Part 80 (1/2)

”That was just what I thought,” she answered, ”and I wanted to ask you. As a man of the world, what would you advise me to do?”

”Well,” he began--then he rose and held out his hand to help her up from her little chair. ”Will you come out and sit on the terrace,” he said, ”and allow me to smoke? The night is warm.”

Angelica nodded, and preceded him through one of the open windows.

”Well,” Mr. Kilroy resumed, when he had lit his cigar, and settled himself in a cane chair comfortably, with Angelica in another opposite. ”What a lovely night it is after the rain yesterday”--this by way of parenthesis.

”Rather close, though,” he observed, and then he returned to the subject.

”I suppose you mean that you do not want it to be all over between you?”

”_Between the Tenor and the Boy_,” she corrected. ”The whole charm of the acquaintance, don't you see, for me, consisted in that footing--I don't know how to express it, but perhaps you can grasp what I mean.”

Mr. Kilroy reflected. ”I am afraid,” he said at last, ”that footing cannot be resumed. The influences of s.e.x, once the difference is recognized, are involuntary. But, if he has no objection, I do not see why you should not be friends, and intimate friends too; and with that sort of man you might make some advance, especially as you are entirely in the wrong. I am not saying, you know, that this would be the proper thing to do as a rule; but here are exceptional circ.u.mstances, and here is an exceptional man.”

”Now, that is significant,” said Angelica, jeering. ”Society is so demoralized that if a man is caught conducting himself with decency and honour on all occasions when a woman is in question, you involuntarily exclaim that he is an exceptional man!”

Mr. Kilroy smoked on in silence for some time with his eyes fixed on the quiet stars. His att.i.tude expressed nothing but extreme quiescence, yet Angelica felt reproved.

”Don't snub me, Daddy,” she exclaimed at last. ”I came to you in my difficulty, and you do not seem to care.”

Mr. Kilroy looked at his cigar, and flicked the ash from the end of it.

”Tell me how to get out of this horrid dilemma,” Angelica pursued. ”I shall never know a moment's peace until we have resumed our acquaintance on a different footing, and I have been able to make him some reparation.”

”Ah--reparation?” said Mr. Kilroy dubiously.

”Do you think it is impossible?” Angelica demanded.

”Not impossible, perhaps, but very difficult,” he answered. ”Really, Angelica,” he broke off laughingly, ”I quite forget every now and again that we are romancing. You must write this story for me.”.

”We are _not_ romancing,” she said impatiently, ”and I couldn't write it, it is too painful. Besides, we don't seem to get any further.”

”Let me see where we were?” Mr. Kilroy replied, humouring her good-naturedly. ”It is a pity you cannot unmarry yourself. You see, being married complicates matters to a much greater extent than if you had been single. A girl might, under certain circ.u.mstances, be forgiven for an escapade of the kind, but when a married woman does such a thing it is very different. Still, if you can get well out of it, of course the difficulty will make the _denouement_ all the more interesting.”

”But I don't see how I am to get well out of it--unless you will go to him yourself, and tell him you know the whole story, and do whatever your tact and goodness suggest to set the matter right.” She bent forward with her arms folded on her lap, looking up at him eagerly as she spoke, and beating a ”devil's tattoo,” with her slender feet, on the ground impatiently the while.

”No,” he answered deliberately, ”that would not be natural. You see, either you must be objectionable or your husband must; and upon the whole I think you had better sacrifice the husband, otherwise you lose your readers' sympathy.”

”Make _you_ objectionable, Daddy!” Angelica exclaimed. ”The thing is not to be done! I could never have asked you to marry me if you had been objectionable. And I don't see why I should be so either--entirely, you know. If I had been quite horrid, I should not have appreciated you, and the Tenor and Uncle Dawne and Dr. Galbraith--oh, dear! Why is it, when good men are so scarce, that I should know so many, and yet be tormented with the further knowledge that you are all exceptional, and crime and misery continue because it is so? What is the use of knowing when one can do nothing?”

Again Mr. Kilroy looked up at the quiet stars; but Angelica gave him no time to reflect.

”I don't see why I should be severely consistent,” she said. ”Let me be a mixture--not a foul mixture, but one of those which eventually result in something agreeable, after going through a period of fermentation, during which they throw up an unpleasant sc.u.m that has to be removed.”

”That would do,” Mr. Kilroy responded gravely.

”But just now,” Angelica resumed, ”it seems as if I should be obliged to let matters take their course and do nothing, which is intolerable.”

”Oh, but you must do something,” Mr. Kilroy decided; ”and the first thing will be to go to him.”