IX

The first few minutes that John spent in Louise's little house were full of acute and vivid interest. From the moment of his first meeting with Louise upon the moonlit Cumberland road, during the whole of that next wonderful morning until their parting, and afterward, through all the long, dreaming days and nights that had intervened, she had remained a mystery to him. It was amazing how little he really knew of her. During his journey to town, he had sat with folded arms in the corner of his compartment, wondering whether in her own environment he would find her easier to understand.

He asked himself that question again now, as he found himself in her drawing-room, in a room entirely redolent of her personality. Their meeting at the theater had told him nothing. She had gratified his sentiment by the pleasure she had shown at his unexpected appearance, but his understanding remained unsatisfied.

The room that he was so eagerly studying confirmed his cloudy impressions of its owner. There was, for a woman's apartment, a curious absence of ornamentation and knickknacks. The walls were black and white, an idea fantastic in its way, yet carried out with extreme lightness in the ceiling and frieze. The carpet was white; the furniture, of which there was very little, of the French period before the rococo type, graceful in its outline, rather heavy in build, and covered with old-rose colored chintz. There were water-colors upon the wall, an etching or two from a Parisian studio, and some small black-and-white fantasies, puzzling to John, who had never even heard the term Futurist, yet in their way satisfactory.

There was a small-sized grand piano, which seemed to have found its way almost apologetically into a remote corner; a delightful open fireplace with rough, white tiles, and an old-fashioned brass box, in which was piled a little heap of sweet-smelling wood blocks. A table, drawn up to the side of one of the easy chairs, was covered with books and magazines, some Italian, a few English, the greater part French; and upon a smaller one, close at hand, stood a white bowl full of pink roses. Their odor was somehow reminiscent of Louise, curiously sweet and wholesome—an odor which suddenly took him back to the morning when she had come to him from under the canopy of apple-blossom.

He drew a little sigh of contentment as he rose to his feet and walked to the window. The room charmed him. It was wonderful that he should find it like this. His heart began to beat with pleasure even before the opening of the door announced her presence. She came in with Sophy, who at once seated herself by his side.

"We have been making plans," Louise declared, "for disposing of you for the rest of the day."

John smiled happily.

"You're not sending me away, then? You're not acting this evening?"

"Not until three weeks next Monday," she replied. "Then, if you are good, and the production is not postponed, you may seat yourself in a box and make all the noise you like after the fall of the curtain. These are real holidays for me, except for the nuisance of rehearsals. You couldn't have come at a better time."

Sophy glanced at the clock.

"Well," she said, "I must show my respect to that most ancient of adages by taking my departure. I feel—"

"You will do nothing of the sort, child," Louise interrupted. "I want to interest you in the evolution of Mr. Strangewey."

"I don't feel that I am necessary," Sophy sighed. "Perhaps I might take him off your hands some evening when you are busy."

"On this first evening, at any rate," Louise insisted, "we are going to be a truly harmonious party of three."

"Of course, if you really mean it," Sophy remarked, resuming her seat, "and if I sha'n't make an enemy for life of Mr. Strangewey, I should love to come, too. Let's decide what to do with him, Louise."

For a moment the eyes of the two others met. Louise looked swiftly away, and John's heart gave a little leap. Was it possible that the same thought had been in her mind—to spend the evening quietly in that little room? Had she feared it?

"We must remember," Louise said calmly, "that a heavy responsibility rests upon us. It is his first night in London. What aspect of it shall we attempt to show him? Shall we make ourselves resplendent, put on our best manners and our most gorgeous gowns, and show him the world of starch and form and fashion from the prince's box at the opera? Or shall we transform ourselves into Bohemians, drink Chianti at our beloved Antonio's, eat Italian food in Soho, smoke long cigarettes, and take him to the Palace? Don't say a word, Sophy. It is not for us to choose."

"I am afraid that isn't any choice," John declared, his face falling. "I haven't any clothes except what you see me in."

