One leather arm had the old man by the shoulder. Iris’s face seemed painted white.
“Truble,” she said, so huskily, “I am so sorry to have upset you. You have been faithful to me, Truble, for thirty years, and now, I suppose, you mustn’t love me any more. You don’t love me any more, Truble?”
“Miss Iris, Miss Iris! There’s no good comes from loving, I see that!”
“Then, Truble, I here and now do release you from giving me a thought ever again. Adieu, Truble.”
Her face painted white, her eyes absorbed in what they did not see, she came down to where I stood. “Come,” she said, expressionless. She could make her words into pieces of iron, and I did not dare to look at the motionless old man at the head of the steps. We skirted the house in silence. I supposed we were on a lawn. The rains of yesterday had not softened the drought, the grass was hard as stone under the feet. I said: “Iris, you are moved already—you who were not to be moved by anything that was said!”
I felt her fingers tightening round my arm. Hers were strong white fingers. “I hadn’t bargained for Truble. He should have been in bed by now. Often in moments of self-hatred and contempt I have taken a little heart from that old man’s devotion. And he would always send me wishes on my birthday. No, I hadn’t bargained for Truble. … Look!”
“Why, they are playing bridge!”
“And, dear, how grimly! See, Hilary is looking quite young, he must have a bad hand. And Guy Apollo Belvedere—Oh, he’s thinking!—and then he plays the wrong card! Ah, poor Guy! He always did treat his trumps as though they were tulips, with too much respect. And Sir Maurice! Now, dear heart, what do you think of Sir Maurice? Isn’t he the handsome soldier!”
“Oh, handsome! Napier with a gay sinner’s face. …”
“Judge him for me! Oh, do! Here we are, conspirators, whispering. Now, judge me, first, Mr. Townshend of Magralt.”
“Iris, must I! Can I? I can’t!”
“Of course you must, can, will! Speak without thinking. It is only thus that truth is made.”
“He is a good man. His goodness is supported by his principles, his kindness is rebuked by his prejudices. He is not a weak man, but he is the weakest man in that room. He has loved but one woman in his life, and she has crucified his heart on a hundred carnal Calvarys. But he still loves her, and that is why he is the weakest man in that room.”
“And you, satyr, you are the cruellest man I ever met in my life! But judge me, secondly, my lord Viscount de Travest.”
“He is the elder brother of honour. He is that rarest of men, a schoolboy who has grown out of his schooldays but remains, by strength of will, a schoolboy. He prefers to be that. He never did an unworthy thing, and has thought less mean ones than most people. Like all decent Englishmen, he is like a woman: he knows everything without ever having been taught anything. He has a profound sense of obedience, therefore he is a good commander. He never thinks when he is alone, lest thoughts should undermine his sense of obedience and paralyse his habit of command. One day a thought will strike him, and instantly he will cease to be the captain of his soul. He is the only man in England who actually believes in obeying the King.”
“Oh, how horrified the King would be! And of Sir Maurice, enemy to Iris March, what have you to say? Besides the fact that he is the cleverest man in that room. Oh, he is clever, that Maurice! It was he who had old Truble waiting for me. Judge me that man!”
“But I don’t know him, Iris!”
“His face is there, man—the proconsular features, the cunning Norman nose, the smile—Oh, my God, the smile! And you won’t, my friend, take my opinion of him?”
“Iris, how can you ask me to do that! We can’t take any woman’s opinion of any man. They find evil in good men, they overlook the vices of cads. …”
“Oh, Maurice is not good, not bad! Only immemorially infantile, like all successful men. …”
Where we stood now the lawn was damp and velvet-soft, the air whispered of flowers. The light that fell across the lawn from the three tall French-windows reached almost to our feet. It was a long, oak-panelled, scholarly room in which the three men sat, towards one side, about a card-table. They were absorbed in their game, silent figures of black and white. Yes, the fine profile of Sir Maurice seemed apt to smile. Iris murmured: “We will wait for them to finish their game.”
As my hand moved to throw away a cigarette I touched a cold stone, and I saw that we were standing by a sundial. Iris was looking at me, and clearest of all the happenings of that night I remember that long moment of Iris’s looking, and how, as I looked into her eyes, her beauty seemed to enwrap itself with the whisper of the flowers and enter into my being, so that I cared not for right nor wrong. My hand rested on the sundial. She laid her hand on mine, and her hand was colder than the sundial.
III
Sir Maurice received me very kindly. I had thought, seeing him at the card-table, that he was a tall man; but he was small, slight, taut; very ready to smile. He offered me a cigar, which I was very pleased to take. Iris said she would not smoke just yet. No one sat down, but everyone seemed at his ease. It was as though Iris and I were paying an evening call. Hilary apologised to me about dinner. I forgave him. Somehow, suddenly, I found myself absorbed by Guy and Hilary. I found that Iris was alone. It
