When William Came

answering disturbance on the part of that superbly tranquil young man, and certainly called in vain.  Cicely had set up for herself a fetish of onyx with eyes of jade, and doubtless hungered at times with an unreasonable but perfectly natural hunger for something of flesh and blood.  It was the religion of her life to know exactly what she wanted and to see that she got it, but there was no possible guarantee against her occasionally experiencing a desire for something else.  It is the golden rule of all religions that no one should really live up to their precepts; when a man observes the principles of his religion too exactly he is in immediate danger of founding a new sect.

“To-day is going to be your day of triumph,” said Cicely to the young man, who was wondering at the moment whether he would care to embark on an artichoke; “I believe I’m more nervous than you are,” she added, “and yet I rather hate the idea of you scoring a great success.”

“Why?” asked Ronnie, diverting his mind for a moment from the artichoke question and its ramifications of sauce hollandaise or vinaigre.

“I like you as you are,” said Cicely, “just a nice-looking boy to flatter and spoil and pretend to be fond of.  You’ve got a charming young body and you’ve no soul, and that’s such a fascinating combination.  If you had a soul you would either dislike or worship me, and I’d much rather have things as they are.  And now you are going to go a step beyond that, and other people will applaud you and say that you are wonderful, and invite you to eat with them and motor with them and yacht with them.  As soon as that begins to happen, Ronnie, a lot of other things will come to an end.  Of course I’ve always known that you don’t really care for me, but as soon as the world knows it you are irrevocably damaged as a plaything.  That is the great secret that binds us together, the knowledge that we have no real affection for one another.  And this afternoon every one will know that you are a great artist, and no great artist was ever a great lover.”

“I shan’t be difficult to replace, anyway,” said Ronnie, with what he imagined was a becoming modesty; “there are lots of boys standing round ready to be fed and flattered and put on an imaginary pedestal, most of them more or less good-looking and well turned out and amusing to talk to.”

“Oh, I dare say I could find a successor for your vacated niche,” said Cicely lightly; “one thing I’m determined on though, he shan’t be a musician.  It’s so unsatisfactory to have to share a grand passion with a grand piano.  He shall be a delightful young barbarian who would think Saint Saens was a Derby winner or a claret.”

“Don’t be in too much of a hurry to replace me,” said Ronnie, who did not care to have his successor too seriously discussed.  “I may not score the success you expect this afternoon.”

“My dear boy, a minor crowned head from across the sea is coming to hear you play, and that alone will count as a success with most of your listeners.  Also, I’ve secured a real Duchess for you, which is rather an achievement in the London of to-day.”

“An English Duchess?” asked Ronnie, who had early in life learned to apply the Merchandise Marks Act to ducal titles.

“English, oh certainly, at least as far as the title goes; she was born under the constellation of the Star-spangled Banner.  I don’t suppose the Duke approves of her being here, lending her countenance to the fait accompli, but when you’ve got republican blood in your veins a Kaiser is quite as attractive a lodestar as a King, rather more so.  And Canon Mousepace is coming,” continued Cicely, referring to a closely-written list of guests; “the excellent von Tolb has been attending his church lately, and the Canon is longing to meet her.  She is just the sort of person he adores.  I fancy he sincerely realises how difficult it will be for the rich to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, and he tries to make up for it by being as nice as possible to them in this world.”

Ronnie held out his hand for the list.

“I think you know most of the others,” said Cicely, passing it to him.

“Leutnant von Gabelroth?” read out Ronnie; “who is he?”

“In one of the hussar regiments quartered here; a friend of the Grafin’s.  Ugly but amiable, and I’m told a good cross-country rider.  I suppose Murrey will be disgusted at meeting the ‘outward and visible sign’ under his roof, but these encounters are inevitable as long as he is in London.”

“I didn’t know Murrey was coming,” said Ronnie.

“I believe he’s going to look in on us,” said Cicely; “it’s just as well, you know, otherwise we should have Joan asking in her loudest voice when he was going to be back in England again.  I haven’t asked her, but she overheard the Grafin arranging to come and hear you play, and I fancy that will be quite enough.”

“How about some Turkish coffee?” said Ronnie, who had decided against the artichoke.

“Turkish coffee, certainly, and a cigarette, and a moment’s peace before the serious business of the afternoon claims us.  Talking about peace, do you know, Ronnie, it has just occurred to me that we have left out one of the most important things in our affaire; we have never had a quarrel.”

“I hate quarrels,” said Ronnie, “they are so domesticated.”