CHAPTER XVI

To Edith's joy, as they entered the Mitch.e.l.l's huge, familiar drawing-room, the first person she saw was her beloved confidant, Sir t.i.to Landi. This was the friend of all others whom she most longed to see at this particular moment.

The extraordinary confidence and friendship between the successful Italian composer and Edith Ottley needs, perhaps, a word of explanation.

He was adored equally in the artistic and the social worlds, and was at once the most cynical of Don Juans and the most unworldly of Don Quixotes. He was a devoted and grateful friend, and a contemptuous but not unforgetful enemy.

It was not since his celebrity that Edith had first met him; she had known him intimately all her life. From her earliest childhood she had, so to speak, been brought up on Landi; on Landi's music and Landi's views of life. He had been her mother's music teacher soon after he first made a name in London; and long before he was the star whose singing or accompanying was a rare favour, and whose presence gave a cachet to any entertainment.

How many poor Italians--yes, and many people of other nationalities--had reason to bless his acquaintance! How kind, how warm-hearted, how foolishly extravagant on others was Landi! His brilliant cleverness, which made him received almost as an Englishman among English people, was not, however, the cleverness of the _arriviste_. Although he had succeeded, and success was his object, no one could be less self-interested, less pushing, less scheming. In many things he was a child. He would as soon dine at Pagani's with a poor sculptor, or a poor and plain woman who was struggling to give lessons in Italian, as with the most brilliant hostess in London. And he always found fashion and ceremony a bore. He was so great a favourite in England that he had been given that most English of t.i.tles, a knighthood, just as though he were very rich, or political, or a popular actor. In a childish way it amused him, and he was pleased with it. But though he was remarkable for his courtly tact, he loved most of all to be absolutely free and Bohemian, to be quite natural among really sympathetic, witty, or beautiful friends. He liked to say what he thought, to go where he wished, and to make love when he chose, not when other people chose. He had long been a man with an a.s.sured position, but he had changed little since he was twenty-one, and arrived from Naples with only his talent, his bright blue eyes, his fair complexion, his small, dignified figure and his daring humour. Yet the music he wrote indicated his sensitive and deeply feeling nature, and though his conversation could hardly be called other than cynical, nor his jokes puritanical, there was always in him a vein of genuine--not sentimental, but perhaps romantic--love and admiration for everything good; good in music, good in art, good in character. He laid down no rules of what was good. 'Tout savoir c'est tout pardonner'

was perhaps his motto. But he was very unexpected; that was one of his charms. He would pa.s.s over the most extraordinary things--envious slights, small injuries, things another man would never forgive. On the other hand, he retained a bitter memory, not at all without its inclination for repayment, for other trifles that many would disregard.

Ever since she was a child Edith had been his special favourite. He loved the privilege of calling her Edith, of listening to her confidences, of treating her with loving familiarity. It was a joke between them that, while he used formerly to say, 'Cette enfant! Je l'ai vue en jupe courte, vous savez!' he had gradually reached the point of declaring, 'Je l'ai vue naitre!' almost with tears in his eyes.

This explains why Landi was the only creature to whom Edith could tell everything, and did. Must not all nice people have a confidant? And no girl or woman friend--much as they might like her, and she them--could ever take the place of Landi, the wise and ever-sympathetic.

There was something in his mental att.i.tude that was not unfeminine, direct and a.s.sertive as he was. He had what is generally known as feminine intuition, a quality perhaps even rarer in women than in men.

Tonight the persistently hospitable Mrs Mitch.e.l.l had a large party.

Dressed in grey, she was receiving her guests in the big room on the ground floor, and tactfully directing the conversation of a crowd of various and more or less interesting persons.

It was one of those parties that had been described as a Russian Salad, where one ran an equal risk--or took an equal chance--of being taken to dinner by Charlie Chaplin or Winston Churchill, and where society and the stage were equally well represented. Young officers on leave and a few pretty girls filled the vacancies.

