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"It's from the peasantry that I fear the worst," said Mr. Light-Johnson. "After all it has always been so. Think of La Vende, think of the Russian peasantry in this last Revolution. No, there is small comfort there, I'm afraid."
He saw very little of her face, although in retrospect, it was impossible for him to believe that he had not seen her exactly as she was, soul and body, from the first instant glimpse of her; her face was pale, thin, her eyes large and dark, and even in that first moment very beautiful.
Mrs. Tenssen finished her cup of tea before replying.
We had so short a meeting before I came away that there was no time to tell one another anything, and I have such lots to tell. I didn't think you were looking very happy, Henry dear, or very well. Do look after yourself. I'm glad your Baronet is taking you into the country very shortly. I'm sure you need it. But do you get enough to eat with him? His sister sounds a mean old thing and I'm sure she scrimps over the housekeeping. (Scrimps is my own wordisn't it a good one?) Eat all you[Pg 151] can when you're in the country. Make love to the cook. Plunder the pantry. Make a store in your attic as the burglar did in our beloved Jim.
"Well if you really are you've come to the right place. You won't find anything more interesting in the whole of London. Here you have right in front of your nose that curious specimen of the human family, the New Rich, and you have it in its most touching and moving aspectfrightened, baffled, confused, bewildered and plundered.
"And do you think," said Lady Bell-Hall, "that the movementtaking Y.M.C.A. reading-rooms I meanwill spread quickly over London?"
"Up in London for long?" asked Baxter.
"You seem to want to hurt me any way you can."
"It's what he cared for more than anything," Henry cried. "It's got to be beautiful."
"Me and Henry?" said Millie, regardless of grammar.
Herbert Spencer looked at the letters in his hand, let them drop, glanced up.
She let herself in. The sitting-room was just as it had been, very quiet, so terribly quiet.
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Henry, as he sat on his bed, looking before him out of the little window across to the corner gables of the Comedy Theatre, appeared very much the same crude and callow youth that he had seemed on going up to Oxford just before the war.
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"Forgiven you?"
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"Yes, I know you have." Victoria settled herself luxuriously. "Just give me that paper, darling, before you go and some of the letters. Pick out the nicest ones. You've seen me dear, at a most turbulent point of my existence, but I'm safe in harbour now, and even if it seems a little dull I daresay I shall be able to scrape up a quarrel or two with Mereward before long." Millie gave her the papers; she caught her hand. "You've been happier these last few weeks, dear, haven't you? I'd hate to think that you're still worrying. . . . Thatthat man. . . ." She paused.
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Silence.
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"Well, I don't think she is very happy, if you ask me," Mary answered, slowly pulling on her gloves. "I don't like her young man. I can't think what she chose him for."
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When he recovered from his indignant agitation there was of course no sign of the flaming feather. At the next opportunity he crossed and standing by the paper-stall and the Pavilion advertisements gazed all around him. Up the street and down the street. Down the street and up the street. No sign at all. He walked quickly towards the Trocadero restaurant, crossed there to the Lyric Theatre, moved on to the churchyard by the entrance to Wardour Street and then gazed again.
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MRS. TENSSEN'S MIND IS MADE UP AT LAST
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Millie soon forgot her; meeting Henry at Panton Street, pointing out to him that he must wear to-day a black tie, discussing the best place for the procession, all these things were more important than Ellen.
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[Pg 99]
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"Thank you," said Peter.
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He would so greatly have preferred that she should not do[Pg 131] these things. She did them, it might be, as a blind, a concealment, an alibi, even as Count Fosco had his white mice and Uncle Silas played the flute, but they did not appear to be a disguise; she seemed to enjoy doing them.
Had he not been sworn at by the driver of a swiftly advancing taxi-cab he might have thought of a second verse equally good.
"You can if you like."
"Oh, you want to get rid of me. . . ." She got up slowly. "Well, I'll go."
Soon he was absorbed even as his sister Millicent, at that same moment in the Cromwell Road, was absorbed in a very different collection of letters, on this her second Platt morning. The library with its thousands of books enfolded Henry as though now it approved of him and might love him did he stay reverently in its midst caring for the old things and the old peoplethe old things that pass, the old people who seem to die but do not. At first every letter thrilled him. The merest note:
"I'm going back to London to-morrow," she announced.
"Don't be sentimental, my dear. Face facts. It would be extremely tiresome for you if I lived. You may not be in love with Peter but you like him very much, and there'll be nothing more awkward for you than having a sick woman lying round here"
He was pulled out into the centre of the room by a sudden silence and a realization that every one was listening to a heated argument between Monteith and Campbell. Grace Talbot was looking up from her chair at the two men with her accustomed glance of lazy superiority.