Loe raamatut: «Lucinda», lehekülg 10

CHAPTER XV
THE SYSTEM WORKS

I WAS in Paris for full four weeks, representing Sir Ezekiel (who was laid up with asthma) on the International Commercial Conference on the Regulation and Augmentation of the World’s Tonnage, a matter in which our company was, of course, deeply interested. It was the best chance I had yet secured of distinguishing myself in the business world. The work, besides being important and heavy, was also interesting. The waking intervals between our sessions and conferences were occupied by luncheons, banquets, and conversaziones; if we dealt faithfully with one another at the business meetings, we professed unlimited confidence in one another on the social occasions. In fact, if we had really believed all we said of one another after lunch or after dinner, each of us would have implored his neighbor to take all the goods, or tonnage, or money that he possessed and dispose of it as his unrivaled wisdom and unparalleled generosity might dictate. We did not, however, make any such suggestions in business hours; the fact that we did quite the opposite prolonged the negotiations.

All of which brings me to the ungallant confession that the two ladies, who had occupied so much of an idle man’s thoughts at Mentone, occupied considerably less of a busy man’s at Paris. They were not forgotten, but they receded into the background of my thoughts, emerging to the forefront only in rare moments of leisure; even then my mental attitude was one of greater detachment. I had a cold fit about the situation, and some ungracious reflections for both of them. Absence and preoccupation blunted my imagination, even when they did not entirely divert my thoughts. My mind was localized; it did not travel far or for long outside my daily business.

It was when our deliberations had almost reached a conclusion, as the official report put it – when our agreement had gone to the secretaries to be drafted in proper form – that I got a telegram from Godfrey Frost, telling me that he would be in Paris the next day and asking me to dine with him. Putting off some minor engagement which I had, I accepted his invitation.

It was not till after dinner, when we were alone in his sitting room at the hotel, that he opened to me what he had to say. He did it in a methodical, deliberate way. “I’ve something to say to you. Sit down there, and light a cigar, Julius.”

I obeyed him. Evidently I was in for a story – of what sort I did not know. But his mouth wore its resolute look, not the smile with which he had chaffed me after our meeting with Arsenio Valdez at Monte Carlo.

“The system worked,” he began abruptly.

“You won?” I asked, astonished.

“I don’t want you to interrupt for a little while, if you don’t mind. Of course, I didn’t win; I never supposed I should. But the system worked. I found Madame Valdez. Be quiet! After two nights of the system, I politely – more or less politely – intimated that I was sick of it; also that I didn’t see my way to finance any further the peculiarly idiotic game which he played on his own account, in the intervals of superintending the system. The man’s mad to think that he’s got a dog’s chance, playing like that! He’d stayed with me in Monte those two days. I said that I was afraid his wife would never forgive me if I kept him from her any longer. He said that, having for the moment lost la veine, he was not in a position to return my hospitality; otherwise he and his wife would have been delighted to see me at Nice. Well, with the usual polite circumlocutions, he conveyed to me that there was a pleasant, quiet little hotel in Nice where he generally stayed – when he was in funds, he meant, I suppose – and that, although Madame Valdez was not staying there at present, she might be prevailed upon to join him there, and certainly we should make a pleasant party. ‘I am le bienvenu at a very cozy little place in Nice, if we want an hour’s distraction in the evening. My wife goes to bed early. She’s a woman with her own profession, and it takes her out early in the morning.’ So that seemed all right, only – you can guess! I smoothed over the difficulty. At that little hotel, at dinner on the next Sunday, I, Valdez’s welcome guest, had the privilege of being presented to Madame Valdez – or, as he called her, Donna Lucinda.”

“Yes, the system worked, Godfrey,” I observed.

He did not rebuke my interruption, but he took no heed of it. His own story held him in its grip, whatever effect it might be having on his auditor.

“She came just as if she were an invited guest, and rather a shy one at that; a timid handshake for Valdez, a distant, shy bow for me. He greeted her as he might have a girl he was courting, but who would generally have nothing to do with him – who had condescended just this once, you know. Only she said to him – rather bashfully – ‘Do you like the frock I bought, Arsenio?’ It was a pretty little frock – a brightish blue. Quite inexpensive material, I should say, but very nicely put together; and it suited her eyes and hair. What eyes and hair she has, by Jove, Julius!”

He had told me not to interrupt; I didn’t.

“Why didn’t you tell me what she was like?” he asked suddenly and rather fiercely.

“It was what you told me you meant to find out for yourself, Godfrey.”

“Well, we sat there and had dinner. She seemed to enjoy herself very much; made a good dinner, you know, and seemed to accept his compliments – Valdez’s, I mean – with a good deal of pleasure; he was flowery. I didn’t say much. I was damned dull, in fact. But she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye now and then. Look here, Julius, I’m an ass at telling about things!”

“I’ve known better raconteurs; but get on with it, if you want to.”

“Want to? I must. As a matter of fact, I’ve come to Paris just to tell you about it. And now I can’t.”

