Part 43 (1/2)

From her table in the dining-room of the Hotel de la Grande Bretagne at Bellaggio, she commanded a view of the door, and could scrutinize her fellow-guests as they entered. The hotel was full of fresh birds of pa.s.sage every evening, for the end of the season was approaching, and all the world was travelling through on its way northwards. A lady of lively curiosity, possessed, moreover, by that sense of superiority over the casual visitor which a long stay in a hotel always gives, Mrs. Ladd allowed few of the new-comers to escape without comment or criticism.

Lady Rosaline, whose back was towards the door, often felt compelled to twist her head round, in order to estimate for herself the justice of her companion's remarks; but on this occasion she merely asked, ”What's the matter, dear?”

”Why, that woman who's just come in!” Her voice was full of pleasurable excitement. ”It's Cyril Maxon's wife. Who is it with her, I wonder!”

Mrs. Ladd was not acquainted personally, or even by hearsay, with Mrs.

Lenoir.

Lady Rosaline's head went round, not quickly or eagerly, but with a well-bred show of indifference. She watched Winnie walking down the room. ”Did she see us?” she asked of Mrs. Ladd.

”No, she didn't look this way. What shall we do, Rosaline? It's very awkward.” Awkward as it was, Mrs. Ladd sounded more puzzled than pained.

”I only knew her very slightly--three or four quite formal calls--in the old days.”

”Oh, I used to see her now and then, though it was her husband who was my friend, of course.”

”Well, then, I think we can do as we like.”

”I don't know. As friends of his--well, what's the right thing towards him?”

”I don't mind what's the right thing--towards Mr. Maxon,” said Lady Rosaline pettishly. ”It won't hurt him if we're civil to her. I shall please myself. I shan't go out of my way to look for her, but if we meet I shall bow.”

”Oh, well, I must do the same as you, of course. Only I must say I hope Cyril won't hear about it and be hurt. He always expects his friends to make his quarrels theirs, you know!”

Lady Rosaline allowed herself a shrug of the shoulders; she was not bound to please Cyril Maxon--not yet. The friendly correspondence was still going on, but things looked as if it would either cease or a.s.sume a different complexion before long. She had a letter upstairs in her writing-case at this moment--an unanswered letter--in which he informed her that the last tie between Winnie and himself would be severed in a few weeks, and asked leave to join her at Bellaggio, or wherever else she was going to be, for two or three days during the Whitsuntide vacation.

”Then there will be nothing to prevent our arriving at a complete understanding,” he added.

Lady Rosaline knew what that meant. She must make up her mind. Unless she could make it up in the manner desired by Mr. Maxon, she did not think that they had better meet in the Whitsuntide vacation; he would not be an agreeable companion if his wishes were thwarted. Even now, while he was still in hope and had every motive to be as pleasant as he could, there ran through the friendly letter a strain of resentment imperfectly repressed.

Under these circ.u.mstances, with this decision of hers to make, it was not strange that Lady Rosaline should be interested by the chance which threw across her path the woman who had been--and technically still was, for a little while longer--Cyril Maxon's wife. Mrs. Ladd, who guessed her friend's situation pretty shrewdly, was hardly less curious, though more restrained by her loyalty to Cyril. Still she was glad that Lady Rosaline had determined that they need not cut Mrs. Maxon. That she was 'Mrs. Maxon'--'Mrs. Winifred Maxon'--became apparent from an examination of the visitors' book, which Mrs. Ladd initiated directly after dinner.

Winnie was sailing under her own flag again, and proposed to continue to fly it, unless Cyril Maxon objected. If he heard of it, he probably would object; then she could find another sobriquet if Mrs. Lenoir was still obdurate as regards the ''kins' which disfigured her own maiden name of 'Wilkins.'

”And the woman with her seems to be a Mrs. Lenoir. At least, their names are next one another, and so are their rooms. Did you ever hear of her?”

”Never,” answered Lady Rosaline. It was just as well; they had plenty of material for gossip already.

They were sitting in the hall of the hotel, where wicker chairs and little tables were set out, and where it was customary to take coffee after dinner. Mrs. Ladd had made her inspection and rejoined her friend.

”Have they come out from dinner yet?” she asked.

”No. They were late in beginning, you see. Where we're sitting, they needn't pa.s.s us when they do come out. Well, we don't want to make a rush for them, do we, Mrs. Ladd?”

”Indeed, no. I shall only speak if it's forced on me--just not to be unkind, Rosaline. But I do wish they'd come out!”

At last the new-comers entered the hall, Mrs. Lenoir leading the way.

She looked handsome still, but rather old and haggard. By bad luck the voyage had been stormy the last two days, and the railway journey had wearied a body not very robust. But Winnie looked well, bright, and alert. They did not pa.s.s Mrs. Ladd and Lady Rosaline, but sat down at a table near the dining-room door. As they sat, their profiles were presented to the gaze of the two ladies who were observing them so closely.

”The other woman must have been very handsome once,” Mrs. Ladd p.r.o.nounced. ”I wonder who she was!” Mrs. Lenoir's air of past greatness often caused people to speak of her in a corresponding tense.

”Winnie Maxon's looking well, too. I think she's somehow changed; don't you, Mrs. Ladd? There's a new air about her, it seems to me--a sort of a.s.sured air she hadn't before.”

”My dear, she must carry it off! That's the meaning of it.”