He went back to the inner room, and was speedily absorbed in the duty of attending two colossal dowagers with monumental necks and shoulders, and diamonds as large as chandelier drops, to steer whom down a London staircase, past a stream of people who were ascending, was no trifling work. In the dining-room the debris of dessert and the ashes of cigarettes had given place to old Derby china, peaches, grapes, and strawberries, chicken salad, and foie gras sandwiches, and to this light refreshment people were crowding as eagerly as if dinner were an obsolete custom among the upper classes. Blocked in between two great ladies, pouring out champagne for one, and peeling a peach for another, Vansittart was secure from being pounced upon by Fiordelisa. He saw Sefton sitting with her at a little table in a corner, as he piloted his aristocratic three-deckers to the door. Sefton was plying her with champagne and lobster salad, and her joyous laugh rang out above society’s languid jabber.
He hated Sefton with all his heart that night; and he was too angry with Eve to speak to her, either as they waited in the hall for their carriage, or during the short drive home.
Never before had he treated her with this sullen rudeness. She followed him into his den, where he went for a final smoke before going upstairs. She stood by his chair for a few minutes in silence, watching him as he lighted his cigar, and then she said gently—
“What is the matter with you tonight, Jack? Have I vexed you?”
“I don’t know that you have vexed me—but I know that I am vexed.”
“About what?”
“I didn’t like to see you so civil to Signora Vivanti. It is all very well for dowagers and fussy matrons to take notice of a public singer, but it is a new departure for you.”
“I could hardly help myself. She sang so delightfully, and I was pleased with her, and then Mr. Sefton introduced her to me. What could I do but praise her, when I really admired her?”
“No, you were blameless. It was Sefton’s fault. He had no right to introduce her to you.”
“But is she not respectable?”
“I cannot answer for her respectability. I know nothing of what kind of life she has led since she made her début. She wears diamonds, and that is not a good sign.”
“She does not look like a disreputable person,” said Eve, very thoughtfully. “There is something frank and simple about her. That boy must be hers, he is so like her. Do you know if she was ever married—if the boy’s father was her husband?”
“I know very little about her, as I told you today; but I should say not.”
“Poor thing! I am very sorry for her.”
“Don’t waste your pity upon her. She seems perfectly happy. A peasant girl, reared upon polenta, does not consider these things so tragically as they are considered in Mayfair.”
“How scornfully you speak of her. I am sure she is a good girl at heart. She remembered seeing me in the boat today, and she asked me if I was your wife. She repeated my name curiously, as if she had never heard it before. Did not she know your name when you met her in Verona, or wherever it was?”
“Very likely not. I was an Englishman. That might have been a sufficient distinction in her mind.”
“I hope she is not leading a wicked life,” said Eve, with a sigh. “She has a good face.”
“Do not let us trouble about her any more,” said Vansittart, looking earnestly up at the thoughtful face that was looking down at him. “She has almost brought dissension between us—for the first time.”
“Only almost. We could not be angry with each other long, could we, Jack? But you must own it was enough to take any wife by surprise. A beautiful Italian girl stretching out both her hands in eager greeting, almost throwing herself out of her boat into ours. Any wife caring very much for her husband would have felt as I did—a sudden pang of jealousy.”
“Any wife must be a foolish wife if she felt that pang, knowing herself beloved as you do.”
“Yes, I think that now you are honestly fond of me. Ah, how can I think otherwise when you have been so indulgent, so dear? Yet in the past you might have loved that dark-eyed girl. You never pretended I was your first love. And if you did care for her, do please be candid and tell me. I should be happier if I knew the worst. It could not matter much to me, you see, Jack, that you should have been fond of her—once. Dearest, dearest,” she repeated coaxingly, with her head bent down till her soft cheek leaned against his own, “tell me the worst.”
“Eve, how often must I protest that I never cared
