ you're going, or _why_ you're going?' She gave her | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045040 | most vivid smile. He sat down with a sigh. People still sigh, sometimes, even nowadays. 'I don't know where I'm going; but I'll tell you why.... I'm seeing too much of you.' She was silent. 'You see, Mrs Ottley, seeing a great deal of you is very entrancing, but it's dangerous.' 'In what way?' 'Well--your society--you see one gets to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045041 | feel one can't do without it, do you see?' 'But why should you do without it?' He looked at her. 'You mean there's no reason why we shouldn't keep on going to plays with Bruce, dining with Bruce, being always with Bruce?' (Bruce and Aylmer had become so intimate that they called each other by their Christian names.) 'Don't you | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045042 | see, it makes one sometimes feel one wants more and more of you--of your society I mean. One could talk better alone.' 'But you can come and see me sometimes, can't you?' 'Yes; that's the worst of all,' he answered, with emphasis. 'Oh.' Aylmer spoke decidedly: 'I'm not a man who could ever be a tame cat. And also I'm | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045043 | not, I hope, a man who--who would dare to think, or even wish, to spoil--to--' 'And is that really why you're going?' she asked gently. 'You're forcing me to answer you.' 'And shall you soon forget all about it?' He changed his position and sat next to her on the sofa. 'And so you won't miss me a bit,' he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045044 | said caressingly. 'You wouldn't care if you never saw me again, would you?' 'Yes, I should care. Why, you know we're awfully good friends; I like you immensely.' 'As much as Vincy?' 'Oh! So differently.' 'I'm glad of that, at any rate!' There was an embarrassed pause. 'So this is really the last time I'm to see you for ages, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045045 | Mrs Ottley?' 'But aren't we all going to the theatre tomorrow? With you, I mean? Bruce said so.' 'Oh yes. I mean the last time alone. Yes, I've got a box for _The Moonshine Girl_. Bruce said you'd come. Lady Everard and Vincy will be there.' 'That will be fun--I love that sort of show. It takes one right away | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045046 | from life instead of struggling to imitate it badly like most plays.' 'It's always delightful to hear what you say. And anything I see with you I enjoy, and believe to be better than it is,' said Aylmer. 'You know you cast a glamour over anything. But the next day I'm going away for three months at least.' 'A long | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045047 | time.' 'Is it? Will it seem long to you?' 'Why, of course. We shall--I shall miss you very much. I told you so.' 'Really?' he insisted. 'Really,' she smiled. They looked at each other. Edith felt less mistress of the situation than she had expected. She was faced with a choice; she felt it; she knew it. She didn't want | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045048 | him to go. Still, perhaps.... There was a vibration in the air. Suddenly a sharp ring was heard. Overpowered by a sudden impulse, Aylmer seized her impetuously by the shoulders, kissed her roughly and at random before she could stop him, and said incoherently: 'Edith! Good-bye. I love you, Edith,' and then stood up by the mantelpiece. 'Mr Vincy,' announced | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045049 | the servant. 'The Moonshine Girl' The next evening Bruce and Edith were going to the Society Theatre with Aylmer. It was their last meeting before he was to go away, Edith half expected that he would put it off, but there was no change made in the plans, and they met in the box as arranged. Aylmer had expected during | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045050 | the whole day to hear that she had managed to postpone the party. At one moment he was frightened and rather horrified when he thought of what he had done. At another he was delighted and enchanted about it, and told himself that it was absolutely justified. After all, he couldn't do more than go away if he found he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045051 | was too fond of her. No hero of romance could be expected to do more than that, and he wasn't a hero of romance; he didn't pretend to be. But he _was_ a good fellow--and though Bruce's absurdities irritated him a great deal he had a feeling of delicacy towards him, and a scrupulousness that is not to be found | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045052 | every day. At other moments Aylmer swore to himself, cursing his impulsiveness, fearing she now would really not ever think of him as he wished, but as a hustling sort of brute. But no--he didn't care. He had come at last to close quarters with her. He had kissed the pretty little mouth that he had so often watched with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045053 | longing. He admitted to himself that he had really wished to pose a little in her eyes: to be the noble hero in the third act who goes away from temptation. But who does not wish for the _beau rle_ before one's idol? * * * * * This meeting at the play tonight was the sort of anti-climax that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045054 | is almost invariable in a London romance. How he looked forward to it! For after Vincy came in only a few banalities had been said. He was to see her now for the last time--the first time since he had given himself away to her. Probably it was only her usual kindness to others that prevented her getting out of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045055 | the evening plans, he thought. Or--did she want to see him once more? At dinner before the play Edith was very bright, and particularly pretty. Bruce, too, was in good spirits. 