The Grey Lady Part 31

"The Terrific."

There was an account of the new war-s.h.i.+p in the evening paper which Agatha had laid aside, and Fitz was impolitely glancing at this while he spoke. The journal gave the names of the officers. Fitz was wondering whether Eve Challoner ever saw the Globe.

Mrs. Ingham-Baker became lost in a maternal fit of admiration. She was looking at Agatha with her head on one side. At intervals she glanced towards Fitz--an inviting glance, as if to draw his attention to the fact that one of Nature's most perfect productions was waiting to gladden his vision.

"Look!" that little glance seemed to say. "Look at Agatha. IS she not lovely?"

But Fitz was still wondering whether Eve was in the habit of reading the Globe. He often wondered thus about her daily habits, trying to picture, in his ignorant masculine way, the hours and minutes of a girl's daily existence.

Mrs. Ingham-Baker could not stand this waste of his time and Agatha's dress.

"What do you think of the frock?" she asked Mrs. Harrington, in a whisper which was audible to every one in the room.

"It is very pretty," replied the hostess, who happened to be in a good humour. Dress possessed a small corner of her cold heart. It was one of very few weaknesses. It was almost a redeeming point in a too man-like character. Her own dresses were always perfect, usually of the richest silk--and grey. Hence she was known as the Grey Lady, and only a few--for Society has neither time nor capacity for thought--wondered whether the colour had penetrated to her soul.

The two now became engaged in a technical conversation, which was only interrupted by the arrival of tea. Luke and Agatha were talking about Malta. She was telling him that their friends in Valetta had invited them to go again next year, and the Croonah was mentioned.

While the hostess was attending to the teapot, Mrs. Ingham-Baker took the opportunity of disturbing Fitz--of stirring him up, so to speak, and making him look at Agatha.

"Do you think you would have recognised your old playmate if you had met her accidentally--to-night, for instance, at the ball?" she asked.

Again the inviting glance toward her daughter, to which Fitz naturally responded. It was too obvious to ignore.

"No; I do not think so," he replied, going back in his mind to the recollection of a thin-legged little girl with lank hair.

Mrs. Ingham-Baker's proud eyes rested complacently on her offspring.

"Do you like her dress?" she asked in a whisper--only audible to him. But Agatha knew the gist of it. The arm and shoulder nearest to them gave a little jerk of self-consciousness.

"Very pretty," replied Fitz; and Mrs. Ingham-Baker stored the remark away for future use. For all she knew--or all she wanted to know-- it might refer to Agatha's self.

"I am afraid I shall lose her, you know--horribly afraid," whispered Mrs. Ingham-Baker, knowing the value of compet.i.tion in all things.

Fitz looked genuinely sympathetic, and glanced at Agatha again, wondering what disease had marked her for its own. Mrs. Ingham- Baker thought fit to explain indirectly, as was her wont.

"She is very much admired," she said under her breath, with a sigh and a lugubrious shake of the head.

"Oh," murmured Fitz, with a smile.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Ingham-Baker. She heaved a sigh, observed a decent pause, and then added, "Does it surprise you?"

"Not in the least. It is most natural."

"You think so--really?"

"Of course I do," answered Fitz.

There was another little pause, and Mrs. Ingham-Baker then said, in a tone of friendly confidence -

"I advise you to secure your dances early. She will be engaged three deep in a very short time--a lot of mere boys she does not want to dance with."

Fitz thanked her fervently, and went to help Mrs. Harrington.

Mrs. Ingham-Baker sat back in her chair, well pleased with herself.

Like many of her kind, she began the social campaign with the initial error of underrating her natural foes--young men.

CHAPTER V. THE TEAR ON THE SWORD.

But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost.

Agatha was singularly uncertain of herself. If it had not been for her education--at the Brighton school they had taught her that tears are not only idle, but also harmful to the complexion--she would have felt inclined to weep.

There was something wrong about the world this evening, and she did not know what it was. Little things irritated her--such as the creak of Mrs. Harrington's rich silk dress as that lady breathed.

Agatha almost hated Fitz, without knowing why. She wanted Luke to come and speak to her, and yet the necessity of limiting their conversation to mere social plat.i.tudes made her hope that he would not do so.

At length she rose to go and make her last preparations for the ball. The old habit was so strong upon her that unconsciously she gave a little swing of the hips to throw her skirt out--to show herself to the greatest advantage in the perfect dress. There was a tiny suggestion of the thoroughbred horse in the paddock--as there always is in the att.i.tude of some young persons, though they would not be grateful were one to tell them of it--a certain bridling, a sleek step, and a lamentably obvious search for the eye of admiration. Fitz opened the door for her, and she gave him a glance as she pa.s.sed him--a preliminary shot to find the range, as it were- -to note which way the wind blew.

In the dimly-lighted hall Agatha suddenly became aware of a hot sensation in the eyelids. The temperature of the tear of vexation is a high one. As she pa.s.sed towards the staircase, her glance was attracted by a sword, bright of hilt, dark of sheath. Fitz's sword, lying with his white gloves on the table, where he had laid them on coming into the house. The footman had drawn the blade an inch or so from the sheath--to look at the chasing--to handle the steel that deals in warfare with all the curiosity of one whose business lies among the knives of peace.

Agatha paused and looked at the tokens of Fitz's calling. She thought of Luke, who had no sword. And the hot unwonted tear fell on the blade.

All the evening Mrs. Harrington had been marked in her attention to Fitz. It was quite obvious that he was--for the moment, at all events--the favoured nephew. And Mrs. Ingham-Baker noted these things.

"My dear," she whispered to Agatha, when they were waiting in the hall for their hostess, "it is Fitz, of course. I can see that with half an eye."

Agatha shrugged her shoulders in a rude manner, suggesting almost that her mother was deprived of more reliable means of observation than the moiety mentioned.

"What is Fitz?" she asked, with weary patience.

"Well, I can only tell you that she has called him 'dear' twice this evening, and I have never heard her do the same to Luke."

"A lot Luke cares!" muttered Agatha scornfully, and her mother, whose sense of logic did not run to the perception that Luke's feelings were beside the question, discreetly collapsed into her voluminous wraps.

She was, however, quite accustomed to be treated thus with contumely, and then later to see her suggestions acted upon--a feminine consolation which men would do well to take unto themselves. As soon as they entered the ball-room, Mrs. Ingham- Baker, with that supernatural perspicacity which is sometimes found in stupid mothers, saw that Agatha was refusing her usual partners.

She noted her daughter's tactics with mingled awe and admiration, both of which tributes were certainly deserved. She saw Agatha look straight through one man at the decorations on the wall behind; she saw her greet an amorous youth of tender years with a semi-maternal air of protection which at once blighted his hopes, cured his pa.s.sion, and made him abandon the craving for a dance. Agatha was evidently reserving herself and her programme for some special purposes, and she did it with a skill bred of long experience.

Luke was the first to come and ask for a dance--nay, he demanded it.

"Do you remember the last time we danced together?" he asked, as he wrote on her card.

"Yes," she replied, in a voice which committed her to nothing. She did not look at him, but past him; to where Fitz was talking to Mrs.

Harrington.

But he was not content with that. He retained the card and stood in front of her, waiting with suppressed pa.s.sion in every muscle, waiting for her to meet his eyes.

At last, almost against her will, she did, and for one brief moment she was supremely happy. It was only, however, for a moment. Sent, apparently, by a very practical Providence to save her from herself, a young man bl.u.s.tered good-naturedly through the crowd and planted himself before her with a cheery aplomb which seemed to indicate his supposition that in bringing her his presence he brought the desire of her heart and the brightest moment of the evening.