The Gay Adventure: A Romance
brought it, with a pout of resentment, and as she handed it to him
discovered a fly on his collar. This she was allowed to remove with the
most absolute decorum; but when the operation was finished and she
smiled persuasively, he stroked her hair paternally and said, "You must
not be foolish, my child." Mizzi retired with a heightened color, and he
sat down with satisfaction to the cricket reports and deviled kidneys.
To tell the truth, in spite of his arguments he felt slightly ashamed of
the momentary swerve from loyalty.
His hostess appeared in due course, looking exceedingly pretty and
self-possessed. She was dressed smartly in blue, a color that contrasted
favorably with her hair and eyes. Lionel thrilled with gladness at the
sight of her, for in brief moments of doubt he had thought that perhaps
his imagination had played tricks: the night and artificial lights might
possibly have lent her a fascination that would pass with the dawn.
Could there indeed be so delightful a creature in London? These doubts,
it must be insisted, had been exceedingly brief; still, they had had
existence, and the joy of seeing them dissolve like frost in sunlight
made life more desirable than ever.
There was no embarrassment at the meeting. Both were highly civilized,
educated, up-to-date; with a kindred instinct of what to admit or
ignore, a knowledge of the times when silence or speech was best. The
lady made no reference to the _impasse_ of the night before, and Lionel
was too full of the present to dwell churlishly on the past. Instead,
they talked cheerfully of trivialities for a time, and then Miss Blair
announced her intention of going out to do some shopping. "I will not
ask you to come with me," she observed smiling, "for I can guess how
bored you would be. But I shall be with you again for lunch. For the
present, au revoir."
Lionel, who would cheerfully have carried a score of parcels or
hat-boxes for the pleasure of her company, had no choice but to
acquiesce. There was no pressing reason for returning to his
lodgings--indeed, there was every reason for staying away until he could
earn some money. True, there was no immediate prospect of acquiring any;
but at least he was in the middle of an interesting experience, and he
had promised to help in a burglary. So with a fine disregard of
circumstances he chose the most comfortable armchair and the lightest
novel he could find, and put the cigarette-box within easy reach. Thus
he passed an unprofitable but pleasant morning.
Miss Blair returned soon after one o'clock, and they had lunch together.
In the afternoon they went for a drive in a hired motor to Thames
Ditton. They stopped there for tea and got back to Bloomsbury about
seven. Lionel was put down at the flat and Miss Blair went on to the
theater, from which she returned late at night. Supper followed, and
then they smoked and chatted for half an hour before going to bed.
Lionel had expected to hear more of the conspiracy and projected felony,
but nothing was said. Wherefore he kept silence, awaited events, and
went to sleep, wondering whether a farce or tragedy was being played.
This uneventful life went on for several days, during which he had
plenty of time to study his hostess. He learned nothing more than he
knew already. A brilliant and charming personality, grave or humorous as
occasion demanded, apparently sincere in her conviction of a great
conspiracy, devoted to her absent husband, resolute to strike when
opportunity offered--such was Beatrice Blair. When he was in her company
he could not doubt her; alone, he could not help wondering what this
Arabian Night might mean. The utter fantasy of it all bewildered him,
but even if false he could not conceive her motive. In the end he
usually came back to the conclusion that the apparently absurd was true,
and always that at all costs he would see it through to the end.
Her attitude to him was that of a gay comrade. There were no more
"gratitude" kisses--no hint of danger. She had referred only once again
to his act of stopping the runaway horse and her wish to do something to
show her thankfulness. This he had laughed at; now that the opportunity
had come he was loath to use it; but in a subsequent conversation she
had learned that he had written several plays, all unacted, perhaps even
unread. One lay at that moment in the office of Ashford Billing, a
prominent manager; she knew him, and promised to spur him to read
Lionel's play himself. Lionel thanked her, but did not build any castles
on so flimsy a foundation. He had been knocking at managers' doors too
many years to have any illusions.
So day followed day without anything to break the pleasant monotony.
Lionel and Beatrice were rapidly cementing a friendship that was more
than a friendship to him. Only the remembrance of Lukos kept him from
showing something more of his real feelings--the remembrance of Lukos
and the aloof friendliness of Beatrice herself. There was but one fly in
the amber of that perfect week, and that was the attitude of Mizzi.
Since the morning after his arrival Mizzi had waited on him with an air
of courteous disapproval. She had been as polite as ever, as demure and
piquant as could be wished, but she had been less communicative, less
_sympathique_ with the stranger. Even in the presence of her mistress
there was a suggestion of frigidity that was galling to a sensitive man.
Lionel grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had been a little to blame,
but, illogically enough, he resented the atmosphere of respectful
condemnation. More than once he had tried to dissipate the unhappy
misunderstanding, to restore things to a more friendly--but not too
friendly--footing. In this he had not been successful. To his cheerful
and carefully composed commonplaces Mizzi made the briefest of answers,
and on one occasion there had been a distinct toss of the head and an
unmistakable sniff. "Women are so unreasonable," he said to himself
complainingly, after a sustained effort that fell flat; then with a pang
of compunction, "Some women, I mean. I do wish Mizzi would be
sensible.... It is very trying."
