The Yellow Crayon Part 26

The two men named rose up silently. The Prince pointed to a small round table at the farther end of the apartment, half screened off by a curtained recess.

"Am I also," Mr. Sabin asked, "of your company?"

The Prince shook his head.

"I think not," he said. "In a few moments we will return."

Mr. Sabin moved away with a slight enigmatic gesture. Lucille gathered up her skirts, making room for him by her side on a small sofa.

"It is delightful to see you, Victor," she murmured. "It is delightful to know that you trusted me."

Mr. Sabin looked at her, and the smile which no other woman had ever seen softened for a moment his face.

"Dear Lucille," he murmured, "how could you ever doubt it? There was a day, I admit, when the sun stood still, when, if I had felt inclined to turn to light literature, I should have read aloud the Book of Job. But afterwards--well, you see that I am here."

She laughed.

"I knew that you would come," she said, "and yet I knew that it would be a struggle between you and them. For--the Prince--" she murmured, lowering her voice, "had pledged his word to keep us apart."

Mr. Sabin raised his head, and his eyes traveled towards the figure of the man who sat with his back to them in the far distant corner of the room.

"The Prince," he said softly, "is faithful to his ancient enmities."

Lucille's face was troubled. She turned to her companion with a little grimace.

"He would have me believe," she murmured, "that he is faithful to other things besides his enmities."

Mr. Sabin smiled.

"I am not jealous," he said softly, "of the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer!"

As though attracted by the mention of his name, which must, however, have been unheard by him, the Prince at that moment turned round and looked for a moment towards them. He shot a quick glance at Lady Carey.

Almost at once she rose from her chair and came across to them.

"The Prince's watch-dog," Lucille murmured. "Hateful woman! She is bound hand and foot to him, and yet--"

Her eyes met his, and he laughed.

"Really," he said, "you and I in our old age might be hero and heroine of a little romance--the undesiring objects of a hopeless affection!"

Lady Carey sank into a low chair by their side. "You two," she said, with a slow, malicious smile, "are a pattern to this wicked world. Don't you know that such fidelity is positively sinful, and after three years in such a country too?"

"It is the approach of senility," Mr. Sabin answered her. "I am an old man, Lady Muriel!"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You are like Ulysses," she said. "The G.o.ds, or rather the G.o.ddesses, have helped you towards immortality."

"It is," Mr. Sabin answered, "the most delicious piece of flattery I have ever heard."

"Calypso," she murmured, nodding towards Lucille, "is by your side."

"Really," Mr. Sabin interrupted, "I must protest. Lucille and I were married by a most respectable Episcopalian clergyman. We have doc.u.mentary evidence. Besides, if Lucille is Calypso, what about Penelope?"

Lady Carey smiled thoughtfully.

"I have always thought," she said, "that Penelope was a myth. In your case I should say that Penelope represents a return to sanity--to the ordinary ways of life."

Mr. Sabin and Lucille exchanged swift glances. He raised his eyebrows.

"Our little idyll," he said, "seems to be the sport and buffet of every one. You forget that I am of the old world. I do not understand modernity."

"Ulysses," she answered, "was of the old world, yet he was a wanderer in more senses of the word than one. And there have been times--"

Her eyes sought his. He ignored absolutely the subtlety of meaning which lurked beneath the heavy drooping eyelids.

"One travels through life," he answered, "by devious paths, and a little wandering in the flower-gardens by the way is the lot of every one.

But when the journey is over, one's taste for wandering has gone--well, Ulysses finished his days at the hearth of Penelope."

She rose and walked away. Mr. Sabin sat still and watched her as though listening to the soft sweep of her gown upon the carpet.

"Hateful woman!" Lucille exclaimed lightly. "To make love, and such love, to one's lawful husband before one's face is a little crude, don't you think?"

He shook his head.

"Too obvious," he answered. "She is playing the Prince's game. Dear me, how interesting this will be soon."

She nodded. A faint smile of bitterness had stolen into her tone.

"Already," she said, "you are beginning to scent the delight of the atmosphere. You are stiffening for the fight. Soon--"

"Ah, no! Don't say it," he whispered, taking her hand. "I shall never forget. If the fight seems good to me it is because you are the prize, and after all, you know, to fight for one's womenkind is amongst the primeval instincts."

Lady Carey, who had been pacing the room restlessly, touching an ornament here, looking at a picture there, came back to them and stood before Mr. Sabin. She had caught his last words.

"Primeval instincts!" she exclaimed mockingly. "What do you know about them, you of all men, a bundle of nerves and brains, with a motor for a heart, and an automatic brake upon your pa.s.sions? Upon my word, I believe that I have solved the mystery of your perennial youth. You have found a way of subst.i.tuting machinery for the human organ, and you are wound up to go for ever."

"You have found me out," he admitted. "Professor Penningram of Chicago will supply you too with an outfit. Mention my name if you like. It is a wonderful country America."

The Prince came over to them, fair and bland with no trace upon his smooth features or in his half-jesting tone of any evil things.

"Souspennier," he said, holding out his hand, "welcome back once more to your old place. I am happy to say that there appears to be no reason why your claim should not be fully admitted."

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.

"I presume," he said, "that no very active demands are likely to be made upon my services. In this country more than any other I fear that the possibilities of my aid are scanty."

The Prince smiled.