And Stephen could find very little to say. She was sick of denials and subterfuges, sick of tacit lies which outraged her own instincts and which seemed like insults thrust upon Mary; so she left Brockett’s bolder statements unchallenged. As for the rest, she hedged a little, still vaguely mistrustful of Valérie Seymour. Yet she knew quite well that Brockett had been right—life these days must often be lonely for Mary. Why had she never thought of this before? She cursed herself for her lack of perception.
Then Brockett tactfully changed the subject; he was far too wise not to know when to stop. So now he told her about his new play, which for him was a very unusual proceeding. And as he talked on there came over Stephen a queer sense of relief at the thought that he knew. … Yes, she actually felt a sense of relief because this man knew of her relations with Mary; because there was no longer any need to behave as if those relations were shameful—at all events in the presence of Brockett. The world had at last found a chink in her armour.
VI
“We must go and see Valérie Seymour one day,” Stephen remarked quite casually that evening. “She’s a very well-known woman in Paris. I believe she gives rather jolly parties. I think it’s about time you had a few friends.”
“Oh, what fun! Yes, do let’s—I’d love it!” exclaimed Mary.
Stephen thought that her voice sounded pleased and excited, and in spite of herself she sighed a little. But after all nothing really mattered except that Mary should keep well and happy. She would certainly take her to Valérie Seymour’s—why not? She had probably been very foolish. Selfish too, sacrificing the girl to her cranks—
“Darling, of course we’ll go,” she said quickly. “I expect we’ll find it awfully amusing.”
VII
Three days later, Valérie, having seen Brockett, wrote a short but cordial invitation: “Do come in on Wednesday if you possibly can—I mean both of you, of course. Brockett’s promised to come, and one or two other interesting people. I’m so looking forward to renewing our acquaintance after all this long time, and to meeting Miss Llewellyn. But why have you never been to see me? I don’t think that was very friendly of you! However, you can make up for past neglect by coming to my little party on Wednesday. …”
Stephen tossed the letter across to Mary. “There you are!”
“How ripping—but will you go?”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes, of course. Only what about your work?”
“It will keep all right for one afternoon.”
“Are you sure?”
Stephen smiled. “Yes, I’m quite sure, darling.”
XLIV
I
Valérie’s rooms were already crowded when Stephen and Mary arrived at her reception, so crowded that at first they could not see their hostess and must stand rather awkwardly near the door—they had not been announced; one never was for some reason, when one went to Valérie Seymour’s. People looked at Stephen curiously; her height, her clothes, the scar on her face, had immediately riveted their attention.
“Quel type!” murmured Dupont the sculptor to his neighbour, and promptly decided that he wished to model Stephen. “It’s a wonderful head; I adore the strong throat. And the mouth—is it chaste, is it ardent? I wonder. How would one model that intriguing mouth?” Then being Dupont, to whom all things were allowed for the sake of his art, he moved a step nearer and stared with embarrassing admiration, combing his greyish beard with his fingers.
His neighbour, who was also his latest mistress, a small fair-haired girl of a doll-like beauty, shrugged her shoulders. “I am not very pleased with you, Dupont, your taste is becoming peculiar, mon ami—and yet you are still sufficiently virile. …”
He laughed. “Be tranquil, my little hen, I am not proposing to give you a rival.” Then he started to tease. “But what about you? I dislike the small horns that are covered with moss, even although they are no bigger than thimbles. They are irritating, those mossy horns, and exceedingly painful when they start to grow—like wisdom teeth, only even more foolish. Ah, yes, I too have my recollections. What is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, as the English say—such a practical people!”
“You are dreaming, mon pauvre bougre,” snapped the lady.
And now Valérie was making her way to the door. “Miss Gordon! I’m most awfully glad to see you and Miss Llewellyn. Have you had any tea? No, of course not, I’m an abominable hostess! Come along to the table—where’s that useless Brockett? Oh, here he is. Brockett, please be a man and get Miss Llewellyn and Miss Gordon some tea.”
Brockett sighed. “You go first then, Stephen darling, you’re so much more efficient than I am.” And he laid a soft, white hand on her shoulder, thrusting her gently but firmly forward. When they reached the buffet, he calmly stood still. “Do get me an ice-vanilla?” he murmured.
Everyone seemed to know everyone else, the atmosphere was familiar and easy. People hailed each other like intimate friends, and quite soon they were being charming to Stephen, and equally charming and kind to Mary.
Valérie was introducing her new guests with tactful allusions to Stephen’s talent: “This is Stephen Gordon—you know, the author; and Miss Llewellyn.”
Her manner was natural, and yet Stephen could not get rid of the feeling that everyone knew about her and Mary, or that if they did not actually know, they guessed, and were eager to show themselves friendly.
She thought: “Well, why not? I’m sick of lying.”
The erstwhile resentment that she had felt towards Valérie Seymour was fading completely. So pleasant it was to be made to feel welcome by all these clever and interesting people—and clever they were there was no denying; in Valérie’s salon the percentage of brains was generally well above the average. For together with those who themselves being normal, had long put