'It's rather sickening,' he remarked, 'Aylmer going away like this; we shall miss him horribly, sha'n't we? And then, where's the sense, Edith, in a chap leaving London where | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045056 | he's been the whole of the awful winter, just as it begins to be pleasant here? Pass the salt; don't spill it--that's unlucky. Not that I believe in any superstitious rot. I can see the charm of the quaint old ideas about black cats and so forth, but I don't for one moment attach any importance to them, nor to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045057 | the number thirteen, nor any of that sort of bosh. Indeed as a matter of fact, I walked round a ladder only today rather than go under it. But that's simply because I don't go in for trying to be especially original.' 'No, dear. I think you're quite right.' 'And oddly enough--as I was trying to tell you just now, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045058 | only you didn't seem to be listening--a black cat ran across my path only this afternoon.' He smiled, gratified at the recollection. 'How do you mean, your path? I didn't know you had one--or that there were any paths about here.' 'How literal women are! I mean _I_ nearly ran over it in a taxi. When I say I nearly | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045059 | ran over it, I mean that a black cat on the same side of the taxi (if you must have details) ran away as the taxi drove on.... Yes, Aylmer is a thoroughly good chap, and he and I have enormous sympathy. I don't know any man in the world with whom I have more intellectual sympathy than Aylmer Ross. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045060 | Do you remember how I pointed him out to you at once at the Mitchells'? And sometimes when I think how you used to sneer at the Mitchells--oh, you did, you know, dear, before you knew them--and I remember all the trouble I had to get you to go there, I wonder--I simply wonder! Don't you see, through going there, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045061 | as I advised, we've made one of the nicest friends we ever had.' 'Really, Bruce, you didn't have _any_ trouble to get me to go to the Mitchells; you're forgetting. The trouble was I couldn't go there very well until I was asked. The very first time we were asked (if you recollect), we flew!' 'Flew? Why, we went on | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045062 | the wrong night. That doesn't look as if I was very keen about it! However, I'm not blaming you, dear. It wasn't your fault. Mind you,' continued Bruce, 'I consider the Society Theatre pure frivolity. But one thing I'll say, a bad show there is better than a good show anywhere else. There's always jolly music, pretty dresses, pretty girls--you | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045063 | don't mind my saying so, dear, do you?' 'No, indeed. I think so myself.' 'Of course, the first row of the chorus is not what it was when I was a bachelor,' continued Bruce, frowning thoughtfully. 'Either they're not so good-looking, or I don't admire them so much, or they don't admire _me_ as much, or they're a different class, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045064 | or--or--something!' he laughed. 'You're pleased to be facetious,' remarked Edith. 'My dear girl, you know perfectly well I think there's no-one else in the world like you. Wherever I go I always say there's no-one to touch my wife. No-one!' Edith got up. 'Very sweet of you.' 'But,' continued Bruce, 'because I think you pretty, it doesn't follow that I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045065 | think everybody else is hideous. I tell you that straight from the shoulder, and I must say this for you, dear, I've never seen any sign of jealousy on your part.' 'I'd show it soon enough if I felt it--if I thought I'd any cause,' said Edith; 'but I didn't think I had.' Bruce gave a rather fatuous smile. 'Oh, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045066 | go and get ready, my dear,' he answered. 'Don't let's talk nonsense. Who's going to be there tonight, do you know?' 'Oh, only Lady Everard and Vincy.' 'Lady Everard is a nice woman. You're going to that musical thing of hers, I suppose?' 'Yes, I suppose so.' 'It's in the afternoon, and it's not very easy for me to get | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045067 | away in the afternoon, but to please you, I'll take you--see? I loathe music (except musical comedies), and I think if ever there was a set of appalling rotters--I feel inclined to knock them off the music-stool the way they go on at Lady Everard's--at the same time, some of them are very cultured and intelligent chaps, and _she's_ a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045068 | very charming woman. One can't get in a word edgeways, but _when_ one does--well, she listens, and laughs at one's jokes, and that sort of thing. I think I'm rather glad you're not musical, Edith, it takes a woman away from her husband.' 'Not musical! Oh dear! I thought I was,' said Edith. 'Oh, anyhow, not when I'm here, so | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045069 | it doesn't matter. Besides, your being appreciative and that sort of thing is very nice. Look what a social success you've had at the Everards', for instance, through listening and understanding these things; it is not an accomplishment to throw away. No, Edith dear, I should tell you, if you would only listen to me, to keep up your music, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045070 | but you won't and there's an end of it...That souffl was really very good. Cook's improving. For a plain little cook like that, with such small wages, and no kitchenmaid, she does quite well.' 