"Monster!" she said. "Come this way." And she led him down the tunnel to the bedroom. There, in a corner of the bathroom, stood an antique closed toilet-stand, such as was used by men in the days before splashing and sousing were invented. She had removed it from the drawing-room.
"Open it," she commanded.
He obeyed. Its little compartments, which had been empty, were filled with a man"s toilet instruments--brushes, file, scissors, shaving-soap (his own brand), a safety-razor, &c. The set was complete. She had known exactly the requirements.
"It is a little present from thy woman," she said. "In future thou wilt have no excuse--Sit down. Marie!"
"Madame?"
"Take off the boots of Monsieur."
Marie knelt.
Christine found the new slippers.
"And now this!" she said, after he had washed and used the new brushes, producing a black house-jacket with velvet collar and cuffs.
"How tired thou must be after thy day!" she murmured, patting him with tiny pats.
"Thou knowest, my little one," she said, pointing to the gas-stove in the bedroom fireplace. "For the other rooms a gas-stove--I am indifferent. But the bedroom is something else. The bedroom is sacred.
I could not tolerate a gas-stove in the bedroom. A coal fire is necessary to me. You do not think so?"
"Yes," he said. "You are quite right. It shall be seen to."
"Can I give the order? Thou permittest me to give the order?"
"Certainly."
In the drawing-room she cushioned him well in the best easy-chair, and, sitting down on a pouf near him, began to knit like an industrious wife who understands the seriousness of war. Nothing escaped the attention of that man. He espied the telegram.
"What"s that?"
"Ah!" she cried, springing up and giving it to him. "Stupid that I am!
I forgot."
He looked at the address.
"How did this come here?" he asked mildly.
"Marie brought it--from the Albany."
"Oh!"
He opened the telegram and read it, having dropped the envelope into the silk-lined, gilded waste-paper basket by the fender.
"It is nothing serious?" she questioned.
"No. Business."
He might have shown it to her--he had shown her telegrams before--but he stuck it into his pocket. Then, without a word to Christine, he rang the bell, and Marie appeared.
"Marie! The telegram--why did you bring it here?"
"Monsieur, it was like this. I went to monsieur"s flat to fetch two ap.r.o.ns that I had left there. The telegram was on the console in the ante-chamber. Knowing that monsieur was to come direct here, I brought it."
"Does Mrs. Braiding know you brought it?"
"Ah! As for Mrs. Braiding, monsieur--"
Marie stopped, disclaiming any responsibility for Mrs. Braiding, of whom she was somewhat jealous. "I thought to do well."
"I am sure of it. But surely you can see you have been indiscreet.
Don"t do it again."
"No, monsieur. I ask pardon of monsieur."
Immediately afterwards he said to Christine in a gay, careless tone:
"And this gas-stove here? Is it all right? Have we tried it? Let us try it."
"The weather is warm, dearest."
"But just to try it. I always like to satisfy myself--in time."
"Fusser!" she exclaimed, and ignited the stove.
He gazed at it absently, then picked up a cigarette and, taking the telegram from his pocket, folded it into a spill and with it lit the cigarette.
"Yes," he said meditatively. "It seems not a bad stove." And he held the spill till it had burnt to his finger-ends. Then he extinguished the stove.
She said to herself:
"He has burned the telegram on purpose. But how cleverly he did it!
Ah! That man! There is none but him!"
She was disquieted about the telegram. She feared it. Her superst.i.tiousness was awakened. She thought of her apostasy from Catholicism to Protestantism. She thought of a Holy Virgin angered.
And throughout the evening and throughout the night, amid her smiles and teasings and coaxings and caresses and ecstasies and all her accomplished, voluptuous girlishness, the image of a resentful Holy Virgin flitted before her. Why should he burn a business telegram?
Also, was he not at intervals a little absent-minded?
Chapter 40
THE WINDOW
G.J. sat on the oilcloth-covered seat of the large overhanging open bay-window. Below him was the river, tributary of the Severn; in front the Old Bridge, with an ancient street rising beyond, and above that the silhouette of the roofs of Wrikton surmounted by the spire of its vast church. To the left was the weir, and the cliffs were there also, and the last tints of the sunset.