"The National Gallery?" exclaimed Mrs. Ashton Portway swiftly. "I must introduce you to Miss Marchrose, the author of that charming hand-book to _Pictures in London_. Miss Marchrose," she called out, urging Henry towards a corner of the room, "this is Mr. Knight." She sn.i.g.g.e.red on the name. "He"s just dropped into the National Gallery."
Then Mrs. Ashton Portway sailed off to receive other guests, and Henry was alone with Miss Marchrose in a nook between a cabinet and a phonograph. Many eyes were upon them. Miss Marchrose, a woman of thirty, with a thin face and an amorphous body draped in two shades of olive, was obviously flattered.
"Be frank, and admit you"ve never heard of me," she said.
"Oh yes, I have," he lied.
"Do you often go to the National Gallery, Mr. Knight?"
"Not as often as I ought."
Pause.
Several observant women began to think that Miss Marchrose was not making the best of Henry--that, indeed, she had proved unworthy of an unmerited honour.
"I sometimes think----" Miss Marchrose essayed.
But a young lady got up in the middle of the room, and with extraordinary self-command and presence of mind began to recite Wordsworth"s "The Brothers." She continued to recite and recite until she had finished it, and then sat down amid universal joy.
"Matthew Arnold said that was the greatest poem of the century,"
remarked a man near the phonograph.
"You"ll pardon me," said Miss Marchrose, turning to him. "If you are thinking of Matthew Arnold"s introduction to the selected poems, you"ll and----"
"My dear," said Mrs. Ashton Portway, suddenly looming up opposite the reciter, "what a memory you have!"
"Was it so long, then?" murmured a tall man with spectacles and a light wavy beard.
"I shall send you back to Paris, Mr. Dolbiac," said Mrs. Ashton Portway, "if you are too witty." The hostess smiled and sn.i.g.g.e.red, but it was generally felt that Mr. Dolbiac"s remark had not been in the best taste.
For a few moments Henry was alone and uncared for, and he examined his surroundings. His first conclusion was that there was not a pretty woman in the room, and his second, that this fact had not escaped the notice of several other men who were hanging about in corners. Then Mrs. Ashton Portway, having accomplished the task of receiving, beckoned him, and intimated to him that, being a lion and the king of beasts, he must roar. "I think everyone here has done something," she said as she took him round and forced him to roar. His roaring was a miserable fiasco, but most people mistook it for the latest fashion in roaring, and were impressed.
"Now you must take someone down to get something to eat," she apprised him, when he had growled out soft nothings to poetesses, paragraphists, publicists, positivists, penny-a-liners, and other pale persons. "Whom shall it be?--Ashton! What have you done?"
The phonograph had been advertised to give a reproduction of Ternina in the Liebestod from _Tristan und Isolde_, but instead it broke into the "Washington Post," and the room, braced to a great occasion, was horrified. Mrs. Portway, abandoning Henry, ran to silence the disastrous consequence of her husband"s clumsiness. Henry, perhaps impelled by an instinctive longing, gazed absently through the open door into the pa.s.sage, and there, with two other girls on a settee, he perceived Geraldine! She smiled, rose, and came towards him. She looked disconcertingly pretty; she was always at her best in the evening; and she had such eyes to gaze on him.
"You here!" she murmured.
Ordinary words, but they were enveloped in layers of feeling, as a child"s simple gift may be wrapped in lovely tinted tissue-papers!
"She"s the finest woman in the place," he thought decisively. And he said to her: "Will you come down and have something to eat?"
"I can talk to _her_," he reflected with satisfaction, as the faultless young man handed them desired sandwiches in the supper-room. What he meant was that she could talk to him; but men often make this mistake.
Before he had eaten half a sandwich, the period of time between that night and the night at the Louvre had been absolutely blotted out. He did not know why. He could think of no explanation. It merely was so.
She told him she had sold a sensational serial for a pound a thousand words.
"Not a bad price--for me," she added.
"Not half enough!" he exclaimed ardently.
Her eyes moistened. He thought what a shame it was that a creature like her should be compelled to earn even a portion of her livelihood by typewriting for Mark Snyder. The faultless young man unostentatiously poured more wine into their gla.s.ses. No other guests happened to be in the room....
"Ah, you"re here!" It was the hostess, sn.i.g.g.e.ring.
"You told me to bring someone down," said Henry, who had no intention of being outfaced now.
"We"re just coming up," Geraldine added.
"That"s right!" said Mrs. Ashton Portway. "A lot of people have gone, and now that we shall be a little bit more intimate, I want to try that new game. I don"t think it"s ever been played in London anywhere yet. I saw it in the _New York Herald_. Of course, n.o.body who isn"t just a little clever could play at it."
"Oh yes!" Geraldine smiled. "You mean "Characters." I remember you told me about it."
And Mrs. Ashton Portway said that she did mean "Characters."
In the drawing-room she explained that in playing the game of "Characters" you chose a subject for discussion, and then each player secretly thought of a character in fiction, and spoke in the discussion as he imagined that character would have spoken. At the end of the game you tried to guess the characters chosen.
"I think it ought to be cla.s.sical fiction only," she said.
Sundry guests declined to play, on the ground that they lacked the needful brilliance. Henry declined utterly, but he had the wit not to give his reasons. It was he who suggested that the non-players should form a jury. At last seven players were recruited, including Mr. Ashton Portway, Miss Marchrose, Geraldine, Mr. Dolbiac, and three others. Mrs.
Ashton Portway sat down by Henry as a jurywoman.
"And now what are you going to discuss?" said she.
No one could find a topic.
"Let us discuss love," Miss Marchrose ventured.
"Yes," said Mr. Dolbiac, "let"s. There"s nothing like leather."
So the seven in the centre of the room a.s.sumed att.i.tudes suitable for the discussion of love.
"Have you all chosen your characters?" asked the hostess.
"We have," replied the seven.
"Then begin."
"Don"t all speak at once," said Mr. Dolbiac, after a pause.
"Who is that chap?" Henry whispered.
"Mr. Dolbiac? He"s a sculptor from Paris. Quite English, I believe, except for his grandmother. Intensely clever." Mrs. Ashton Portway distilled these facts into Henry"s ear, and then turned to the silent seven. "It _is_ rather difficult, isn"t it?" she breathed encouragingly.
"Love is not for such as me," said Mr. Dolbiac solemnly. Then he looked at his hostess, and called out in an undertone: "I"ve begun."
"The question," said Miss Marchrose, clearing her throat, "is, not what love is not, but what it is."