'Oh yes, she's not bad,' said Edith. She knew that if Bruce had been aware the cook's remuneration was adequate he would not have enjoyed his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045071 | dinner. * * * * * They were in the box in the pretty theatre. Lady Everard, very smart in black, sparkling with diamonds, was already there with Aylmer. Vincy had not arrived. The house was crammed to the ceiling. Gay, electrical music of exhilarating futility was being played by the orchestra. The scene consisted of model cottages; a chorus | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045072 | of pretty girls in striped cotton were singing. The heroine came on; she was well known for her smile, which had become public property on picture post-cards and the Obosh bottles. She was dressed as a work-girl also, but in striped silk with a real lace apron and a few diamonds. Then the hero arrived. He wore a red shirt, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045073 | brown boots, and had a tenor voice. He explained an interesting little bit of the plot, which included an eccentric will and other novelties. The humorous dandy of the play was greeted with shouts of joy by the chorus and equal enthusiasm by the audience. He agreed to change places with the hero, who wished to give up one hundred | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045074 | and forty thousand pounds a year to marry the heroine. 'Very disinterested,' murmured Lady Everard. 'Very nice of him, I'm sure. It isn't many people that would do a thing like that. A nice voice, too. Of course, this is not what _I_ call good music, but it's very bright in its way, and the words--I always think these words | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045075 | are so clever. So witty. Listen to them--do listen to them, dear Mrs Ottley.' They listened to the beautiful words sung, of which the refrain ran as follows:-- 'The Author told the Actor, (The Actor had a fit). The Box Office man told the Programme-girl, The Theatre all was in quite a whirl. The call-boy told the Chorus. (Whatever could | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045076 | it be?) The super asked the Manager, What did the Censor see?' 'Charming,' murmured Lady Everard; 'brilliant--I know his father so well.' 'Whose father--the censor's?' 'Oh, the father of the composer--a very charming man. When he was young he used to come to my parties--my Wednesdays. I used to have Wednesdays then. I don't have Wednesdays now. I think it | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045077 | better to telephone at the last minute any particular day for my afternoons because, after all, you never know when the artists one wants are disengaged, does one? You're coming on Wednesday to hear Paul La France sing, dear Mrs Ottley?' Edith smiled and nodded assent, trying to stop the incessant trickle of Lady Everard's leaking conversation. She loved theatres, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045078 | and she enjoyed hearing every word, which was impossible while there was more dialogue in the box than on the stage; also, Aylmer was sitting behind her. The comic lady now came on; there were shrieks of laughter at her unnecessary and irrelevant green boots and crinoline and Cockney accent. She proposed to marry the hero, who ran away from | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045079 | her. There was more chorus; and the curtain fell. In the interval Vincy arrived. He and Bruce went into the little salon behind the box. Lady Everard joined them there. Edith and Aylmer looked round the house. The audience at the Society Theatre is a special one; as at the plays in which the favourite actor-managers and _jeunes premiers_ perform | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045080 | there are always far more women than men, at this theatre there are always far more men than women. The stage box opposite our friends was filled with a party of about ten men. 'It looks like a jury,' said Edith. 'Perhaps it is.' 'Probably a board of directors,' said Aylmer. The first two rows of the stalls were principally | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045081 | occupied by middle-aged and rather elderly gentlemen. Many had grey moustaches and a military bearing. Others were inclined to be stout, with brilliant exuberant manners and very dark hair that simply wouldn't lie flat. There were a great many parties made up like those of our friends--of somebody in love with somebody, surrounded by chaperons. These were the social people, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045082 | and also there were a certain number of young men with pretty women who were too fashionably dressed, too much made up, and who were looking forward too much to supper. These ladies seemed inclined to crab the play, and to find unimportant little faults with the unimportant actresses. There were many Americans--who took it seriously; and altogether one could | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045083 | see it was an immense success; in other words everyone had paid for their seats... * * * * * The play was over; Aylmer had not had a word with Edith. He was going away the next day, and he asked them all to supper. Of course he drove Edith, and Lady Everard took the other two in her | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045084 | motor.... 'You're an angel if you've forgiven me,' he said, as they went out. The Supper-party 'Have you forgiven me?' he asked anxiously, as soon as they were in the dark shelter of the cab. 'Yes, oh yes. Please don't let's talk about it any more... What time do you start tomorrow?' 