Putting on an old black velvet jacket laid out for him across a chair, and lighting the pipe that he could never bring himself to smoke in his formal dinner clothes, he went to the right-hand cabinet, and opened it. He stood with a smile, taking up coins one by one. In this particular drawer they were of the best Byzantine dynasty, very rare. He did not see that Cecilia had stolen in, and was silently regarding him. Her eyes seemed doubting at that moment whether or no she loved him who stood there touching that other mistress of his thoughts--that other mistress with whom he spent so many evening hours. The little green-baize cover fell. Cecilia said suddenly:
"Stephen, I feel as if I must tell Father where that girl is!"Stephen turned.
"My dear child," he answered in his special voice, which, like champagne, seemed to have been dried by artifice, "you don't want to reopen the whole thing?""But I can see he really is upset about it; he's looking so awfully white and thin.""He ought to give up that bathing in the Serpentine. At his age it's monstrous. And surely any other girl will do just as well?""He seems to set store by reading to her specially."Stephen shrugged his shoulders. It had happened to him on one occasion to be present when Mr. Stone was declaiming some pages of his manuscript. He had never forgotten the discomfort of the experience. "That crazy stuff," as he had called it to Cecilia afterwards, had remained on his mind, heavy and damp, like a cold linseed poultice. His wife's father was a crank, and perhaps even a little more than a crank, a wee bit "touched"--that she couldn't help, poor girl; but any allusion to his cranky produce gave Stephen pain. Nor had he forgotten his experience at dinner.
"He seems to have grown fond of her," murmured Cecilia.
"But it's absurd at his time of life!"
"Perhaps that makes him feel it more; people do miss things when they are old!"Stephen slid the drawer back into its socket. There was dry decision in that gesture.
"Look here! Let's exercise a little common sense; it's been sacrificed to sentiment all through this wretched business. One wants to be kind, of course; but one's got to draw the line.""Ah!" said Cecilia; "where?"
"The thing," went on Stephen, "has been a mistake from first to last.
It's all very well up to a certain point, but after that it becomes destructive of all comfort. It doesn't do to let these people come into personal contact with you. There are the proper channels for that sort of thing."Cecilia's eyes were lowered, as though she did not dare to let him see her thoughts.
"It seems so horrid," she said; "and father is not like other people.""He is not," said Stephen dryly; "we had a pretty good instance of that this evening. But Hilary and your sister are. There's something most distasteful to me, too, about Thyme's going about slumming. You see what she's been let in for this afternoon. The notion of that baby being killed through the man's treatment of his wife, and that, no doubt, arising from the girl's leaving them, is most repulsive!"To these words Cecilia answered with a sound almost like a gasp.
"I hadn't thought of that. Then we're responsible; it was we who advised Hilary to make her change her lodging."Stephen stared; he regretted sincerely that his legal habit of mind had made him put the case so clearly.
"I can't imagine," he said, almost violently, "what possesses everybody! We--responsible! Good gracious! Because we gave Hilary some sound advice! What next?"Cecilia turned to the empty hearth.
"Thyme has been telling me about that poor little thing. It seems so dreadful, and I can't get rid of the feeling that we're--we're all mixed up with it!""Mixed up with what?"
"I don't know; it's just a feeling like--like being haunted."Stephen took her quietly by the arm.
"My dear old girl," he said, "I'd no idea that you were run down like this. To-morrow's Thursday, and I can get away at three. We'll motor down to Richmond, and have a round or two!"Cecilia quivered; for a moment it seemed that she was about to burst out crying. Stephen stroked her shoulder steadily. Cecilia must have felt his dread; she struggled loyally with her emotion.
"That will be very jolly," she said at last.
Stephen drew a deep breath.
"And don't you worry, dear," he said, "about your dad; he'll have forgotten the whole thing in a day or two; he's far too wrapped up in his book. Now trot along to bed; I'll be up directly."Before going out Cecilia looked back at him. How wonderful was that look, which Stephen did not--perhaps intentionally--see. Mocking, almost hating, and yet thanking him for having refused to let her be emotional and yield herself up for once to what she felt, showing him too how clearly she saw through his own masculine refusal to be made to feel, and how she half-admired it--all this was in that look, and more. Then she went out.
Stephen glanced quickly at the door, and, pursing up his lips, frowned. He threw the window open, and inhaled the night air.
'If I don't look out,' he thought, 'I shall be having her mixed up with this. I was an ass ever to have spoken to old Hilary. I ought to have ignored the matter altogether. It's a lesson not to meddle with people in those places. I hope to God she'll be herself tomorrow!'
Outside, under the soft black foliage of the Square, beneath the slim sickle of the moon, two cats were hunting after happiness; their savage cries of passion rang in the blossom-scented air like a cry of dark humanity in the jungle of dim streets. Stephen, with a shiver of disgust, for his nerves were on edge, shut the window with a slam.
