“It is not a very honest world, I grant you,” said Lady Geraldine quietly, “but it is not so bad as you think. Young people quarrel with it because it will not permit them to be heroic in season and out of season. You have made a mistake; and you want to be heroic out of season on the strength, or rather the weakness of that mistake. I, who know you well, do not suppose, as Belle Saunders does, that you are consciously making a virtue of a necessity; but I think there is a little spiritual pride in your resolution not to be betrayed into reproaching Adrian. In fact, all Quixotism is tainted with spiritual vainglory; and that is the reason that no one likes it, or even admires it heartily, in real life. Besides, my dear, nobody really cares a bit how Adrian behaved or how you behaved: they only care about the facts; and the facts, I must say, are plain enough. You and Adrian were unwise enough to enter into a long engagement. You got tired of one another — wait till I have finished; and then protest your fill. Adrian went behind your back and proposed to another woman, who was more honorable than he, and refused to let him smuggle her into your place. Then, instead of coming to demand his freedom straightforwardly, he came to fish for it — to entrap you into offering it to him; and he succeeded. The honest demand came from you instead of from him.”
“But I fished, too,” said Mary, piteously. “I was only honest when he drove me to it.”
“Of course,” said Lady Geraldine, impatiently. “You are not an angel; and the sooner you reconcile yourself to the few failings which you share with the rest of us, the happier you will be. None of us are honest in such matters except when our conscience drives us to it. The honestest people are only those who feel the constraint soonest and strongest. If you had held out a little longer, Adrian might have forestalled you. I say he might; but, in my opinion, he would most probably fastened a quarrel on you — about Jack or somebody else — and got out of his engagement that way.”
“Oh, no; for he spoke about Mr Jack, and said expressly that he did not mind him at all; but that if he had brought about any change in my feelings, I need not feel bound by the eng — There: I know that is additional proof of his faithlessness in your eyes.”
“It is a proof of what a thorough fool a man must be, to expect you to take such a bait. Please release me, Mr Herbert, that I may gratify my fancy for Mr Jack.’ That is such a likely thing for a woman to say!”
“I hope you are not in earnest about Mr Jack, Lady Geraldine.”
“I am not pleased about him, Mary. These friendships stand in a girl’s way. Of course I know you are not in love with him — at least, accustomed as I am to the folly of men and women about one another, even I cannot conceive such infatuation; but, Mary, do not flourish your admiration for his genius (I suppose he has genius) in the faces of other men.”
“I will go back to Windsor, and get clear of Mr Jack and Mr Herbert both. I wish people would mind their own business.”
“They never do, dear. But it is time for us to go. Have I dashed your spirits very much?”
“Not at all,” replied Mary absently.
“Then, if you are quite gay, you need not object to come somewhere with me this evening.”
“You mean to go out somewhere? I cannot, Lady Geraldine. I should only be a wet blanket. I am not in the vein for society to-day. Thank you, all the same, for trying to rescue me from my own thoughts.”
“Nonsense, Mary. You must come. It is only to the theatre. Mrs Herbert and we two will make a quiet party. After what has passed you cannot meet her too soon; and I know she is anxious to shew that she does not mean to take Adrian’s part against you.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that. So far from it, that I am afraid Adrian will think I am going to her to complain of him. There,” she added, seeing that this last doubt was too much for Lady Geraldine’s patience; “I will come. I know I am very hard to please; but indeed I did not feel in the humor for theatregoing.”
“You will be ready at half-past seven?”
Mary consented; sighed; and left the conservatory dejectedly with Lady Geraldine, who, on returning to the drawingroom had another conference with Mrs Herbert.
Meanwhile Jack, after chatting a while with Mrs Saunders, prepared to depart. He had put off his afternoon’s work in order to be at Mr Phipson’s disposal; and he felt indolent and morally lax in consequence, stopping as he made his way to the door, to speak to several ladies who seldom received even a nod from him. On the stairs he met the youngest Miss Phipson; and he lingered a while to chat with her. He then went down to the hall, and was about to leave the house when he heard his name pronounced sweetly behind him. He turned and saw Lady Geraldine at whom he gazed in unconcealed surprise.
“I forgot to thank you for your timely aid in the conservatory,” she said, in her most gracious manner. “I wonder whether you will allow me to ask for another and greater favor.”
“What is it?” said Jack, suspiciously.
“Mrs Herbert,” replied Lady Geraldine, with a polite simulation of embarrassment,” is going to make use of my box at the theatre this evening; and she and has asked Miss Sutherland there. We are very anxious that you should accompany us, if you have no important engagement. As I am the nominal owner of the box, may I beg you to come with us.”
Jack was not satisfied. The invitation was unaccountable to him, as he knew perfectly well what Lady Geraldine thought of him. Instead of answering, he stood looking at her in a perplexity which expressed itself unconsciously in hideous grimaces.
“Will you allow me to send my carriage to your house,” she said, when the pause became unbearable.
“Yes. No. I’ll join you at the theatre. Will that do?”
Lady Geraldine, resenting his manner, put strong constraint on herself, as, with careful courtesy she told him the name of the theatre and the hour of the performance. He listened to her attentively, but gave no sign of assent. When she had finished speaking, he looked absently up the staircase; shewed his teeth; and hammered a tune on his chin with the edge of his hat. The strain on Lady Geraldine’s forbearance became very great indeed.
“May we depend on your coming?” she said at last.
“Why do you want me to come?” he exclaimed suddenly. “You don’t like me.”
Lady Geraldine drew back a step. Then, losing patience, she said sharply, “What answer do you expect me to make to that, Mr. Jack?”
“None,” said he with mock gravity. “It is unanswerable. From Capharsalama on eagle wings I fly.” And after making her another bow, he left the house chuckling. As he disappeared, Mrs Herbert came downstairs and joined Lady Geraldine.
“Well,” she said. “Is Mary to be made happy at our expense?”
“Yes,” said Lady Geraldine. “I bearded the monster here, and got what I deserved for my pains. The man is a savage.”
“I told you what to expect.”
“That did not make it a bit pleasanter. You had better come and dine with me. Sir John is going to Greenwich; and we may as well enjoy ourselves together up to the last moment.”
That evening Mary Sutherland reluctantly accompanied Mrs Herbert and Lady Geraldine to the theatre, to witness the first performance in England of a newly translated French drama. When she had been a few minutes seated in their box, she was surprised by the entry of Jack, whose black silk kerchief, which he persisted in wearing instead of a necktie, was secured with a white pin, shewing that he had dressed himself with unusual care.
“Mr Jack!” exclaimed Mary.
“Just so, Mr Jack,” he said, hanging his only hat, which had suffered much from wet weather and bad