Ours was a friendship almost untouched by sex. Our minds fitted so smoothly into one another that I had no inclination to fall in love. I knew her too well. I had no discoveries to make about her. Her honest, simple soul had always been open to me to read. There was none of that curiosity, that sense of something beyond that makes for love. We had reached a point of comradeship beyond which neither of us desired to pass.
Yet at the Fletchers’ ball I asked Cynthia to marry me, and she consented.
Looking back, I can see that, though the determining cause was Mr. Tankerville Gifford, it was Audrey who was responsible. She had made me human, capable of sympathy, and it was sympathy, primarily, that led me to say what I said that night.
But the immediate cause was certainly young Mr. Gifford.
I arrived at Marlow Square, where I was to pick up Cynthia and her mother, a little late, and found Mrs. Drassilis, florid and overdressed, in the drawing-room with a sleek-haired, pale young man known to me as Tankerville Gifford—to his intimates, of whom I was not one, and in the personal paragraphs of the coloured sporting weeklies, as “Tanky.” I had seen him frequently at restaurants. Once, at the Empire, somebody had introduced me to him; but, as he had not been sober at the moment, he had missed any intellectual pleasure my acquaintanceship might have afforded him. Like everybody else who moves about in London, I knew all about him. To sum him up, he was a most unspeakable little cad, and, if the drawing-room had not been Mrs. Drassilis’s, I should have wondered at finding him in it.
Mrs. Drassilis introduced us.
“I think we have already met,” I said.
He stared glassily.
“Don’t remember.”
I was not surprised.
At this moment Cynthia came in. Out of the corner of my eye I observed a look of fuddled displeasure come into Tanky’s face at her frank pleasure at seeing me.
I had never seen her looking better. She is a tall girl, who carries herself magnificently. The simplicity of her dress gained an added dignity from comparison with the rank glitter of her mother’s. She wore unrelieved black, a colour which set off to wonderful advantage the clear white of her skin and her pale-gold hair.
“You’re late, Peter,” she said, looking at the clock.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Better be pushing, what?” suggested Tanky.
“My cab’s waiting.”
“Will you ring the bell, Mr. Gifford?” said Mrs. Drassilis. “I will tell Parker to whistle for another.”
“Take me in yours,” I heard a voice whisper in my ear.
I looked at Cynthia. Her expression had not changed. Then I looked at Tanky Gifford, and I understood. I had seen that stuffed-fish look on his face before—on the occasion when I had been introduced to him at the Empire.
“If you and Mr. Gifford will take my cab,” I said to Mrs. Drassilis, “we will follow.”
Mrs. Drassilis blocked the motion. I imagine that the sharp note in her voice was lost on Tanky, but it rang out like a clarion to me.
“I am in no hurry,” she said. “Mr. Gifford, will you take Cynthia? I will follow with Mr. Burns. You will meet Parker on the stairs. Tell him to call another cab.”
As the door closed behind them, she turned on me like a many-coloured snake.
“How can you be so extraordinarily tactless, Peter?” she cried. “You’re a perfect fool. Have you no eyes?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“He’s devoted to her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sorry for her.”
She seemed to draw herself together inside her dress. Her eyes glittered. My mouth felt very dry, and my heart was beginning to thump. We were both furiously angry. It was a moment that had been coming for years, and we both knew it. For my part I was glad that it had come. On subjects on which one feels deeply it is a relief to speak one’s mind.
“Oh!” she said at last. Her voice quivered. She was clutching at her self-control as it slipped from her. “Oh! And what is my daughter to you, Mr. Burns!”
“A great friend.”
“And I suppose you think it friendly to try to spoil her chances?”
“If Mr. Gifford is a sample of them—yes.”
“What do you mean?”
She choked.
“I see. I understand. I am going to put a stop to this once and for all. Do you hear? I have noticed it for a long time. Because I have given you the run of the house, and allowed you to come in and out as you pleased, like a tame cat, you presume—”
“Presume—” I prompted.
“You come here and stand in Cynthia’s way. You trade on the fact that you have known us all this time to monopolize her attention. You spoil her chances. You—”
The invaluable Parker entered to say that the cab was at the door.
We drove to the Fletchers’ house in silence. The spell had been broken. Neither of us could recapture that first, fine, careless rapture which had carried us through the opening stages of the conflict, and discussion of the subject on a less exalted plane was impossible. It was that blessed period of calm, the rest between rounds, and we observed it to the full.
When I reached the ballroom a waltz was just finishing. Cynthia, a statue in black, was dancing with Tanky Gifford. They were opposite me when the music stopped, and she caught sight of me over his shoulder.
She disengaged herself and moved quickly towards me.
“Take me away,” she said under her breath. “Anywhere. Quick.”
It was no time to consider the etiquette of the ballroom. Tanky, startled at his sudden loneliness, seemed by his expression to be endeavouring to bring his mind to bear on the matter. A couple making for the door cut us off from him, and following them, we passed out.
Neither of us spoke till we had reached the little room where I had meditated.
She sat down. She was looking pale and tired.
“Oh, dear!” she said.
I understood. I seemed to see that
