"The brown one," exclaimed Gwen, as Louise rushed towards the bed.

Louise fell upon the bed like a wild beast and began dressing Gwen with positive ferocity, protesting all the time in tones of physical agony mingled with moral indignation, her astonishment at Mademoiselle's indifference to the desires of Madame.

"I didn't know it was so late," said Gwen, who was not accustomed to such freedom from a servant.

More exclamations from Louise, who was hooking and b.u.t.toning and pulling and pushing like a fury.

"Well, leave off talking," said Gwen, looking very hot, "and don't pull so much."

More exclamations from Louise and more pulling, and at last Gwen stood complete in her brown dress and black hat. While she was thinking about what shoes she should put on, Louise had already seized a pair and was now pulling and pushing at her feet.

Lady Dashwood was giving instructions to Robinson in the hall, when Gwen came precipitately downstairs. The taxi was at the door, and Mrs.

Dashwood was already seated in it.

It was still raining. Of course! Everything was wretched!

Now, what about an umbrella? Gwen gazed about her and seized an umbrella, earnestly trusting that it was not one that Lady Dashwood meant to use. How hot and flushed and late she was, and then--the letter! Oh, that letter! How horrible to be obliged to sit opposite to Lady Dashwood!

She ran down the steps without opening the umbrella, and dashed into the taxi, Lady Dashwood following under an umbrella held by Robinson.

"Here we are!" said Lady Dashwood. She seemed to have forgotten all about the letter, and she smiled at Gwen.

They pa.s.sed out of the entrance court of the Lodgings and into the narrow street, and then into the High Street. The sky and the air and the road and the pavements and the buildings were grey. The Cherwell was grey, and its trees wept into it. The meadows were sodden; it was difficult to imagine that they could ever stand in tall ripe hay. There was a smell of damp decay in the air.

Gwen stared fixedly out of the window in order to avoid looking at the ladies opposite her. They seemed to be occupied with the continuance of a conversation that they had begun before. Now, Gwen's mind failed and fainted before conversation that was at all impersonal, and though she was listening, she did not grasp the whole of any one sentence. But she caught isolated words and phrases here and there, dreary words like "Education," "Oxford methods," and her attention was absorbed by the discovery that every time Mrs. Dashwood spoke, she said: "Does the Warden think?" just as if she knew what the Warden would think!

This was nasty of her. If only she always talked about Gwen's hat suiting her, and about other things that were really interesting, Gwen believed she could make a life-long friend of her, in spite of her age; but she would talk about stupid incomprehensible things--and about the Warden!

The Warden was growing a more and more remote figure in Gwen's mind. He was fading into something unsubstantial--something that Gwen could not lean against, or put her arms round. Would she never again have the opportunity of feeling how hard and smooth his shirt-front was? It was like china, only not cold. As she thought Gwen's eyes became misty and sad, and she ceased to notice what the two ladies opposite to her were saying.

CHAPTER IX

THE LUNCHEON PARTY

Boreham was in his dressing-room at Chartcote looking at himself in the mirror. The picture he saw in its depths was familiar to him. Had he (like prehistoric man) never had the opportunity of seeing his own face, and had he been suddenly presented with his portrait and asked whether he thought the picture pleasing, he would have replied, as do our Cabinet ministers: "The answer is in the negative."

But the figure in the mirror had always been a.s.sociated with his inmost thoughts. It had grown with his growth. It had smiled, it had laughed and frowned. It had looked dull and disappointed, it had looked flattered and happy in tune with his own feelings; and that rather colourless face with the drab beard, the bristly eyebrows, the pale blue eyes and the thin lips, were all part of Boreham's exclusive personal world to which he was pa.s.sionately attached; something separate from the world he criticised, jeered at, scolded or praised, as the mood took him, also something separate from what he secretly and unwillingly envied. The portrait in the mirror represented Boreham's own particular self--the unmistakable "I."

He gave a last touch with a brush to the stiff hair, and then stood staring at his completed image, at himself, ready for lunch, ready--and this was what dominated his thoughts--ready to receive May Dashwood.

Some eight or nine years ago, when he had first met May, he had as nearly fallen in love with her as his const.i.tution permitted; and he had been nettled at finding himself in a financial position that was, to say the best of it, rather fluctuating. He knew he was going to have Chartcote, but aunts of sixty frequently live to remain aunts at eighty.