"Hooray!" Sophy exclaimed. "Off with your smart gown, Louise! We'll be splendidly Bohemian. You shall put on your black frock and a black hat, and powder your nose, and we'll all go to Guido's first and drink vermuth. I can't look the part, but I can act it!"

"But tell me," Louise asked him, "did you lose your luggage?"

"I brought none," he answered.

They both looked at him—Sophy politely curious, Louise more deeply interested. He answered the inquiry in her eyes.

"You'll say, perhaps," he observed, "that living that quiet, half-buried life up in Cumberland one should have no moods. I have them sometimes. I was in Market Ketton, on my way to the hotel for lunch, when I heard the whistle of the London Express coming in. I just had time to drive to the station, leave the horse and dog-cart with a man I knew, and jump into the train. I had no ticket or luggage."

They both stared at him.

"You mean," Louise demanded, "that after waiting all these months you started away upon impulse like that—without even letting your brother know or bringing any luggage?"

"That's exactly what I did," John agreed, smiling. "I had a sovereign in my pocket when I had bought my ticket; and by the time I had paid for my dinner on the train, and tipped the men—well, I hadn't a great deal left to go shopping with. I stayed at the St. Pancras Hotel, and telephoned to my solicitor before I got up this morning to have him send me some money. The joke of it was," he went on, joining in the girls' laughter, "that Mr. Appleton has been worrying me for months to come up and talk over reinvestments, and take control of the money my uncle left me; and when I came at last, I arrived like a pauper. He went out himself and bought my shirt."

"And a very nice shirt, too," Sophy declared, glancing at the pattern. "Do tell us what else happened!"

"Well, not much more," John replied. "Mr. Appleton stuffed me full of money and made me take a little suite of rooms at what he called a more fashionable hotel. He stayed to lunch with me, and I have promised to see him on business to-morrow morning."

The two girls sat up and wiped their eyes.

"Oh, this is a wonderful adventure you have embarked upon!" Louise exclaimed. "You have come quite in the right spirit. Now I am going to change my clothes and powder my face, and we will go to Guido's for a little vermuth, dine at Antonio's, and sit side by side at the Palace. We shall have to take Sophy with us, but if you show her too much attention I shall send her home. It is your first night here, Mr. Strangewey, so I warn you that Sophy is the most irresponsible and capricious of all my friends. She has more admirers than she knows what to do with, and she disposes of them in the simplest way in the world—by getting new ones."

Sophy made a grimace.

"Mr. Strangewey," she begged earnestly, "you won't believe a word she says, will you? All my life I have been looking for a single and steadfast attachment. Of course, if Louise wants to monopolize you, I shall fall into the background, as I usually do; but if you think that I am going to accept hints and let you go out to dinner alone, you are very much mistaken. To-night, at any rate, I insist upon coming!"

Louise shook her head.

"We shall have to put up with her," she told John with a little grimace.

The door of the room was suddenly opened. The parlor maid stood at one side.

"The Prince of Seyre, madam," she announced.

Louise nodded. She was evidently expecting the visit. She turned to John.

"Will you come back and call for us here—say at seven o'clock? Mind, you are not to bother about your clothes, but to come just as you are. I can't tell you," she added under her breath, "how much I am looking forward to our evening!"

Sophy sprang to her feet.

"Won't you drop me, please, Mr. Strangewey?" she asked. "Then, if you will be so kind, you can pick me up again on your way here. You'll have to pass where I live, if you are at the Milan. I must go home and do my little best to compete."

Louise's frown was so slight that even John failed to notice it. Upon the threshold they encountered the prince, who detained John for a moment.

"I was hoping that I might meet you here, Mr. Strangewey," he said. "If you are in town for long, it will give me great pleasure if I can be of any service to you. You are staying at a hotel?"

"I am staying at the Milan," John replied.

"I will do myself the pleasure of calling upon you," the prince continued. "In the meantime, if you need any service that a Londoner can offer you, be sure to let me know. You will easily find my house in Grosvenor Square."

"It is very kind of you indeed," John said gratefully.