Matters came to a head after he had been Miss Blair's guest for nearly a
week. It was a Saturday, and his hostess went to the theater directly
after lunch to get ready for the matinee. Lionel, provided with one of
her cards, was to follow her and see the play, for as yet he had not
watched her on the stage. The experience proved delightful, for the play
was good and her acting excellent. After it was over he went back to the
flat alone, for she meant to rest in her dressing-room until the evening
performance.
Mizzi opened the door to Lionel, and when he asked her to bring tea she
said, "Immediately, m'sieur," in the most correct of tones. Disapproval
still hung heavily about her, mixed, as it seemed, with something of
compassion. Her attitude was almost that of a perfect mother to a
well-meaning but erring child. "Hang it!" thought Lionel, as he waited
in the sitting-room, "she has no business to behave like this. I have a
good mind ... a jolly good mind to..." He fell into a reverie and
gloomily whistled the opening bars of Chopin's _Marche Funebre_.
Presently the maid brought in tea. She set the tray on a little table,
placed a cake-stand within easy reach, paused to make sure she had
forgotten nothing, and then asked, "Is there anything more, m'sieur?"
Lionel, who had come to a resolution while waiting, roused himself.
"Yes," he said decisively, "there is. Will you be kind enough Mizzi, to
tell me why you surround me with the wet-blanket of your wrath? It is
very depressing to a sunny nature."
Mizzi looked at him with a frank pity in her eyes. "It is because I am
sorry," she replied.
"That is no explanation," said Lionel briskly, glad to perceive a thaw,
however slight. "Why are you sorry?"
"Because you are a fool," observed Mizzi with a gentle pensiveness.
Lionel started; he had not expected this. To be called a fool by a
friend of one's own age and sex is an every-day matter that causes no
uneasiness. To be called a fool by a withered graybeard need not leave a
sting, for there is the comfortable reflection that the graybeard may be
repeating a mere formula, and that he, too, enjoyed being a fool in his
day. To be called a fool by a youthful enemy is only to be expected, and
the epithet betrays a palpable lack of judgment in the user, an epithet
that returns like a boomerang upon himself. But to be called a fool by
a pretty woman is a distinct ordeal. Lionel was shaken.
He contrived to compass a laugh. It was not an infectious cachinnation,
but still it was a laugh. "Will you tell me why I am a fool?" he asked
in a moment.
"Certainly," said Mizzi, still in the same gentle tone. "It is because
you are the slave of my mistress."
"Excuse me," said Lionel politely, "but I have no wish to discuss her.
You may go."
At this the maid lost some of her admirable self-control. "Bah!" she
cried, "you are the same as the rest! Show a man a pretty face and a
pair of dazzling eyes, and he is blinded! You think her perfect----"
"I know she is," he interrupted, "though why I should trouble to say so
to a servant----"
The thrust was cruel, but he felt she had deserved it.
"A servant!" she repeated, sparkling with anger. "A servant! Yes, it is
true--but an honest true woman that knows not how to tell lies like her
mistress----"
"That is enough," said Lionel, taking her with a gentle firmness by the
arm. "My tea, I fear, must be getting cold."
As soon as he touched her the virago subsided. She made not the least
resistance as he led her to the door. But as he was opening it she
looked up with appealing eyes. "Ah, monsieur!" she whispered piteously;
but he was in no mood to be melted. He shut the door upon her, and did
not see the rainbow of smiles that played over her face the moment she
was in safety.
"She is jealous," mused Lionel, pouring out a cup of tea; "I did not
think she would have been so silly."
He wagged his head sadly over the frailty of human nature, and then an
unpleasant thought struck him--the accusation of her mistress. "Lies"
had been the charge--an ugly word--and on the face of things somewhat
plausible. Again he reviewed the arguments for the defense--the lack of
all apparent motive for deceit, his uselessness from a blackmailer's
standpoint, and the rest,--and the strength of them gave him fresh
courage. The strongest argument of all, the remembrance of Beatrice
herself, almost clenched the matter. _Almost_, for he was cautious, and
had some knowledge of the world. Still, he was young and hopeful, and
the obvious jealousy of Mizzi was an additional reason for discounting
her assertions. "Lies or not," he concluded, "it is too amusing to let
slip. Besides, she is such a dear...."
The object of his devoted suspicion returned soon after eleven that
night, a little tired, but full of kindliness and mirth. "Oh!" she
cried, as she entered the room, "I hope you haven't waited supper for
me. If so, you must be ravenous----"
"Of course I waited," said Lionel. "Shall I ring?"
"But why hasn't Mizzi set supper?" asked Beatrice, pausing in the act of
taking off her hat.
"I don't know," said Lionel carelessly. "It is true we had a slight
difference, but surely----"
She caught up his words. "A difference! with my maid!"
Lionel cursed his stupidity in silence. The unlucky words had slipped
from his mouth unheeding. He stood dumb.
"What was the difference about?" asked Beatrice frigidly. "Did you try
to kiss her?"
At this stroke of feminine intuition Lionel felt himself to be in deep
waters. He was no lover of lies, and to this peerless creature a lie
would be doubly treacherous. On the other hand, something was due to