Part 49 (1/2)

”Tea or chocolate?” she inquired proudly.

”Tea, please,” said Maud, finding her voice.

”One tea,” sighed the mourner.

”Chocolate for me,” said Geoffrey briskly, with the air of one discoursing on a congenial topic. ”I'd like plenty of whipped cream. And please see that it's hot.”

”One chocolate.”

Geoffrey pondered. This was no light matter that occupied him.

”And bring some fancy cakes--I like the ones with icing on them--and some tea-cake and b.u.t.tered toast. Please see there's plenty of b.u.t.ter on it.”

Maud s.h.i.+vered. This man before her was a man in whose lexicon there should have been no such word as b.u.t.ter, a man who should have called for the police had some enemy endeavoured to thrust b.u.t.ter upon him.

”Well,” said Geoffrey leaning forward, as the haughty ministrant drifted away, ”you haven't changed a bit. To look at, I mean.”

”No?” said Maud.

”You're just the same. I think I”--he squinted down at his waistcoat--”have put on a little weight. I don't know if you notice it?”

Maud s.h.i.+vered again. He thought he had put on a little weight, and didn't know if she had noticed it! She was oppressed by the eternal melancholy miracle of the fat man who does not realize that he has become fat.

”It was living on the yacht that put me a little out of condition,”

said Geoffrey. ”I was on the yacht nearly all the time since I saw you last. The old boy had a j.a.panese cook and lived pretty high. It was apoplexy that got him. We had a great time touring about. We were on the Mediterranean all last winter, mostly at Nice.”

”I should like to go to Nice,” said Maud, for something to say. She was feeling that it was not only externally that Geoffrey had changed. Or had he in reality always been like this, commonplace and prosaic, and was it merely in her imagination that he had been wonderful?

”If you ever go,” said Geoffrey, earnestly, ”don't fail to lunch at the Hotel Cote d'Azur. They give you the most amazing selection of hors d'oeuvres you ever saw. Crayfish as big as baby lobsters! And there's a fish--I've forgotten it's name, it'll come back to me--that's just like the Florida pompano. Be careful to have it broiled, not fried. Otherwise you lose the flavour. Tell the waiter you must have it broiled, with melted b.u.t.ter and a little parsley and some plain boiled potatoes. It's really astonis.h.i.+ng.

It's best to stick to fish on the Continent. People can say what they like, but I maintain that the French don't really understand steaks or any sort of red meat. The veal isn't bad, though I prefer our way of serving it. Of course, what the French are real geniuses at is the omelet. I remember, when we put in at Toulon for coal, I went ash.o.r.e for a stroll, and had the most delicious omelet with chicken livers beautifully cooked, at quite a small, unpretentious place near the harbour. I shall always remember it.”

The mourner returned, bearing a laden tray, from which she removed the funeral bakemeats and placed them limply on the table. Geoffrey shook his head, annoyed.

”I particularly asked for plenty of b.u.t.ter on my toast!” he said.

”I hate b.u.t.tered toast if there isn't lots of b.u.t.ter. It isn't worth eating. Get me a couple of pats, will you, and I'll spread it myself. Do hurry, please, before the toast gets cold. It's no good if the toast gets cold. They don't understand tea as a meal at these places,” he said to Maud, as the mourner withdrew. ”You have to go to the country to appreciate the real thing. I remember we lay off Lyme Regis down Devons.h.i.+re way, for a few days, and I went and had tea at a farmhouse there. It was quite amazing! Thick Devons.h.i.+re cream and home-made jam and cakes of every kind. This sort of thing here is just a farce. I do wish that woman would make haste with that b.u.t.ter. It'll be too late in a minute.”

Maud sipped her tea in silence. Her heart was like lead within her.

The recurrence of the b.u.t.ter theme as a sort of _leit motif_ in her companion's conversation was fraying her nerves till she felt she could endure little more. She cast her mind's eye back over the horrid months and had a horrid vision of Geoffrey steadily absorbing b.u.t.ter, day after day, week after week--ever becoming more and more of a human keg. She shuddered.

Indignation at the injustice of Fate in causing her to give her heart to a man and then changing him into another and quite different man fought with a cold terror, which grew as she realized more and more clearly the magnitude of the mistake she had made.

She felt that she must escape. And yet how could she escape? She had definitely pledged herself to this man. (”Ah!” cried Geoffrey gaily, as the pats of b.u.t.ter arrived. ”That's more like it!” He began to smear the toast. Maud averted her eyes.) She had told him that she loved him, that he was the whole world to her, that there never would be anyone else. He had come to claim her. How could she refuse him just because he was about thirty pounds overweight?

Geoffrey finished his meal. He took out a cigarette. (”No smoking, please!” said the distressed gentlewoman.) He put the cigarette back in its case. There was a new expression in his eyes now, a tender expression. For the first time since they had met Maud seemed to catch a far-off glimpse of the man she had loved in Wales. b.u.t.ter appeared to have softened Geoffrey.

”So you couldn't wait!” he said with pathos.

Maud did not understand.

”I waited over a quarter of an hour. It was you who were late.”