Sophy made a wry face as the prince entered the drawing-room.

"Didn't some old Roman once write something about being afraid of Greeks who brought gifts?" she asked, as they descended the stairs together.

"Quite right," John assented.

"Well, be careful!" she advised him. "That's all."

John handed Sophy into the taxi and took his place beside her.

"Where shall I put you down?" he asked.

"It's such a terribly low neighborhood! However, it's quite close to the Milan—No. 10 Southampton Street."

John gave the address to the man, and they started off. They were blocked in a stream of traffic almost as soon as they reached Hyde Park Corner. John leaned forward all the time, immensely interested in the stream of passers-by.

"Your interest in your fellow creatures," she murmured demurely, "is wonderful, but couldn't you concentrate it just a little?"

He turned quickly around. She was smiling at him most alluringly. Unconsciously he found himself smiling back again. A wonderful light-heartedness seemed to have come to him during the last few hours.

"I suppose I am a perfect idiot," he admitted. "I cannot help it. I am used to seeing, at the most, three or four people together at a time. I can't understand these crowds. Where are they all going? Fancy every one of them having a home, every one of them struggling in some form or another toward happiness!"

"Do you know," she pronounced severely, "for a young man of your age you are much too serious? Please commence your psychological studies to-morrow. To-night we are going to have a really frivolous evening, you and I—and Louise. If you want to be a great success during the next few hours, what you have to do is to imagine that there are only two people in the world beside yourself—Louise and I."

"I think I shall find that very easy," he promised, smiling.

"I am quite sure you could be nice if you wanted to," she continued. "How much are you in love with Louise?"

"How much am I what?"

"In love with Louise," she repeated. "All the men are. It is a perfect cult with them. And here am I, her humble companion and friend, absolutely neglected!"

"I don't believe you are neglected at all," he replied. "You are too much too—"

He turned his head to look at her. She was so close to him that their hats collided. He was profuse in his apologies.

"Too what?" she whispered.

"Too attractive," he ventured.

"It's nice to hear you say so," she sighed. "Well, I have to get out here. This is where I live, up on the fourth floor."

"How does one get there?" he inquired.

She looked at him quickly. There was a little catch in her breath.

"What do you mean?" she murmured.

"Didn't you say that I was to come and fetch you, and then we could go on to Miss Maurel's together?"

"Of course," she assented slowly. "How stupid of me! Some day I'll show you, but I know you would lose the way now. If you like, I'll come for you—to the Milan."

"If you would really prefer it?"

"I am quite sure that I should," she decided. "There are about seven turns up to my room, and I shall have to personally conduct you there three or four times before you'll ever be able to find your way. I will come as soon as I am ready, and then you can give me a cocktail before we set out."

She disappeared with a little wave of the hand, and John drove on to his destination. His rooms at the Milan were immensely comfortable and in their way quite homelike. John made some small changes to his toilet and was still in his shirt-sleeves, with hair-brushes in his hands, when there came a ring at the bell. He answered it at once and found Sophy standing outside. He gave a little start.

"I say, I'm awfully sorry!"

"What for, you silly person?" she laughed. "Which way is the sitting room, please? Oh, I see! Now, please ring for the waiter and order me a vermuth cocktail, and one for yourself, of course; and I want some cigarettes. How clever of you to get rooms looking out upon the Embankment! I wish they would light the lamps. I think the illuminated arcs along the Embankment and past the Houses of Parliament is the most wonderful thing in London. Don't please, look so terrified because you haven't got your coat on! Remember that I have five brothers."

"I had no idea you would be here so soon," he explained, "or I would have been downstairs, waiting for you."

"Don't be stupid!" she replied. "Please remember that when you are with me, at any rate, you are in Bohemia and not Belgravia. I don't expect such attentions. I rather like coming up to your rooms like this, and I always love the Milan. I really believe that I am your first lady visitor here."

"You most assuredly are!" he told her.

She turned away from the window and suddenly threw up her arms.

