But Mary must naturally ask a few questions. What was he like? Where had Stephen known him?—she had never mentioned a man called Hallam—where had she known him, in London or at Morton?
And finally: “How old were you when you knew him?”
“Let me think—I must have been just eighteen.”
“How old was he?”
“Twenty-two—very young—I only knew him for quite a short time; after that he went back to British Columbia. But I liked him so much—we were very great friends—so I’m hoping that you’re going to like him too, darling.”
“Stephen, you are strange. Why haven’t you told me that you once had a very great friend—a man? I’ve always thought that you didn’t like men.”
“On the contrary, I like them very much. But I haven’t seen Martin for years and years. I’ve hardly ever thought about him until I got his letter this morning. Now, sweetheart, we don’t want the poor man to starve—you really must go off and try to find Pauline.”
When she had gone Stephen rubbed her chin with thoughtful and rather uncertain fingers.
II
He came. Amazing how little he had changed. He was just the same clean-shaven, bony-faced Martin, with the slow blue eyes and the charming expression, and the loose-limbed figure that slouched from much riding; only now there were a few faint lines round his eyes, and the hair had gone snow-white on his temples. Just beside the right temple was a deep little scar—it must have been a near thing, that bullet.
He said: “My dear, it is good to see you.” And he held Stephen’s hand in his own thin brown ones.
She felt the warm, friendly grip of his fingers, and the years dropped away. “I’m so glad you wrote, Martin.”
“So am I. I can’t tell you how glad I am. And all the time we were both in Paris, and we never knew. Well, now that I’ve found you, we’ll cling like grim death, if you don’t mind, Stephen.”
As Mary came into the room they were laughing.
She looked less tired, Stephen thought with satisfaction, or perhaps it was that her dress became her—she was always at her best in the evening.
Stephen said quite simply: “This is Martin, Mary.”
They shook hands, and as they did so they smiled. Then they stared at each other for a moment, almost gravely.
He proved to be wonderfully easy to talk to. He did not seem surprised that Mary Llewellyn was installed as the mistress of Stephen’s home; he just accepted the thing as he found it. Yet he let it be tacitly understood that he had grasped the exact situation.
After dinner Stephen inquired about his sight: was it badly injured? His eyes looked so normal. Then he told them the history of the trouble at full length, going into details with the confidence displayed by most children and lonely people.
He had got his knockout in 1918. The bullet had grazed the optic nerve. At first he had gone to a base hospital, but as soon as he could he had come to Paris to be treated by a very celebrated man. He had been in danger of losing the sight of the right eye; it had scared him to death, he told them. But after three months he had had to go home; things had gone wrong on some of his farms owing to the mismanagement of a bailiff. The oculist had warned him that the trouble might recur, that he ought to have remained under observation. Well, it had recurred about four months ago. He had got the wind up and rushed back to Paris. For three weeks he had lain in a darkened room, not daring to think of the possible verdict. Eyes were so tiresomely sympathetic: if the one went the other might easily follow. But, thank God, it had proved to be less serious than the oculist had feared. His sight was saved, but he had to go slow, and was still under treatment. The eye would have to be watched for some time; so here he was with Aunt Sarah at Passy.
“You must see my Aunt Sarah, you two; she’s a darling. She’s my father’s sister. I know you’ll like her. She’s become very French since her second marriage, a little too Faubourg St. Germain perhaps, but so kind—I want you to meet her at once. She’s quite a well-known hostess at Passy.”
They talked on until well after twelve o’clock—very happy they were together that evening, and he left with a promise to ring them up on the following morning about lunch with Aunt Sarah.
“Well,” said Stephen, “what do you think of my friend?”
“I think he’s most awfully nice,” said Mary.
III
Aunt Sarah lived in the palatial house that a grateful second husband had left her. For years she had borne with his peccadilloes, keeping her temper and making no scandal. The result was that everything he possessed apart from what had gone to her stepson—and the Comte de Mirac had been very wealthy—had found its way to the patient Aunt Sarah. She was one of those survivals who look upon men as a race of especially privileged beings. Her judgment of women was more severe, influenced no doubt by the ancien régime, for now she was even more French than the French whose language she spoke like a born Parisian.
She was sixty-five, tall, had an aquiline nose, and her iron-grey hair was dressed to perfection; for the rest she had Martin’s slow blue eyes and thin face, though she lacked his charming expression. She bred Japanese spaniels, was kind to young girls who conformed in all things to the will of their parents, was particularly gracious to good-looking men, and adored her only surviving nephew. In her opinion he could do no wrong, though she wished that he would settle down in Paris. As Stephen and Mary were her nephew’s friends, she was predisposed