May had never shown any particular interest in him, but he attributed her indifference to the natural and selfish female desire to acquire a wealthy husband. As it was impossible for him to marry at that period in his life, he adopted that theory of marriage most likely to shed a cheerful light upon his compulsory bachelorhood. He maintained that the natural man tries to escape marriage, as it is incompatible with his "freedom," and is only "enchained" after much persistent hunting down by the female, who makes the most of the conventions of civilisation for her own protection and profit. He was able, therefore, at the age of forty-two to look round him and say: "I have successfully escaped--hitherto," and to feel that what he said was true. But now he was no longer poor. He was an eligible man.

He was also less happy than he had been. He had lived at Chartcote for some interminable weeks! He had found it tolerable, only because he was well enough off to be always going away from it. But now he had again met May, free like himself, and if possible more attractive than she had been eight years ago!

He had met her and had found her at the zenith of womanhood; without losing her youth, she had acquired maturer grace and self-possession.

Had there been any room for improvement in himself he too would have matured! The wealth he had acquired was sufficient. And now the question was: whether with all his masculine longing to preserve his freedom he would be able to escape successfully again? This was why he was giving a lingering glance in the mirror, where his external personality was, as it were, painted with an exactness that no artist could command.

Should this blond man with the beard and the stiff hair, below which lay a splendid brain, should he escape again?

Boreham stared hard at his own image. He repeated the momentous question, firmly but inaudibly, and then went away without answering it.

Time would show--that very day might show!

Mrs. Greenleafe Potten had already arrived. Now Mrs. Greenleafe Potten was a cousin of Boreham's maternal aunt. She lived in rude though luxurious widowhood about a quarter of a mile from Chartcote, and she was naturally the person to whom Boreham applied whenever he wanted a lady to head his table. Besides, Mrs. Potten was a very old friend of Lady Dashwood's. Mrs. Potten was a little senior to Lady Dashwood, but in many ways appeared to be her junior. Mrs. Potten, too, retained her youthful interest in men. Lady Dashwood's long stay in Oxford had brought with it a new interest to Mrs. Potten's life. It had enabled her to call at King's College and claim acquaintance with the Warden. Mrs.

Potten admired the Warden with the sentiment of early girlhood. Now Mrs.

Potten was accredited with the possession of great wealth, of which she spent as little as possible. She practised certain strange economies, and on this occasion, learning that the Dashwoods were coming without the Warden, she decided to come in the costume in which she usually spent the morning hours, toiling in the garden.

The party consisted of the three ladies from King's, Mr. Bingham, Fellow of All Souls, and Mr. and Mrs. Harding.

Mr. Bingham was a man of real learning; he was a bachelor, and he made forcible remarks in the soft deliberate tone of a super-curate. He laughed discreetly as if in the presence of some sacred shrine. In the old pre-war days there had been many stories current in Oxford about Bingham, some true and some invented by his friends. All of them were reports of brief but effective conversations between himself and some other less sophisticated person. Bingham always accepted invitations from any one who asked him when he had time, and if he found himself bored, he simply did not go again. Boreham had got hold of Bingham and had asked him to lunch, so he had accepted. It was one of the days when he did _not_ go up to the War Office, but when he lectured to women students. He had to lunch somewhere, and he had bicycled out, intending to bicycle back, rain or no rain, for the sake of exercise.

Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Harding. Harding, who had taken Orders (just as some men have eaten dinners for the Bar), was Fellow and Tutor of a sporting College. His tutorial business had been for many years to drive the unwilling and ungrateful blockhead through the Pa.s.s Degree.

His private business was to a.s.sume that he was a "man of the world." It was a subject that engrossed what must (in the absence of anything more distinctive), be called the "spiritual" side of his nature. His wife, who had money, lived to set a good example to other Dons' wives in matters of dress and "tenue," and she had put on her best frock in antic.i.p.ation of meeting the "County." Indeed, the Hardings had taken up Boreham because he was not a college Don but a member of "Society." They were, like Bingham, at Chartcote for the first time. It was an unpleasant shock to Mr. Harding to find that instead of the County, other Oxford people had been asked to luncheon. Fortunately, however, the Oxford people were the Dashwoods! The Hardings exchanged glances, and Harding, who had entered the room in his best manner, now looked round and heaved a sigh, letting himself spiritually down with a sort of thump. Bingham his old school-fellow and senior at Winchester, was, perhaps, the man in all Oxford to whom he felt most antipathy.

Mrs. Harding very much regretted that she had not come in a smart Harris tweed. It would have been a good compromise between the Dashwoods and the pretty girl with them, and Mrs. Greenleafe Potten with her tweed skirt and not altogether spotless shirt. But it was too late!

