'But,' continued Bruce, 'because I think you pretty, it doesn't follow that I think everybody else is hideous. I tell you that straight from the shoulder, and I must say this for you, dear, I've never seen any sign of jealousy on your part.'

'I'd show it soon enough if I felt it--if I thought I'd any cause,'

said Edith; 'but I didn't think I had.'

Bruce gave a rather fatuous smile. 'Oh, go and get ready, my dear,' he answered. 'Don't let's talk nonsense. Who's going to be there tonight, do you know?'

'Oh, only Lady Everard and Vincy.'

'Lady Everard is a nice woman. You're going to that musical thing of hers, I suppose?'

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'It's in the afternoon, and it's not very easy for me to get away in the afternoon, but to please you, I'll take you--see? I loathe music (except musical comedies), and I think if ever there was a set of appalling rotters--I feel inclined to knock them off the music-stool the way they go on at Lady Everard's--at the same time, some of them are very cultured and intelligent chaps, and _she's_ a very charming woman. One can't get in a word edgeways, but _when_ one does--well, she listens, and laughs at one's jokes, and that sort of thing. I think I'm rather glad you're not musical, Edith, it takes a woman away from her husband.'

'Not musical! Oh dear! I thought I was,' said Edith.

'Oh, anyhow, not when I'm here, so it doesn't matter. Besides, your being appreciative and that sort of thing is very nice. Look what a social success you've had at the Everards', for instance, through listening and understanding these things; it is not an accomplishment to throw away. No, Edith dear, I should tell you, if you would only listen to me, to keep up your music, but you won't and there's an end of it...That souffle was really very good. Cook's improving. For a plain little cook like that, with such small wages, and no kitchenmaid, she does quite well.'

'Oh yes, she's not bad,' said Edith. She knew that if Bruce had been aware the cook's remuneration was adequate he would not have enjoyed his dinner.

They were in the box in the pretty theatre. Lady Everard, very smart in black, sparkling with diamonds, was already there with Aylmer. Vincy had not arrived.

The house was crammed to the ceiling. Gay, electrical music of exhilarating futility was being played by the orchestra. The scene consisted of model cottages; a chorus of pretty girls in striped cotton were singing. The heroine came on; she was well known for her smile, which had become public property on picture post-cards and the Obosh bottles. She was dressed as a work-girl also, but in striped silk with a real lace ap.r.o.n and a few diamonds. Then the hero arrived. He wore a red shirt, brown boots, and had a tenor voice. He explained an interesting little bit of the plot, which included an eccentric will and other novelties. The humorous dandy of the play was greeted with shouts of joy by the chorus and equal enthusiasm by the audience. He agreed to change places with the hero, who wished to give up one hundred and forty thousand pounds a year to marry the heroine.

'Very disinterested,' murmured Lady Everard. 'Very nice of him, I'm sure. It isn't many people that would do a thing like that. A nice voice, too. Of course, this is not what _I_ call good music, but it's very bright in its way, and the words--I always think these words are so clever. So witty. Listen to them--do listen to them, dear Mrs Ottley.'

They listened to the beautiful words sung, of which the refrain ran as follows:--

'The Author told the Actor, (The Actor had a fit).

The Box Office man told the Programme-girl, The Theatre all was in quite a whirl.

The call-boy told the Chorus.

(Whatever could it be?) The super asked the Manager, What did the Censor see?'

'Charming,' murmured Lady Everard; 'brilliant--I know his father so well.'

'Whose father--the censor's?'

'Oh, the father of the composer--a very charming man. When he was young he used to come to my parties--my Wednesdays. I used to have Wednesdays then. I don't have Wednesdays now. I think it better to telephone at the last minute any particular day for my afternoons because, after all, you never know when the artists one wants are disengaged, does one? You're coming on Wednesday to hear Paul La France sing, dear Mrs Ottley?'

Edith smiled and nodded a.s.sent, trying to stop the incessant trickle of Lady Everard's leaking conversation. She loved theatres, and she enjoyed hearing every word, which was impossible while there was more dialogue in the box than on the stage; also, Aylmer was sitting behind her.

