Valérie came forward with a smile of welcome. She was not beautiful nor was she imposing, but her limbs were very perfectly proportioned, which gave her a fictitious look of tallness. She moved well, with the quiet and unconscious grace that sprang from those perfect proportions. Her face was humorous, placid and worldly; her eyes very kind, very blue, very lustrous. She was dressed all in white, and a large white fox skin was clasped round her slender and shapely shoulders. For the rest she had masses of thick fair hair, which was busily ridding itself of its hairpins; one could see at a glance that it hated restraint, like the flat it was in rather splendid disorder.
She said: “I’m so delighted to meet you at last, Miss Gordon, do come and sit down. And please smoke if you want to,” she added quickly, glancing at Stephen’s telltale fingers.
Brockett said: “Positively, this is too splendid! I feel that you’re going to be wonderful friends.”
Stephen thought: “So this is Valérie Seymour.”
No sooner were they seated than Brockett began to ply their hostess with personal questions. The mood that had incubated in the motor was now becoming extremely aggressive, so that he fidgeted about on his chair, making his little inadequate gestures. “Darling, you’re looking perfectly lovely! But do tell me, what have you done with Polinska? Have you drowned her in the blue grotto at Capri? I hope so, my dear, she was such a bore and so dirty! Do tell me about Polinska. How did she behave when you got her to Capri? Did she bite anybody before you drowned her? I always felt frightened; I loathe being bitten!”
Valérie frowned: “I believe she’s quite well.”
“Then you have drowned her, darling!” shrilled Brockett.
And now he was launched on a torrent of gossip about people of whom Stephen had never even heard: “Pat’s been deserted—have you heard that, darling? Do you think she’ll take the veil or cocaine or something? One never quite knows what may happen next with such an emotional temperament, does one? Arabella’s skipped off to the Lido with Jane Grigg. The Grigg’s just come into pots and pots of money, so I hope they’ll be deliriously happy and silly while it lasts—I mean the money. … Oh, and have you heard about Rachel Morris? They say. …” He flowed on and on like a brook in spring flood, while Valérie yawned and looked bored, making monosyllabic answers.
And Stephen as she sat there and smoked in silence, thought grimly: “This is all being said because of me. Brockett wants to let me see that he knows what I am, and he wants to let Valérie Seymour know too—I suppose this is making me welcome.” She hardly knew whether to feel outraged or relieved that here, at least, was no need for pretences.
But after a while she began to fancy that Valérie’s eyes had become appraising. They were weighing her up and secretly approving the result, she fancied. A slow anger possessed her. Valérie Seymour was secretly approving, not because her guest was a decent human being with a will to work, with a well-trained brain, with what might some day become a fine talent, but rather because she was seeing before her all the outward stigmata of the abnormal—verily the wounds of One nailed to a cross—that was why Valérie sat there approving.
And then, as though these bitter thoughts had reached her, Valérie suddenly smiled at Stephen. Turning her back on the chattering Brockett, she started to talk to her guest quite gravely about her work, about books in general, about life in general; and as she did so Stephen began to understand better the charm that many had found in this woman; a charm that lay less in physical attraction than in a great courtesy and understanding, a great will to please, a great impulse towards beauty in all its forms—yes, therein lay her charm. And as they talked on it dawned upon Stephen that here was no mere libertine in love’s garden, but rather a creature born out of her epoch, a pagan chained to an age that was Christian, one who would surely say with Pierre Louÿs: “Le monde moderne succombe sous un envahissement de laideur.” And she thought that she discerned in those luminous eyes, the pale yet ardent light of the fanatic.
Presently Valérie Seymour asked her how long she would be remaining in Paris.
And Stephen answered: “I’m going to live here,” feeling surprised at the words as she said them, for not until now had she made this decision.
Valérie seemed pleased: “If you want a house, I know of one in the Rue Jacob; it’s a tumbledown place, but it’s got a fine garden. Why not go and see it? You might go tomorrow. Of course you’ll have to live on this side, the Rive Gauche is the only possible Paris.”
“I should like to see the old house,” said Stephen.
So Valérie went to the telephone there and then and proceeded to call up the landlord. The appointment was made for eleven the next morning. “It’s rather a sad old house,” she warned, “no one has troubled to make it a home for some time, but you’ll alter all that if you take it, because I suppose you’ll make it your home.”
Stephen flushed: “My home’s in England,” she said quickly, for her thoughts had instantly flown back to Morton.
But Valérie answered: “One may have two homes—many homes. Be courteous to our lovely Paris and give it the privilege of being your second home—it will feel very honoured, Miss Gordon.” She sometimes made little ceremonious speeches like this, and coming from her, they sounded strangely old-fashioned.
Brockett, rather subdued and distinctly pensive as sometimes happened if Valérie had snubbed him, complained of a pain above his right eye: “I must take some phenacetin,” he said
