All the strength of her feelings and affections, then, which in the ordinary course would have gone in other channels, Anne had lavished on Hyacinth. She adored her as if she had been her own child. She worshipped her like an idol. As a matter of fact, being quite independent financially, it was not as a paid companion at all that she had lived with her, though she chose to appear in that capacity. And, besides, Hyacinth herself, Anne had, in a most superlative degree, enjoyed the house, her little authority, the way she stood between Hyacinth and all tedious little practical matters. Like many a woman who was a virago at heart, Anne had a perfect pa.s.sion for domestic matters, for economy, for managing a house. Of course she had always known that the pretty heiress was sure to marry, but she hoped the evil day would be put off, and somehow it annoyed her to such an acute extent because Hyacinth was so particularly pleased with the young man.

As she told Anne every thought, and never dreamt of concealing any nuance or shade of her sentiments, Anne had suffered a good deal.

It vexed her particularly that Hyacinth fancied Cecil so unusual, while she was very certain that there were thousands and thousands of good-looking young men in England in the same position who had the same education, who were precisely like him. There was not a pin to choose between them. How many photographs in groups Cecil had shown them, when she and Hyacinth went to tea at his rooms! Cecil in a group at Oxford, in an eleven, as a boy at school, and so forth! While Hyacinth delightedly recognised Cecil, Anne wondered how on earth she could tell one from the other. Of course, he was not a bad sort. He was rather clever, and not devoid of a sense of humour, but the fault Anne really found with him, besides his taking his privileges so much as a matter of course, was that there was nothing, really, to find fault with. Had he been ugly and stupid, she could have minded it less.

Now what should she do? Of course she must remain with Hyacinth till the marriage, but she was resolved not to go to the wedding, although she had promised to do so. Both Hyacinth and Cecil really detested the vulgarity of a showy fashionable wedding as much as she did, and it was to be moderated, toned down as much as possible. But Anne couldn't stand it--any of it--and she wasn't going to try.

As she sat there, wrapped up in her egotistic anguish, two young people, probably a shop-girl and her young man, pa.s.sed, sauntering along, holding hands, and swinging their arms. Anne thought that they were, if anything, less odious than the others, but the stupidity of their happiness irritated her, and she got up to go back.

She felt tired, and though it was not far, she decided, with her usual unnecessary economy, to go by omnibus down Park Lane.

As she got out and felt for the key in her pocket, she thought how soon she would no longer be able to go into her paradise and find the lovely creature waiting to confide in her, how even now the lovely creature was in such a dream of preoccupied happiness that, quick as she usually was, she was now perfectly blind to her friend's jealousy. And, indeed, Anne concealed it very well. It was not ordinary jealousy either. She was very far from envying Hyacinth. She only hated parting with her.

As she pa.s.sed the studio she heard voices, and looked in, just as she was, with a momentary desire to _gener_ them.

Of course they got up, Hyacinth blushing and laughing, and entreated her to come in.

She sat there a few minutes, hoping to chill their high spirits, then abruptly left them in the middle of a sentence.

At dinner that evening she appeared quite as usual. She had taken a resolution.

CHAPTER XXIII

Bruce Convalescent

'It's very important,' said Bruce, 'that I don't see too many people at a time. You must arrange the visitors carefully. Who is coming this afternoon?'

'I don't know of anyone, except perhaps your mother, and Mr Raggett.'

'Ah! Well, I can't see them both at once.'

'Really? Why not?'

'Why not? What a question! Because it would be a terrible fatigue for me. I shouldn't be able to stand it. In fact I'm not sure that I ought to see Raggett at all.'

'Don't, then. Leave a message to say that after all you didn't feel strong enough.'

'But, if we do that, won't he think it rather a shame, poor chap? As I said he could come, doesn't it seem rather hard lines for him to come all this way--it is a long distance, mind you--and then see n.o.body?'

'Well, I can see him.'

Bruce looked up suspiciously.

'Oh, you want to see him, do you? Alone?'

'Don't be silly, Bruce. I would much rather not see him.'

'Indeed, and why not? I really believe you look down on him because he's my friend.'

'Not a bit. Well, he won't be angry; you can say that you had a relapse, or something, and were not well enough to see him.'

'Nothing of the sort. It would be very good for me; a splendid change to have a little intellectual talk with a man of the world. I've had too much women's society lately. I'm sick of it. Ring the bell, Edith.'

'Of course I will, Bruce, but what for? Is it anything I can do?'

'I want you to ring for Bennett to pa.s.s me my tonic.'

'Really, Bruce, it's at your elbow.' She laughed.

'I suppose I've changed a good deal since my illness,' said he looking in the gla.s.s with some complacency.

'You don't look at all bad, dear.'

'I know I'm better; but sometimes, just as people are recovering, they suddenly have a frightful relapse. Braithwaite told me I would have to be careful for some time.'

'How long do you suppose he meant?'

'I don't know--five or six years, I suppose. It's the heart. That's what's so risky in influenza.'

'But he said your heart was all right.'

'Ah, so he thinks. Doctors don't know everything. Or perhaps it's what he says. It would never do to tell a heart patient he was in immediate danger, Edith; why, he might die on the spot from the shock.'

'Yes, dear; but, excuse my saying so, would he have taken me aside and told me you were perfectly well, and that he wouldn't come to see you again, if you were really in a dangerous state?'

'Very possibly. I don't know that I've so very much confidence in Braithwaite. I practically told him so. At least I suggested to him, when he seemed so confident about my recovery, that he should have a consultation. I thought it only fair to give him every chance.'

'And what did he say?'

'He didn't seem to see it. Just go and get the cards, Edith, that have been left during my illness. It's the right thing for me to write to everyone, and thank them for their kindness.'

'But there are no cards, dear.'

'No cards?'

'You see, people who knew you were ill inquired by telephone, except your mother, and she never leaves a card.'

He seemed very disgusted.

'That's it,' he said. 'That's just like life; "laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone!" Get out of the running, and drop aside, and you're forgotten. And I'm a fairly popular man, too; yet I might have died like a dog in this wretched little flat, and not a card.--What's that ring?'