Boreham was quite unconscious of his guests' thoughts, and was busy plotting how best to give May Dashwood an opportunity of making love to him. He would have Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Harding on each side of him at table, giving to Mrs. Potten, Harding and Bingham. Then May Dashwood and Miss Scott would be wedged in at the sides. But, after lunch, he would give the men only ten minutes sharp for their coffee, and take off May Dashwood to look over the house. In this way he would be behaving with the futile orthodoxy required by our effete social system, and yet give the opportunity necessary to the female for the successful pursuit of the male.

Only--and here a sudden spasm went through his frame, as he looked round on his guests--did he really wish to become a married man? Did he want to be obliged to be always with one woman, to be obliged to pay calls with her, dine out with her? Did he want to explain where he was going when he went by himself, and to give her some notion as to the hour when he would return, and to leave his address with her if he stayed away for a night? No! Marriage was a gross imposition on humanity, as his brother had discovered twice over. The woman in the world who would tempt him into harness would have to be exquisitely fascinating! But then--and this was the point--May Dashwood _had_ just that peculiar charm!

Boreham's eyes were now resting on her face. She was sitting on his left, next Mrs. Harding, and Bingham's black head was bent and he was saying something to her that made her smile. Boreham wished that he had put Harding, the married man, next her! Harding was commonplace! Harding was safe! Look at Harding doing his duty with Mrs. Potten! Useful man, Harding! But Bingham was a bachelor, and not safe!

And so the luncheon went on, and Boreham talked disconnectedly because he forgot the thread of his argument in his keenness to hear what May Dashwood and Bingham were saying to each other. He tried to drag in Bingham and force him to talk to the table, but his efforts were fruitless. Bingham merely looked absently and sweetly round the table, and then relapsed into talk that was inaudible except to his fair neighbour.

Gwendolen Scott watched the table silently, and wondered how it was they found so much to talk about. Harding did not intend to waste any time in talking to an Oxford person. He put his elbow on the table on her side and conversed with Mrs. Potten. He professed interest in her agricultural pursuits, told her that he liked digging in the rain, and by the time lunch was over he had solemnly emphasised his opinion that the cricket bat and the shot gun and the covert and the moderate party in the Church of England were what made our Empire great. Mrs. Potten approved these remarks, and said that she was surprised and pleased to hear such sound views expressed by any one from Oxford. She was afraid that very wild and democratic views were not only tolerated, but born and bred in Oxford. She was afraid that Oxford wasn't doing poor, dear, clever Bernard any good, though she was convinced that the "dear Warden" would not tolerate any foolishness, and she was on the point of rising when her movements were delayed by the shock of hearing Mr.

Bingham suddenly guffaw with extraordinary suavity and gentleness.

She turned to him questioningly.

"It depends upon what you mean by democratic," he said, smiling softly past Mrs. Potten and on to Harding. "The United States of America, which makes a point of talking the higher twaddle about all men being free and equal, can barely manage to bring any wealthy pot to justice. On the other hand, Oxford, which is slimed with Toryism, is always ready to make any son of any impecunious greengrocer the head of one's college.

In Oxford, even at Christ Church"--and here Bingham showed two rows of good teeth at Harding,--"you may say what you like now. Oxford now swarms with political Humanitarians, who go about sticking their stomachs out and pretending to be inspired! Now, what do you mean by Democratic?"

Mrs. Potten would have been shocked, but Bingham's mellifluous voice gave a "cachet" to his language. She looked nervously at Boreham; seeing that he had caught the talk and was about to plunge into it, she signified "escape" to Lady Dashwood and rose herself.

"We will leave you men to quarrel together," she said to Harding. "You give it to them, Mr. Harding. Don't you spare 'em," and she pa.s.sed to the door.

For a moment the three men who were left behind in the dining-room glanced at each other--then they sat down. Boreham was torn between the desire to dispute whatever either of his guests put forward, and a still keener desire to get away rapidly to the drawing-room. Harding had already lost all interest in the subject of democracy, and was pa.s.sing on the claret to Bingham. Bingham helped himself, wondering, as he did so, whether Mrs. Dashwood was in mourning for a brother, or perhaps had been mourning for a husband. It seemed to Bingham an interesting question.

"Good claret this of yours," said Harding. "I conclude that you weren't one of those fanatics who tried to force us all to become teetotallers.

My view is that at my age a man can judge for himself what is good for him."

"That wasn't quite the point," said Bingham. "The point was whether the stay-at-homes should fill up their stomachs, or turn it into cash for war purposes."

"Of course," sneered Harding, "you like to put it in that way."