As Bruce, Edith and Madame Frabelle came in together, Landi went straight to Edith's side.

Looking at her through his eyegla.s.s, he said, as if to himself, in an anxious tone:

'Elle a quelquechose, cette enfant; oui, elle a quelquechose,' and as the last guest had not arrived he sat down thoughtfully by her on the small sofa.

'Yes, Landi, there is something the matter. I'm longing to tell you about it. I want your advice,' said Edith, smiling.

'Tout se sait; tout se fait; tout s'arrange,' sententiously remarked Landi, who was not above talking oracular commonplaces at times.

'Oh, it isn't one of those things, Landi.'

'Not? Are you sure? Don't be sad, Edith. Be cheerful. Tiens! Tiens!

Tiens! How excited you are,' he went on, as she looked at him with perfect composure.

'You will think I have reason to be excited when I tell you.'

He smiled in an experienced way.

'I'll sit next to you at dinner and you shall tell me everything. Tiens!

La vieille qui voit double!' He bowed politely as Madame Frabelle came up.

'Dear Sir t.i.to, _what_ a pleasure to see you again! Your lovely songs have been ringing in my ears ever since I heard them!'

'Where did you hear them? On a piano-organ?' he asked.

'You're too bad! Isn't he naughty? No, when you sang here last.'

Mr Mitch.e.l.l came up, and Madame Frabelle turned away.

'Dieu merci! La pauvre! Elle me donne sur les nerfs ce soir,' said Landi. 'I shall sit next to you whether the cards are placed so or not, Edith, and you'll tell me everything between the soup and the ices.'

'I will indeed.'

'Madame Meetchel,' he said, looking round through his eyegla.s.s, 'is sure to have given you a handsome young man, someone who ought to drive Bruce wild with jealousy, but doesn't, or ... or ...'

'Or some fly-blown celebrity.'

'Sans doute!'

The door opened and the last guest appeared. It was young Coniston (in khaki), who was invariably asked when there was to be music. He was so useful.

He approached Landi at once.

'Ah, cher maitre, quel plaisir!' he said with his South Kensington accent and his Oxford manner. (He had been a Cambridge man.)

'C'est vrai?' asked Landi, who had his own way of dismissing a person in a friendly way.

Coniston began talking to him of a song. Landi waved him off and went up to Mrs Mitch.e.l.l, said something which made her laugh and blush and try to hit him with her fan--the fan, the a.s.sault and the manner were all out of date, but Mrs Mitch.e.l.l made no pretence at going with the times--and his object was gained.

Sir t.i.to took Edith in to dinner.

CHAPTER XVII

As they found their places at the long table (Sir t.i.to had exchanged cards, as though he meant to fight a duel with Edith's destined partner) of course the two turned their backs to one another. On her other side was Mr Mitch.e.l.l. When Madame Frabelle noticed this, she gave Edith an arch shake of the head, and made a curious warning movement with her hand. Edith smiled at her in astonishment. She had utterly forgotten her friend's fancy about the imaginary intrigue supposed to be going on between her and Mr Mitch.e.l.l, and she wondered what the gesture meant.

Sir t.i.to also saw it, and, turning round to Edith, said in a low voice:

'Qu'est-ce-qu'elle a, la vieille?'

'I really don't know. I never understand signs. I've forgotten the code, I suppose!'

Mr Mitch.e.l.l, after a word to the person he had taken down, gladly turned to Edith. He always complained that the host was obliged to sit between the oldest and the most boring guests. It was unusual for him to have so pretty a neighbour as Edith. But he was a collector: his joy was to see a heterogeneous ma.s.s of people, eating and laughing at his table. For his wife there were a few social people, for him the Bohemians, and always the younger guests.

'Not bad--not bad, is it?' he said, looking critically round down the two sides of the table, while his kind pink face beamed with hospitable joy.

'You've got a delightful party tonight.'

'What I always say is,' said Mr Mitch.e.l.l; 'let them enjoy themselves!