The comic lady now came on; there were shrieks of laughter at her unnecessary and irrelevant green boots and crinoline and c.o.c.kney accent. She proposed to marry the hero, who ran away from her. There was more chorus; and the curtain fell.

In the interval Vincy arrived. He and Bruce went into the little salon behind the box. Lady Everard joined them there. Edith and Aylmer looked round the house. The audience at the Society Theatre is a special one; as at the plays in which the favourite actor-managers and _jeunes premiers_ perform there are always far more women than men, at this theatre there are always far more men than women.

The stage box opposite our friends was filled with a party of about ten men.

'It looks like a jury,' said Edith. 'Perhaps it is.' 'Probably a board of directors,' said Aylmer.

The first two rows of the stalls were princ.i.p.ally occupied by middle-aged and rather elderly gentlemen. Many had grey moustaches and a military bearing. Others were inclined to be stout, with brilliant exuberant manners and very dark hair that simply wouldn't lie flat.

There were a great many parties made up like those of our friends--of somebody in love with somebody, surrounded by chaperons. These were the social people, and also there were a certain number of young men with pretty women who were too fashionably dressed, too much made up, and who were looking forward too much to supper. These ladies seemed inclined to crab the play, and to find unimportant little faults with the unimportant actresses. There were many Americans--who took it seriously; and altogether one could see it was an immense success; in other words everyone had paid for their seats...

The play was over; Aylmer had not had a word with Edith. He was going away the next day, and he asked them all to supper. Of course he drove Edith, and Lady Everard took the other two in her motor....

'You're an angel if you've forgiven me,' he said, as they went out.

CHAPTER XIII

The Supper-party

'Have you forgiven me?' he asked anxiously, as soon as they were in the dark shelter of the cab.

'Yes, oh yes. Please don't let's talk about it any more... What time do you start tomorrow?'

'You think I ought to go then?'

'You say so.'

'But you'd rather I remained here; rather we should go on as we are--wouldn't you?'

'Well, you know I should never have dreamt of suggesting you should go away. I like you to be here.'

'At any cost to me? No, Edith; I can't stand it. And since I've told you it's harder. Your knowing makes it harder.'

'I should have thought that if you liked anyone so _very_ much, you would want to see them all the time, as much as possible, always--even with other people...anything rather than not see them--be away altogether. At least, that's how I should feel.'

'No doubt you would; that's a woman's view. And besides, you see, you don't care!'

'The more I cared, the less I should go away, I think.'

'But, haven't I tried? And I can't bear it. You don't know how cruel you are with your sweetness, Edith...Oh, put yourself in my place! How do you suppose I feel when I've been with you like this, near you, looking at you, delighting in you the whole evening--and then, after supper, you go away with Bruce? _You've_ had a very pleasant evening, no doubt; it's all right for you to feel you've got me, as you know you have--and with no fear, no danger. Yes, you enjoy it!'

'Oh, Aylmer!'

He saw in the half-darkness that her eyes looked reproachful.

'I didn't mean it. I'm sorry--I'm always being sorry.' His bitter tone changed to gentleness. 'I want to speak to you now, Edith. We haven't much time. Don't take away your hand a minute....I always told you, didn't I, that the atmosphere round you is so clear that I feel with you I'm in the Palace of Truth? You're so _real_. You're the only woman I ever met who really cared for truth. You're not afraid of it; and you're as straight and honourable as a man! I don't mean you can't diplomatise if you choose, of course, and better than anyone; but it isn't your nature to deceive yourself, nor anyone else. I recognise that in you. I love it. And that's why I can't pretend or act with you; I must be frank.'

'Please, do be frank.'

'I love you. I'm madly in love with you. I adore you.'

Aylmer stopped, deeply moved at the sound of his own words. Few people realise the effect such words have on the speaker. Saying them to her was a great joy, and an indulgence, but it increased painfully his pa.s.sionate feeling, making it more accentuated and acute. To let himself go verbally was a wild, bitter pleasure. It hurt him, and he enjoyed it.