lost in admiration all the time, as Lady Maxwell saw, of his wife's dainty grace and rose-leaf colour.
"Well—a—minx!" said Betty, with innocent slowness, opening her blue eyes very wide; "a mischievous—rather pretty—hard-hearted—flirting—little minx!"
"Really, Betty!" cried Lady Maxwell. "Where have you seen her?"
"Oh, I saw her last year several times at the Wattons' and other places," said Betty, composedly. "And so did you too, please, madam. I remember very well one day Mrs. Watton brought her into the Winterbournes' when you and I were there, and she chattered a great deal."
"Oh yes!—I had forgotten."
"Well, my dear, you'll soon have to remember her! so you needn't talk in that lofty tone. For they're going to be married at Easter, and if you want to make friends with the young man, you'll have to realise the wife!"
"Married at Easter? How do you know?"
"In the first place Mr. Watton said so, in the next there are such things as newspapers. But of course you didn't notice such trifles, you never do."
"Betty, you're very cross with me to-day!" Lady Maxwell looked up at her friend with a little pleading air.
"Oh no! only for your good. I know you're thinking of nothing in the world but how to make that man take a reasonable view of Maxwell's Bill. And I want to impress upon you that he's probably thinking a great deal more about getting married than about Factory Bills. You see, your getting married was a kind of accident. But other people are different. And oh, dear, you do know so little about them when they don't live hi four pair backs! There, don't defend yourself—you sha'n't!"
And, stooping, Betty stifled her friend's possible protest by kissing her.
"Now then, come along, Frank—you've got your speech to write—and I've got to copy it out. Don't swear! you know you're going to have two whole days' golfing next week. Good-bye, Marcella! My love to Aldous—and tell him not to be so late next time I come to tea. Good-bye!"
And off she swept, pausing, however, on the landing to open the door again and put in an eager face.
"Oh! and, by the way, the young man has a mother—Frank reminded me. His womenkind don't seem to be his strong point—but as she doesn't earn even four-and-sixpence a week—very sadly the contrary—I won't tell you any more now, or you'll forget. Next time!"
When Marcella Maxwell was at last left alone, she began to pace slowly up and down the large bare room, as it was very much her wont to do.
She was thinking of George Tressady, and of the personality his talk had seemed to reveal.
"His heart is all in power—in what he takes for magnificence." she said to herself. "He talks as if he had no humanity, and did not care a rap for anybody. But it is a pose—I think it is a pose. He is interesting—he will develop. One would like—to show him things."
After another pensive turn or two she stopped beside a photograph that stood upon her writing-table. It was a photograph of her husband—a tall, smoothfaced man, with pleasant eyes, features of no particular emphasis, and the free carriage of the country-bred Englishman. As she looked at it her face relaxed unconsciously, inevitably; under the stimulus of some habitual and secret joy. It was for his sake, for his sake only that she was still thinking of George Tressady, still pondering the young man's character and remarks.
So much at least was true—no other member of Fontenoy's party had as yet given her even the chance of arguing with him. Once or twice in society she had tried to approach Fontenoy himself, to get somehow into touch with him. But she had made no way. Lord Fontenoy had simply turned his square-jawed face and red-rimmed eyes upon her with a stupid irresponsive air, which Marcella knew perfectly well to be a mask, while it protected him none the less effectively for that against both her eloquence and her charm. The other members of the party were young aristocrats, either of the ultra-exclusive or of the sporting type. She had made her attempts here and there among them, but with no more success. And once or twice, when she had pushed her attack to close quarters, she had been suddenly conscious of an underlying insolence in her opponent—a quick glance of bold or sensual eyes which seemed to relegate the mere woman to her place.
But this young Tressady, for all his narrowness and bitterness, was of a different stamp—or she thought so.
She began to pace up and down again, lost in reverie, till after a few minutes she came slowly to a stop before a long Louis Quinze mirror—her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes half consciously studying what she saw.
Her own beauty invariably gave her pleasure—though very seldom for the reasons that would have affected other women. She felt instinctively that it made life easier for her than it could otherwise have been; that it provided her with a natural and profitable "opening" in any game she might wish to play; and that even among the workmen, unionist leaders, and officials of the East End it had helped her again and again to score the points that she wanted to make. She was accustomed to be looked at, to be the centre, to feel things yielding before her; and without thinking it out, she knew perfectly well what it was she gained by this "fair seeming show" of eye and lip and form. Somehow it made nothing seem impossible to her; it gave her a dazzling self-confidence.
The handle of the door turned. She looked round with a smiling start, and waited.
A tall man in a grey suit came in, crossed the room quickly, and put his arms round her. She leant back against his shoulder, putting up one hand to touch his cheek caressingly.
"Why, how late you are! Betty left reproaches for you."
"I had a walk with Dowson. Then two or three people caught me on the way back—Rashdell among others." (Lord Rashdell was Foreign Secretary.) "There are some interesting telegrams from Paris—I copied them out for you."
The country happened to be at the moment in the midst of one of its periodical difficulties with France. There had been a good deal of diplomatic friction, and a certain amount of anxiety at the Foreign Office. Marcella lit the silver kettle again and made her man some fresh tea, while he told her the news, and they discussed the various points of the telegrams he had copied for her, with a comrade's freedom and vivacity. Then she said:
"Well, I have had an interesting time too! That young Tressady has been to tea."
"Oh! has he? They say there is a lot of stuff in him, and he may do us a great deal of mischief. How did you find him?"
"Oh, very clever, very limited—and a mass of prejudices," she said, laughing. "I never saw an odder mixture of knowledge and ignorance."
"What? Knowledge of India and the East?—that kind of thing?"
She nodded.
"Knowledge of everything except the subject he has come home to fight about! Do you know, Aldous—"
She paused. She was sitting on a stool beside him, her arm upon his knee.
"What do I know?" he said, his hand seeking hers.
"Well, I can't help feeling that that man might live and learn. He isn't a mere obstructive block—like the rest."
Maxwell laughed.
"Then Fontenoy is not as shrewd as usual. They say he regards him as their best recruit."
"Never mind. I rather wish you'd try to make friends with him."
Maxwell, however, helped himself to cake and made no response. On the two or three occasions on which he had met George Tressady, he had been conscious, if the truth were told, of a certain vague antipathy to the young man.
Marcella pondered.
"No," she said, "no—I don't think after all he's your sort. Suppose I see what can be done!"
And she got up with her flashing smile—half love, half fun—and crossed the room to summon her little boy, Hallin, for his evening play. Maxwell looked after her, not heeding at all what she was saying, heeding only herself,