"I make a practice of sleeping in the train," he answered.
"You won"t on Sat.u.r.day. Sometimes, Eric, I find your little practices and habits and rules rather tiresome; I must educate you out of them. By the way, I want to be seen home to-night."
It was a disappointing dinner for Eric, as, after coming to gratify Barbara, he was separated from her by the length of the table. In conversation Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley always gave people what was good for them rather than what they liked; Barbara was accordingly set next to an art editor, who tried to wheedle from her an article on "Eastern Decoration in Western Houses," while Eric found himself sandwiched without hope of escape between Mrs. Manisty, who discussed poetry which he had not read, and the flamboyant novelist, who had lately discovered and insisted on exposing a mutual-admiration ring in the novel-reviewers of the London press.
If dull, the meal was at least not so embarra.s.sing as his dinner of the night before with Lady Poynter. Barbara seemed chilled by uncongenial company, though she touched his hand on her way to the door and turned, with patent consciousness that she was being watched, to give him a parting smile. Mrs. Manisty also turned, before she could control her curiosity, to see for whom the smile was intended. And, as Eric threw away his match after lighting a cigar, he found two of the men smiling.
In the absence of a host to pull them together, six groups self-consciously set themselves to discover a subject of conversation more worthy of their steel than either the evening _communique_ or the port. The three alien pianists had reduced themselves to a Polish sculptor, an Irish novelist and a Scottish portrait-painter. By sitting next to the journalist, Eric saved himself the effort of talking and recuperated at leisure after the exhausting boredom of dinner. He had looked forward to seeing Barbara again, feeling disappointment that she was not in the big shadowy drawing-room when he arrived--(but she would come any moment)--and a little proprietory thrill of pleasure when she walked straight across the room to him. But her manner, her use of his Christian name--(and Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley knew that they had first met less than twenty-four hours ago)--her clear-voiced, unabashed habit of flirtation, the parting smile at the door. . . .
One of his neighbours interrupted the ill-humoured train of thought by introducing himself in a pleasant, soft brogue.
"Er, me name"s Sullivan, Mr. Lane. Ye know Priestley, I expect?
Priestley and I have been concocting a great scheme. I have a new book coming out in the spring and I"m wanting a girl"s head for the frontispiece. Well, since I saw Lady Barbara to-night, there"s only one head that will do for me. And Priestley"s the one man to do it.
Charcoal, ye know; a single sitting would be enough. Do ye think she would be willing?"
Eric smiled to hide his impatience.
"Why not ask her?" he suggested. "She"s fairly well-known, of course; everybody"d recognize it."
"Ah, don"t distress yourself! The book"s symbolical," Sullivan explained vaguely. "I was wondering now, would ye sound her? Priestley and I don"t know her, ye see. And, as ye"re a friend----"
"We"ll ask her, when we get upstairs," Eric answered.
Three tentative chords broke the silence overhead, and a woman"s voice began to sing.
"_b.u.t.terfly_," the journalist jerked out as though he were in the last heat of a compet.i.tion. "Second act, isn"t it? Where Madame b.u.t.terfly hears that Pinkerton"s ship has been sighted. I never think _b.u.t.terfly"s_ as bad as some of the high-brows try to make out. If you _like_ that sort of thing, I mean," he added prudently.
Eric held up his hand.
"_Please!_ I want to hear this."
"_One fine day, we"ll notice A thread of smoke arising on the sea In the far horizon, And then the ship appearing:-- Then the trim white vessel Glides into the harbour, thunders forth her cannon.
See you? He is coming!-- I do not go to meet him. Not I. I stay Upon the brow of the hillock and wait, and wait For a long time, but never weary Of the long waiting.
From out the crowded city, There is coming a man-- A little speck in the distance, climbing the hillock.
Can you guess who it is?
And when he"s reached the summit Can you guess what he"ll say?
He will call "b.u.t.terfly" from the distance.
I, without answering, Hold myself quietly concealed, A bit to tease him, and a bit so as not to die At our first meeting: and then, a little troubled, He will call, he will call: "Dear baby-wife of mine, dear little orange-blossom!"
The names he used to call me when he came here_. . . ."
Eric had allowed his cigar to go out. He lighted it again and turned to his neighbour with an apology, as the voice ceased and then seemed to revive with a last sob of ecstasy.
"She did that very well. Shall we go upstairs? I should like some more.
We can take our cigars with us."
Without waiting for an answer, he made for the door and hurried ahead of the others. The drawing-room was sombrely lighted by three low standard lamps which threw the upper half of the room into shadow. He stood for several moments with lips parted and shining eyes, trying to identify three scattered couples of women before reducing the figure at the piano, by elimination, to Barbara.
"I say, was that you?" he demanded.
She made way for him at her side, welcoming him with a chastened smile and wondering at his sudden enthusiasm.
"Did you like it? I"m so glad. I was beginning to think you were a craftsman, but I believe you"re an artist. . . . I"m full of accomplishments, Eric. Pity, isn"t it, that in _spite_ of it all----?"
She hesitated, wistfully provocative.
"What"s a pity?" he asked.
"What you were thinking; that I am _what_ I am."
"I wasn"t thinking that," he answered dreamily. "I was wondering if you"d sing again. We couldn"t hear you at all downstairs----"
"Enough to bring you up very quickly?"
He sighed with exasperation.
"Yes, if your vanity needs a sop. Was that why you sang?"
She shook her head at him wearily, and he saw undried tears on her cheeks.
"Marion just asked me to sing. It was either that or talking to Yolande Manisty, and I hate her. What would you like me to sing?"
Eric felt ashamed of his rasping harshness.
"I don"t know. That particular song always makes me cry. In spite of that," he looked at her, and smiled to himself. "No, I"m going to be very self-sacrificing. You said you wanted me to take you home, and I will--if you"ll come at once."
"But it"s not half-past nine yet."
"I don"t care. My dear child, d"you think I can"t see that you"re tired, ill, over-excited----"
"It makes the night so long, Eric! But--thank you! I was beginning to think you were a prig, but I believe you"re a saint!" The wistfulness left her eyes, and she smiled mischievously. "In moments of emotion how all our habits and practices break down! "My dear child," "My dear child," "D"you think I can"t see?" "My dear child," "Tired, ill, over-excited.""
"I"m sorry, Lady Barbara."
He tried to rise, but she pulled him back.
"You baby! Can"t I make fun of you _ever_? It meant so much--just that little change in your voice when you forgot to be inhuman. I prefer "dear child" to "Lady Barbara" any day. Do you find it so hard to be affectionate, Eric?"
"I haven"t tried. It would be impossible with you. I--I don"t understand you. When I was dressing for dinner----"
"You thought you did? I"m so glad you thought of me, when you were dressing for dinner; I"ve a sort of feeling that it"s not your practice to think of me when you"re dressing for dinner."
"I don"t imagine my affection makes any great difference in your life,"
he interrupted stiffly.
"Dear Eric, let me laugh at you sometimes! It"s good for you and it"s ever so good for me. It isn"t as if I"d laughed so very much lately. . . .
I _will_ come home and I"ll go _straight_ to bed. But--don"t be too hard on me, Eric."
Her voice was trembling, and her eyes had again filled with tears.