Part 36 (1/2)
She leaned forward, with her small, plump, and conspicuously freckled hands grasping the arms of her chair.
”You don't think, Mr. Braybrooke, that Beryl is not here for the Wallace Collection? You don't think that she is in love with someone in London?”
Francis Braybrooke was decidedly taken aback by this abrupt emotional outburst. He had not meant to provoke it. Indeed, in his preoccupation with Craven's affairs and Adela Sellingworth's possible indiscretions--really he knew of no gentler word to apply to what he had in mind--he had entirely forgotten that f.a.n.n.y Cronin's charming profession of sitting in deep arm-chairs, reposing on luxurious sofas, and lying in perfect French beds, might, indeed would, be drastically interfered with by Miss Van Tuyn's marriage. It was very careless of him. He was inclined to blame himself almost severely.
”My dear Miss Cronin,” he hastily exclaimed. ”If you were ever to think of changing your--your”--he could not find the word; ”condition” would not do; ”state of life” suggested the Catechism; ”profession” was preposterous, besides, he did not mean that--”your sofa”--he had got it--”your sofa in the Avenue Henri Martin for a sofa somewhere else, I know of at least a dozen charming houses in Paris which would gladly, I might say thankfully, open their doors to receive you.”
This was really a lie. At the moment Braybrooke did not know of one.
But he hastily made up his mind to be ”responsible” for f.a.n.n.y Cronin if anything should occur through his amiable machinations.
”Thank you, Mr. Braybrooke. You are kindness itself. So, then, Beryl _is_ going to marry! And she never hinted it to me, although we talked over marriage only yesterday, when I gave her Bourget's views on it as expressed in his '_Physiologie de l'amour moderne_.' She never said one word. She never--”
But at this point Braybrooke felt that an interruption, however rude, was obligatory.
”I have no reason whatever to suppose that Miss Van Tuyn is thinking of marriage at this moment,” he said, in an almost shrill voice.
”But surely you would not frighten me without a reason,” said f.a.n.n.y Cronin with mild severity, sitting back again in her chair.
”Frighten you, dear Miss Cronin! I would not do that for the world. What have I said to frighten you?”
”You talked of my changing my sofa for a sofa somewhere else! If Beryl is not going to marry why should I think of changing?”
”But nothing lasts for ever. The whole world is in a state of flux.”
”Really, Mr. Braybrooke! I am quite sure _I_ am not in a state of flux!”
said Miss Cronin with unusual dignity. ”We American women, you must understand, have our principles and know how to preserve them.”
”On my honour, I only meant that life inevitably brings with it changes.
I am sure you will bear me out in that.”
”I don't know about bearing you out,” said Miss Cronin, looking rather helplessly at Francis Braybrooke's fairly tall and well-nourished figure. ”But why should Beryl want to change? She is very happy as she is.”
”I know--I know. But surely such a lovely girl is certain to marry some day. And can we wish it otherwise? Some day a man will come who knows how to appreciate her as she deserves, who understands her nature, who is ready to devote his life to fulfilling her deepest needs.”
Miss Cronin suddenly looked intelligent and at the same time like a dragon. Never before had Braybrooke seen such an expression upon her face, such a stiffening of dignity to her ample figure. She sat straight up, looked him full in the face, and observed:
”I understand your meaning, Mr. Braybrooke. You wish to marry Beryl.
Well, you must forgive me for saying that I think you are much too old for her.”
Braybrooke had not blushed for probably at least forty years, but he blushed scarlet now, and seized his beard with a hand that looked thoroughly unstrung.
”My dear Miss Cronin!” he said, in a voice which was almost hoa.r.s.e with protest. ”You absolutely misunderstood me. It is much too la--I mean that I have no intention whatever of changing my condition. No, no!
Let us talk of something else. So you are reading '_Le Disciple_'” (he picked it up). ”A very striking book! I always think it one of Bourget's very best.”
He poured forth an energetic cataract of words in praise of Miss Cronin's favourite author, and presently got away without any further quite definite misunderstanding. But when he was out in the corridor on his way to the lift he indulged himself in a very unwonted expression of acrimonious condemnation.
”d.a.m.n these red-headed old women!” he muttered in his beard. ”There's no doing anything with them! The idea of my going to her to propose for Miss Van Tuyn! What next, I wonder?”
When he was out in Brook Street he hesitated for a moment, then took out his watch and looked at it. Half-past three! He thought of the Wallace Collection. It seemed to draw him strangely just then. He put his watch back and walked towards Manchester Square.
He had gained the Square and was about to enter the enclosure before Hertford House by the gateway on the left, when he saw Miss Van Tuyn come out by the gateway on the right, and walk slowly towards Oxford Street in deep conversation with a small horsey-looking man, whose face he could not see, but whose back and legs, and whose dress and headgear, strongly suggested to him the ring at Newmarket and the Paddock at Ascot.