"Oh, I love this place!" she exclaimed. "I love the sort of evening that we are going to have! I feel happy to-night. And do you know?—I quite like you, Mr. Strangewey!"

She clasped the back of her chair and from behind it looked across at him. She was petite and slender, with a very dainty figure. She wore a black tailor-made costume, a simple, round-black hat with a long quill set at a provoking angle, white-silk stockings, and black, patent shoes. She was unlike any girl John had ever known. Her hair was almost golden, her eyes a distinct blue, yet some trick of the mouth saved her face from any suggestion of insipidity. She was looking straight into his eyes, and her lips were curled most invitingly.

"I wish I knew more about certain things," he said.

She came round from behind the chair and stood a little nearer to him.

"What things?"

"You know," he said, "I am afraid there is no doubt about it that I am most horribly in love with another woman. I have come to London because of her. It seems to me that everything in life depends upon how she treats me. And yet—"

"And yet what?" she asked, looking up at him a little wistfully.

"I feel that I want to kiss you," he confessed.

"Well, if you don't get it done before the waiter brings in those cocktails, I shall scream!"

He took her lightly in his arms for a moment and kissed her. Then she threw herself down in the easy chair and began to laugh softly.

"Oh, why didn't you come before?" she exclaimed. "Fancy Louise never telling me about you!"

The waiter entered a few minutes later. He drew up a small round table between them, placed the two wineglasses upon it, and departed expeditiously. John took one of the glasses over to Sophy. She accepted it and gave him her fingers to kiss.

"Dear man," she sighed, "I am getting much too fond of you! Go and sit in your corner, drink your cocktail, and remember Louise. I love your rooms, and I hope you'll ask me to lunch some time."

"I'll have a luncheon party to-morrow, if you like—that is, if Louise will come."

She looked up at him quickly.

"Isn't Louise going to Paris?" she asked.

He set down the glass which he had been in the act of raising to his lips.

"Paris? I didn't hear her say anything about it."

"Perhaps it is my mistake, then," Sophy went on hastily. "I only fancied that I heard her say so."

There was a moment's silence. John had opened his lips to ask a question, but quickly closed them again. It was a question, he suddenly decided, which he had better ask of Louise herself.

"If she does go, I shall be very sorry," he said; "but I do not wish, of course, to upset her plans. We must talk to her about it to-night. I suppose we ought to go now."

Sophy walked with him to the door and waited while he took his hat and gloves from the hat-stand. Suddenly she laid her hand upon his arm.

"If Louise goes to Paris," she whispered disconsolately, "I suppose there will be no luncheon-party?"

For a single moment he hesitated. She was very alluring, and the challenge in her eyes was unmistakable.

"I think," he said quietly, "that if Miss Maurel goes to Paris, I shall return to Cumberland to-morrow."

He opened the door, and Sophy passed out before him. She had dropped her veil.

They drove down the Strand toward Knightsbridge. For a time there was a significant silence. Then Sophy raised her veil once more and looked toward John.

"Mr. Strangewey," she began, "you won't mind if I give you just a little word of advice? You are such a big, strong person, but you are rather a child, you know, in some things."

"This place does make me feel ignorant," he admitted.

"Don't idealize any one here," she begged. "Don't concentrate all your hopes upon one object. Love is wonderful and life is wonderful, but there is only one life, and there are many loves before one reaches the end. People do such silly things sometimes," she wound up, "just because of a little disappointment. There are many disappointments to be met with here."

He took her hand in his.

"Little girl," he said, "you are very good to me, and I think you understand. Are you going to let me feel that I have found a friend on my first evening in London?"

"If you want me," she answered simply. "I like you, and I want you to be happy here; and because I want you to be happy, I want you to come down from the clouds and remember that you have left your hills behind and that we walk on the pavements here."

"Thank you," he whispered, "and thank you for what you have not said. If I am to find sorrow here instead of joy," he added, a little grimly, "it is better for me to stumble into the knowledge of it by myself."

"Your hills have taught you just that much of life, then?" Sophy murmured.