When they were not driving into the country, or amusing themselves by ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keep herself fit—would fence as never before with Buisson, so that Buisson would sometimes say with a grin:
“Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it almost appears that you wish to kill me!”
The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning: “She fence very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, so strong and so graceful.” Which considering all things was generous of Buisson.
But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: “More than seventy francs have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon Dieu! Is this winning the war? We starve, we go short of our butter and chickens, and before it is better it is surely much worse. We are all imbeciles, we kindhearted French; we starve ourselves to fatten the Germans. Are they grateful? Sacré Nom! Mais oui, they are grateful—they love us so much that they spit in our faces!” And quite often this mood would be vented on Stephen.
To Mary, however, he was usually polite: “You like our Paris? I am glad—that is good. You make the home with Mademoiselle Gordon; I hope you prevent her injurious smoking.”
And in spite of his outbursts Mary adored him, because of his interest in Stephen’s fencing.
II
One evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked in serenely: “Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I’ve turned up again—not that I love you, I positively hate you. I’ve been keeping away for weeks and weeks. Why did you never answer my letters? Not so much as a line on a picture postcard! There’s something in this more than meets the eye. And where’s Puddle? She used to be kind to me once—I shall lay my head down on her bosom and weep. …” He stopped abruptly, seeing Mary Llewellyn, who got up from her deep armchair in the corner.
Stephen said: “Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett—an old friend of mine; we’re fellow writers. Brockett, this is Mary Llewellyn.”
Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen’s direction, then he bowed and gravely shook hands with Mary.
And now Stephen was to see yet another side of this strange and unexpected creature. With infinite courtesy and tact he went out of his way to make himself charming. Never by so much as a word or a look did he once allow it to be inferred that his quick mind had seized on the situation. Brockett’s manner suggested an innocence that he was very far from possessing.
Stephen began to study him with interest; they two had not met since before the war. He had thickened, his figure was more robust, there was muscle and flesh on his wide, straight shoulders. And she thought that his face had certainly aged; little bags were showing under his eyes, and rather deep lines at the sides of his mouth—the war had left its mark upon Brockett. Only his hands remained unchanged; those white and soft skinned hands of a woman.
He was saying: “So you two were in the same Unit. That was a great stroke of luck for Stephen; I mean she’d be feeling horribly lonely now that old Puddle’s gone back to England. Stephen’s distinguished herself I see—Croix de Guerre and a very becoming scar. Don’t protest, my dear Stephen, you know it’s becoming. All that happened to me was a badly sprained ankle;” he laughed, “fancy going out to Mesopotamia to slip on a bit of orange peel! I might have done better than that here in Paris. By the way, I’m in my own flat again now; I hope you’ll bring Miss Llewellyn to luncheon.”
He did not stay embarrassingly late, nor did he leave suggestively early; he got up to go at just the right moment. But when Mary went out of the room to call Pierre, he quite suddenly put his arm through Stephen’s.
“Good luck, my dear, you deserve it;” he murmured, and his sharp grey eyes had grown almost gentle: “I hope you’ll be very, very happy.”
Stephen quietly disengaged her arm with a look of surprise: “Happy? Thank you, Brockett,” she smiled, as she lighted a cigarette.
III
They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things to do, Mary’s bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she had Puddle’s old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country, spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for Deauville—his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain for a month—but what did they want that summer with people? On those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now read aloud to Mary, leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary said:
“Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I could dream true?”
And Stephen answered: “I often wonder whether we’re not dreaming true all the time—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.” Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams, which will seem very concrete to lovers.
Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in
