Part 17 (1/2)

'Edith! Sorry! Edie, I say, I'm sorry. Come back.'

There was no answer.

He pushed the letter under the door of her room, and said through the keyhole:

'Edith, look here, I'm just going for a little walk. I'll be back to dinner. Don't be angry.'

Bruce brought her home a large bunch of Parma violets. But neither of them ever referred to the question again, and for some time there was a little less of the refrain of 'Am I master in my own house, or am I not?'

The next morning, when a long letter came from Aylmer, from Spain, Edith read it at breakfast and Bruce didn't ask a single question.

However, she left it on his plate, as if by mistake. He might just as well read it.

CHAPTER XV

Mavis Argles

Vincy had the reputation of spending his fortune with elaborate yet careful lavishness, buying nothing that he did not enjoy, and giving away everything he did not want. At the same time his friends occasionally wondered on what he _did_ spend both his time and his money. He was immensely popular, quite sought after socially; but he declined half his invitations and lived a rather quiet existence in the small flat, with its Oriental decorations and violent post-impressions and fierce Chinese weapons, high up in Victoria Street. Vincy really concealed under an amiable and gentle exterior the kindest heart of any man in London. There was 'more in him than met the eye,' as people say, and, frank and confidential as he was to his really intimate friends, at least one side of his life was lived in shadow. It was his secret romance with a certain young girl artist, whom he saw rarely, for sufficient reasons. He was not devoted to her in the way that he was to Edith, for whom he had the wholehearted enthusiasm of a loyal friend, and the idolising wors.h.i.+p of a fanatic admirer. It was perhaps Vincy's nature, a little, to sacrifice himself for anyone he was fond of. He spent a great deal of time thinking out means of helping materially the young art-student, and always he succeeded in this object by his elaborate and tactful care. For he knew she was very, very poor, and that her pride was of an old-fas.h.i.+oned order--she never said she was hard up, as every modern person does, whether rich or poor, but he knew that she really lacked what he considered very nearly--if not quite--the necessities of life.

Vincy's feeling for her was a curious one. He had known her since she was sixteen (she was now twenty-four). Yet he did not trust her, and she troubled him. He had met her at a studio at a time when he had thought of studying art seriously. Sometimes, something about her worried and wearied him, yet he couldn't do without her for long. The fact that he knew he was of great help to her fascinated him; he often thought that if she had been rich and he poor he would never wish to see her again. Certainly it was the touch of pathos in her life that held him; also, of course, she was pretty, with a pale thin face, deep blue eyes, and rich dark red frizzy hair that was always coming down--the untidy hair of the art-student.

He was very much afraid of compromising her, and _she_ was very much afraid of the elderly aunt with whom she lived. She had no parents, which made her more pathetic, but no more free. He could not go and see her, with any satisfaction to either of them, at _her_ home, though he did so occasionally. This was why she first went to see him at his flat. But these visits, as they were both placed, could, of course, happen rarely.

Mavis Argles--this was the girl's extraordinary name--had a curious fascination for him. He was rather fond of her, yet the greatest wish he had in the world was to break it off. When with her he felt himself to be at once a criminal and a benefactor, a sinner and a saint.

Theoretically, theatrically, and perhaps conventionally, his relations with her const.i.tuted him the villain of the piece. Yet he behaved to her more like Don Quixote than Don Juan....

One afternoon about four o'clock--he was expecting her--Vincy had arranged an elaborate tea on his little green marble dining-table.

Everything was there that she liked. She was particularly attached to scones; he also had cream-cakes, sandwiches, sweets, chocolate and strawberries. As he heard the well-known slightly creaking step, his heart began to beat loudly--quick beats. He changed colour, smiled, and nervously went to the door.

'Here you are, Mavis!' He calmed her and himself by this ba.n.a.l welcome.

He made a movement to help her off with her coat, but she stopped him, and he didn't insist, guessing that she supposed her blouse to be unfit for publication.

She sat down on the sofa, and leaned back, looking at him with her pretty, weary, dreary, young, blue eyes.

'It seems such a long time since I saw you,' said Vincy. 'You're tired; I wish I had a lift.'

'I am tired,' she spoke in rather a hoa.r.s.e voice always. 'And I ought not to stop long.'

'Oh, stay a minute longer, won't you?' he asked.

'Well, I like that! I've only just this moment arrived!'

'Oh, Mavis, don't say that! Have some tea.'

He waited on her till she looked brighter.