“It is nothing to you whether I agree with my husband or not,” said Jane with sudden fierceness.
“Not if you quarrel with him in private, as wellbred couples do. But when it occurs in my presence it makes me uncomfortable, and I object to being made uncomfortable.”
“You would not be here at all if I had not asked you.”
“Just think how dull the house would be without me, Jane!”
“Indeed! It was not dull before you came. Gertrude always behaved like a lady, at least.”
“I am sorry that her example was so utterly lost on you.”
“I won’t bear it,” said Jane with a sob and a plunge upon the sofa that made the lustres of the chandeliers rattle. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I had thought you could be so hateful. I will never ask you again.”
“I will make Sir Charles divorce you for incompatibility of temper and marry me. Then I shall have the place to myself.”
“He can’t divorce me for that, thank goodness. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Agatha laughed. “Come,” she said goodhumoredly, “don’t be an old ass, Jane. Wash your face before anyone sees it, and remember what I have told you about Sir Charles.”
“It is very hard to be called an ass in one’s own house.”
“It is harder to be treated as one, like your husband. I am going to look for him in the billiard room.”
Jane ran after her, and caught her by the sleeve.
“Agatha,” she pleaded, “promise me that you won’t be mean. Say that you won’t make love to him.”
“I will consider about it,” replied Agatha gravely.
Jane uttered a groan and sank into a chair, which creaked at the shock. Agatha turned on the threshold, and seeing her shaking her head, pressing her eyes, and tapping with her heel in a restrained frenzy, said quickly,
“Here are the Waltons, and the Fitzgeorges, and Mr. Trefusis coming upstairs. How do you do, Mrs. Walton? Lady Brandon will be SO glad to see you. Good-evening, Mr. Fitzgeorge.”
Jane sprang up, wiped her eyes, and, with her hands on her hair, smoothing it, rushed to a mirror. No visitors appearing, she perceived that she was, for perhaps the hundredth time in her life, the victim of an imposture devised by Agatha. She, gratified by the success of her attempt to regain her old ascendancy over Jane — she had made it with misgiving, notwithstanding her apparent confidence — went downstairs to the library, where she found Sir Charles gloomily trying to drown his domestic troubles in art criticism.
“I thought you were in the billiard room,” said Agatha.
“I only peeped in,” he replied; “but as I saw something particular going on, I thought it best to slip away, and I have been alone ever since.”
The something particular which Sir Charles had not wished to interrupt was only a game of billiards.
It was the first opportunity Erskine had ever enjoyed of speaking to Gertrude at leisure and alone. Yet their conversation had never been so commonplace. She, liking the game, played very well and chatted indifferently; he played badly, and broached trivial topics in spite of himself. After an hour-and-a-half’s play, Gertrude had announced that this game must be their last. He thought desperately that if he were to miss many more strokes the game must presently end, and an opportunity which might never recur pass beyond recall. He determined to tell her without preface that he adored her, but when he opened his lips a question came forth of its own accord relating to the Persian way of playing billiards. Gertrude had never been in Persia, but had seen some Eastern billiard cues in the India museum. Were not the Hindoos wonderful people for filigree work, and carpets, and such things? Did he not think the crookedness of their carpet patterns a blemish? Some people pretended to admire them, but was not that all nonsense? Was not the modern polished floor, with a rug in the middle, much superior to the old carpet fitted into the corners of the room? Yes. Enormously superior. Immensely —
“Why, what are you thinking of to-day, Mr. Erskine? You have played with my ball.”
“I am thinking of you.”
“What did you say?” said Gertrude, not catching the serious turn he had given to the conversation, and poising her cue for a stroke. “Oh! I am as bad as you; that was the worst stroke I ever made, I think. I beg your pardon; you said something just now.”
“I forget. Nothing of any consequence.” And he groaned at his own cowardice.
“Suppose we stop,” she said. “There is no use in finishing the game if our hands are out. I am rather tired of it.”
“Certainly — if you wish it.”
“I will finish if you like.”
“Not at all. What pleases you, pleases me.”
Gertrude made him a little bow, and idly knocked the balls about with her cue. Erskine’s eyes wandered, and his lip moved irresolutely. He had settled with himself that his declaration should be a frank one — heart to heart. He had pictured himself in the act of taking her hand delicately, and saying, “Gertrude, I love you. May I tell you so again?” But this scheme did not now seem practicable.
“Miss Lindsay.”
Gertrude, bending over the table, looked up in alarm.
“The present is as good an opportunity as I will — as I shall — as I will.”
“Shall,” said Gertrude.
“I beg your pardon?”
“SHALL,” repeated Gertrude. “Did you ever study the doctrine of necessity?”
“The doctrine of necessity?” he said, bewildered.
Gertrude went to the other side of the table in pursuit of a ball. She now guessed what was coming, and was willing that it should come; not because she intended to accept, but because, like other young ladies experienced in such scenes, she counted the proposals of marriage she received as a Red Indian counts the scalps he takes.
“We have had a very pleasant time of it here,” he said, giving up as inexplicable the relevance of the doctrine of necessity. “At least, I have.”
“Well,” said Gertrude, quick to resent a fancied allusion to her private discontent, “so have I.”
“I am glad of that — more so than I can convey by words.”
“Is it any business of yours?” she said, following the disagreeable vein he had unconsciously struck upon, and suspecting pity in his efforts to be sympathetic.
“I wish I dared hope so. The happiness of my visit has been due to you entirely.”
“Indeed,” said Gertrude, wincing as all the hard things Trefusis had told her of herself came into her mind at the heels of Erskine’s unfortunate allusion to her power of enjoying herself.
“I hope I am not paining you,” he said earnestly.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said, standing erect with sudden impatience. “You seem to think that it is very easy to pain me.”
“No,” he said timidly, puzzled by the effect he had produced. “I fear you misunderstand me. I am very awkward. Perhaps I had better say no more.” Gertrude, by turning away to put up her cue, signified that that was a point for him to consider; she not intending to trouble herself about it. When she faced him again, he was motionless and dejected, with a wistful expression like that of a dog that has proffered a caress and received a kick. Remorse, and a vague sense that there was something base in her attitude towards him, overcame her. She looked at him for an instant