'You think I ought to go then?' 'You | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045085 | say so.' 'But you'd rather I remained here; rather we should go on as we are--wouldn't you?' 'Well, you know I should never have dreamt of suggesting you should go away. I like you to be here.' 'At any cost to me? No, Edith; I can't stand it. And since I've told you it's harder. Your knowing makes it harder.' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045086 | 'I should have thought that if you liked anyone so _very_ much, you would want to see them all the time, as much as possible, always--even with other people...anything rather than not see them--be away altogether. At least, that's how I should feel.' 'No doubt you would; that's a woman's view. And besides, you see, you don't care!' 'The more | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045087 | I cared, the less I should go away, I think.' 'But, haven't I tried? And I can't bear it. You don't know how cruel you are with your sweetness, Edith...Oh, put yourself in my place! How do you suppose I feel when I've been with you like this, near you, looking at you, delighting in you the whole evening--and then, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045088 | after supper, you go away with Bruce? _You've_ had a very pleasant evening, no doubt; it's all right for you to feel you've got me, as you know you have--and with no fear, no danger. Yes, you enjoy it!' 'Oh, Aylmer!' He saw in the half-darkness that her eyes looked reproachful. 'I didn't mean it. I'm sorry--I'm always being sorry.' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045089 | His bitter tone changed to gentleness. 'I want to speak to you now, Edith. We haven't much time. Don't take away your hand a minute....I always told you, didn't I, that the atmosphere round you is so clear that I feel with you I'm in the Palace of Truth? You're so _real_. You're the only woman I ever met who | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045090 | really cared for truth. You're not afraid of it; and you're as straight and honourable as a man! I don't mean you can't diplomatise if you choose, of course, and better than anyone; but it isn't your nature to deceive yourself, nor anyone else. I recognise that in you. I love it. And that's why I can't pretend or act | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045091 | with you; I must be frank.' 'Please, do be frank.' 'I love you. I'm madly in love with you. I adore you.' Aylmer stopped, deeply moved at the sound of his own words. Few people realise the effect such words have on the speaker. Saying them to her was a great joy, and an indulgence, but it increased painfully his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045092 | passionate feeling, making it more accentuated and acute. To let himself go verbally was a wild, bitter pleasure. It hurt him, and he enjoyed it. 'And I'd do anything in the world to get you. And I'd do anything in the world for you, too. And if you cared for me I'd go away all the same. At least, I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045093 | believe I should...We shall be there in a minute. 'Listen, dear. I want you, occasionally, to write to me; there's no earthly reason why you shouldn't. I'll let you know my address. It will prevent my being too miserable, or rushing back. And will you do something else for me?' 'Anything.' 'Angel! Well, when you write, call me Aylmer. You | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045094 | never have yet, in a letter. Treat me just like a friend--as you treat Vincy. Tell me what you're doing, where you're going, who you see; about Archie and Dilly; about your new dresses and hats; what you're reading--any little thing, so that I'm still in touch with you.' 'Yes, I will; I shall like to. And don't be depressed, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045095 | Aylmer. Do enjoy your journey; write to me, too.' 'Yes, I'm going to write to you, but only in an official way, only for Bruce. And, listen. Take care of yourself. You're too unselfish. Do what you want sometimes, not what other people want all the time. Don't read too much by electric light and try your eyes. And don't | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045096 | go out in these thin shoes in damp weather--promise!' She laughed a little--touched. 'Be a great deal with the children. I like to think of you with them. And I hope you won't be always going out,' he continued, in a tone of unconscious command, which she enjoyed....'Please don't be continually at Lady Everard's, or at the Mitchells', or anywhere. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045097 | I hate you to be admired--how I hate it!' 'Fancy! And I was always brought up to believe people are proud of what's called the 'success' of the people that they--like.' 'Don't you believe it, Edith! That's all bosh--vanity and nonsense. At any rate, I know I'm not. In fact, as I can't have you myself, I would really like | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045098 | you to be shut up. Very happy, very well, with everything in the world you like, even thinking of me a little, but absolutely shut up! And if you did go out, for a breath of air, I should like no-one to see you. I'd like you to cover up your head--wear a thick veil--and a thick loose dress!' 'You're | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045099 | very Oriental!' she laughed. 'I'm not a bit Oriental; I'm human. It's selfish, I suppose, you think? Well, let me tell you, if you care to know, that it's _love_, and nothing else, Edith....Now, is there anything in the world I can do for you while I'm away? It would be kind to ask me. Remember I shan't see you | 60 | gutenberg |
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