Bird of Paradise Part 6

She murmured that it would be lovely.

"I should like to drive you home," he said rather half-heartedly, as they stood at the door in the rain; "in fact, I should insist upon doing so ..."

"Oh no!"

... "But I have an appointment with a friend I'm expecting to call for me here. Au revoir, then!"

She went away happy, disturbed, anxious and delighted, as she always was when she had seen him. She ran straight to her dressing-table, took off her hat, put something gold in her hair and tried to look Byzantine.

He returned to the little table. He had it cleared, and ordered fresh tea and cakes. Then he took out his watch.

In about twenty minutes, during which he grew rather nervous and impatient, he rose and went to the door again to greet another guest, who had been invited to tea an hour and a half later than Madeline.

She also was a young girl, good-looking, very dark and rather inclined to fullness in face and figure. When I say that she had handsome regular aquiline features, two thick curtains of black hair drawn over her ears, from which depended long ear-rings of imitation coral, it seems almost unnecessary to add (for this type of girl always dresses in the same way) that she wore a flat violet felt hat, the back of which touched her shoulders, a particularly tight dark blue serge coat and skirt, a very low collar, and lisle thread stockings which showed above low s.h.i.+ny shoes with white spats. In her hands she held a pair of new white gloves, unworn.

She bounced in with a good deal of _aplomb_, and, without apologising for her lateness, began to chatter a little louder than most of the people present, and with great confidence.

"No, not China tea, thanks. I prefer Indian. Oh, not cream cakes; I hate them. Can't I have hot tea-cakes? Thanks. I've no idea what the time is.

I've been to Mimsie's studio. She would insist on doing a drawing of me, and I'm sitting to her"--she turned her face a little on one side--"like this, you know."

"Is it like you, Miss Chivvey?"

"Oh, good gracious, I hope not! At least I hope I'm not like _it_! I don't want to have a pretty picture, I'm sure. But Mimsie's awfully clever. It's sure to be all right. Do you know her? I must take you to her studio one day."

"Thanks immensely," said Rupert Denison, a little coolly. "But--it may seem odd to you, but I haven't the slightest desire to increase my acquaintance at my age. In fact, do you know, I think I know quite enough people--in every set," he added.

As he poured out some milk, she jumped and gave a little shriek.

"Oh, _don't_ do that. I never take milk. What a bad memory you've got!

Funny place this, isn't it?" She was looking round. "I don't think I've ever been here before."

"Don't you like the plan of it?" he said, looking round at the walls and ceiling. "It may not be perfect, but really, for London, it isn't bad.

It seems to me that anyone can see that it was designed by a gentleman."

"You mean anyone can see it's not designed by an architect?" she asked, with a laugh so loud that he raised a finger.

He then carefully introduced the subject of hats and advised her to go, for millinery, to Selfridge. They discussed it at length, and it was settled by his offering her a hat as a birthday present. She accepted, of course, with a loud laugh.

Rupert, with his mania for educating and improving young people, had begun, about a fortnight ago, trying to polish Miss Chivvey. But he had his doubts as to its being possible; and he was, all the same, beginning to be a little carried away. She was sometimes (he owned) amusing; and it was unusual for him to be laughed at. How differently Madeline regarded him!

However, he drove Moona home to Camden Hill and promised to meet her and help her to choose a hat.

"But I sha'n't let you interfere too much. What do men know of millinery?" she asked contemptuously.

"I am sure I know what would suit you," he replied. "You see, you're very vivid, and very much alive; you stand out, so you really want, if I may say so, attenuating, subduing, shading."

"Perhaps you would like me to put my head in a bag?"

"No one would regret that more than I should."

"I foresee we're going to quarrel about this hat," she answered. "Now, Mr. Denison, do let me explain to you, I don't want anything _smart_. I don't want to look like _Paris Fas.h.i.+ons_."

"No? What do you want to look like?"

"Why, artistic, of course! What a blighter you are!"

Rupert winced at this vague accusation. They were nearly at her house and he put his hand on hers in a way that was rather controlling than caressing.

"Let me have one little pleasure. Let me choose your hat myself," he said. He was terrified at the idea of what she might come out in on artistic grounds. Then she would tell all her friends it was a present from him! She had no sort of reticence.

"Well, I suppose you must have your own way. Do you really know anything about it?" she asked doubtfully.

"Rather. Everything!"

They arrived. She jumped out.

"Well, I'll ring you up and tell you when I can go there and meet you.

Good-bye! You _are_ a nut!"

CHAPTER V

A HAPPY HOME

The first six months after his marriage it used to give Nigel a thrill of gratification and vanity to go home to his house, one of the finest in Grosvenor Street, and splendidly kept up. Then he had suddenly grown horribly sick of it, longed for freedom in a garret, and now he a.s.sociated it with no thrill of pride or pleasure, but with boredom, depression, quarrels and lack of liberty. Liberty! Ah! That was it; that was what he felt more than anything else. He had married for money chiefly to _get_ liberty. One was a slave, always in debt--but it was much worse now. The master of the house lost all his vitality, gaiety and air of command the moment he came into the hall.

"Where's Mrs. Hillier?"

"Mrs. Hillier is in the boudoir, sir."

The boudoir was a little pink and blue Louis Seize room on the ground floor, opposite the dining-room. From the window Mary could watch for Nigel. That was what she always did. She hardly ever did anything else.

Few women were so independent of such aids to idleness as light literature (how heavy it generally is!), newspapers, needlework or a piano. Few people indeed had such a concentrated interest in one subject. She was sitting in an arm-chair, with folded hands, looking out of the window. It was a point of vantage, whence she could see Nigel arrive more quickly than from anywhere else.

As soon as he caught the first glimpse of her at the window it began to get on his nerves. It was maddening to be waited for. ...

"You're five minutes late," she said abruptly, as he came in. She always spoke abruptly, even when she wanted to be most amiable. He was determined not to be bad-tempered, and smiled good-naturedly.

"Am I? So sorry." He was very quick and rapid in every word and movement, but soft and suave--never blunt, as she was.

"Where have you been?"

"I went to look at those pictures in Bond Street," he replied, without a moment's hesitation.

He had come straight from seeing Bertha--on the subject of Madeline and Rupert--but he never thought of telling her that.

"Oh! Why didn't you take _me_?"