Part 28 (1/2)

The letter begins: ”Seer Marcous dear.” The spelling is a little jest between us. The inversion is a quaint invention of her own. ”Mrs.

McMurray says, can you spare me for one more week? She wants to teach me manners. She says I have shocked the top priest here--oh, you call him a vikker--now I do remember--because I went out for a walk with a little young pretty priest without a hat, and because it rained I put on his hat and the vikker met us. But I did not flirt with the little priest.

Oh, no! I told him he must not make love to me like the young man from the grocer's. And I told him that if he wrote poetry you would beat him.

So I have been very good. And darling Seer Marcous, I want to come back very much, but Mrs. McMurray says I must stay, and she is going to have a baby and I am very happy and good, and Mr. McMurray says funny things and makes me laugh. But I love my darling Seer Marcous best. Give Antoinette and Polifemus (the one-eyed cat) two very nice kisses for me.

And here is one for Seer Marcous from his

”CARLOTTA.”

How can I refuse? But I wish she were here.

31st October.

I did not sleep last night. I have done no work to-day. The Renaissance has receded into a Glacial Epoch wherein, as far as its humanity is concerned, I have not a t.i.ttle of interest. I sought refuge in the club. Why should an old sober University club be such a haven of unrest?

Ponting, an opinionated don of Corpus, seated himself at my luncheon table, and discoursed on political economy and golf. I manifested a polite ignorance of these high matters. He a.s.sured me that if I studied the one and played at the other, I should be physically and mentally more robust; whereupon he thumped his narrow chest, and put on a scowl of intellectuality. I fear that Ponting, like most of the men here, studies golf and plays at political economy. In serener moments I suffer Ponting gladly. But to-day his boast that he had done the course at Westward Ho! in seven, or seventeen, or seventy--how on earth should I remember?--left me cold, and his crude economics interfered with my digestion.

Strolling forlornly down Piccadilly I, came face to face with my sad-coloured Cousin Rosalie in a sad-coloured gown. She gave me a hasty nod and would have pa.s.sed on, but I arrested her. Her white face was turned piteously upward and from her expressionless eyes flashed a glance of fear. I felt myself in a brutal mood.

”Why,” I asked, ”are you avoiding me as if I were a pestilence?”

She murmured that she was not avoiding me, but was in a hurry.

”I don't believe it,” said I. ”People have been telling you that I am a vile, wicked man who does unspeakable things, and like a good little girl you are afraid to talk to me. Tell people, the next time you see them, with my compliments, that they are malevolent geese.”

I lifted my hat and relieving Rosalie of my terrifying presence, walked away in dudgeon. I felt abominably and unreasonably angry. I bethought me of my Aunt Jessica, whom I held responsible for her niece's behaviour. A militant mood prompted a call. After twenty minutes in a hansom I found myself in her drawing-room. She was alone, the girls being away on country-house visits. Her reception was glacial. I expressed the hope that the yachting cruise had been a pleasant one.

”Exceedingly pleasant,” snapped my aunt.

”I trust Dora is well,” said I, keeping from my lips a smile that might have hinted at the broken heart.

”Very well, thank you.”

As I do not enjoy a staccato conversation, I remained politely silent, inviting her by my att.i.tude to speak.

”I rather wonder, Marcus,” she said at last, ”at your referring to Dora.”

”Indeed? May I ask why?”

”May I speak plainly?”

”I beseech you.”

”I have heard of you at Etretat with your ward.”

”Well?” I asked.

”_Verb.u.m sap_,” said my aunt.