“She isn’t exactly easy to describe, to – to give the impression of. But remember – I know her.”

He had been walking up and down; he jerked himself into a chair, and relit his cigar – it had gone out. “I don’t much remember what we talked about at first – oh, except that she said, ‘I don’t like your gambling, and I should hate to be dependent on your winnings, Arsenio.’ – My God, his winnings! He leant across the table towards her – he seemed to forget me altogether for the minute – and said, ‘I never make you even a present out of them except when I back Number 21.’ She blushed at that, like a girl just out of the schoolroom. Rather funny! Some secret between them, I suppose. The beggar was always backing twenty-one; though he very seldom brings it off. What’s his superstition? Did he meet her when she was twenty-one, or marry her when she was, or was it the date when they got married, or what?”

“It’s the date – the day of the month – when she and Waldo didn’t get married,” I explained.

“By Jove! Then they’re – they’re lovers still!” The inference which Godfrey thus drew seemed to affect him considerably. He sat silent for a minute or two, apparently reflecting on it and frowning sullenly. Then he went on. “Then Valdez said, with one of his grins, ‘Mr. Frost can give you news of some old friends, Lucinda.’ She wasn’t a bit embarrassed at that, but she didn’t seem interested either. She was just decently polite about it – hoped they were all well, was sorry to hear of Waldo’s wound, wished she had happened to meet you and asked if you were coming back – I’d mentioned that you’d gone to Paris on this job of yours. In fact, she didn’t shirk the subject of the family, but she treated it as something that didn’t matter to her; she looked as if she was thinking of something else all the time. She often gives you that kind of impression. Valdez had never referred again to her joining us at the hotel – staying there with us, I mean; and he said nothing about it at this meeting. I could only suppose that she had refused. And now, when she got up to go, he didn’t propose that we, or even he himself, should escort her. I made some suggestion of the kind, but she just said, ‘Oh, no, thank you, I’d rather go by myself.’ And off she went – about half-past nine. We finished the evening playing baccarat – at least I did – at the little hell to which he had already taken me. He seemed very much at home there; all the people of the place knew him, laughed and joked with him; but he didn’t often play there; he doesn’t much care about baccarat. He used to sit talking with the proprietor, a fat old Jew, in the corner, or chatting with the fellow who changed your money for you, with whom he seemed on particularly friendly terms. All that part of it was a bore, but she always went away early, and one had to finish the evenings somewhere.”

“Oh, then she came again, did she?” I asked.

“She came to dinner the next three nights; once again to dine with Arsenio; he’d got some funds from somewhere and actually insisted on paying for those two dinners – I was footing the general hotel bill, of course; twice as my guest. She was always much the same; cool, quiet, reserved, but quite pleasant and amused. Presently I got the idea that she was amused at me. I caught her looking at me sometimes with a smile and a sort of ruminative look in her eyes; once, when I smiled back, she gave a little laugh. The fact is, I suppose, she saw I admired her a good deal. Well, that brought us to the Thursday. I had to go over to the works that day, and I spent the night with our manager. I didn’t get back till Friday evening, and then I found that Valdez, getting bored, I suppose, and having some money in his pocket, had gone off to Monte Carlo. Rather cool, but I expect he couldn’t help it. He left word that he’d be back next day. I spent an infernally dull evening by myself at that dreary little hole of a hotel. I almost had the car out again and went back to Villa San Carlo, It would have saved a lot of trouble if I had!

“I’m not going to tell you what I felt; I’m not good at it. I’ll tell you what I did, and you can draw your own conclusions. I was quit of Valdez for a bit; I spent all the next day on my feet, prowling about the town, looking for her; because, after all, she must be somewhere in the place. And I knew that she had a job. So I reckoned the likeliest chance to happen on her in the streets was during the déjeuner hour. So I didn’t lunch, but prowled round all that hour. My next best chance would be the going home hour; you see that?”

“The business mind applied to gallantry is wonderful,” I replied. “Now a mere poet would have lain on the sofa and dreamt of Donna Lucinda!”

“But I had to put in the time in between – always with the off-chance, of course. I got pretty tired, and, when I found myself up at Cimiez about four o’clock, I felt like a cup of tea, so I turned into the first hotel I came to. One of those big affairs, with palm gardens and what not; the ‘Imperial Palace’ it called itself, I think. I pushed through one of those revolving doors and came into a lounge place – you know the sort of thing?

“I sat down at a table about halfway down the lounge and ordered tea. Then I lit a cigarette and looked about me. Round about the door there were a lot of showcases, fitted on to the wall, with jewelry, silver plate, and so on, displayed in them. There was another large one, full of embroidered linen and lace things; it was open, and at it, sampling the goods and chattering away like one o’clock, were Mrs. Forrester and Eunice Unthank – no, not Nina too, thank Heaven! Because the neat girl who was selling, or trying to sell, the stuff, was Madame Valdez! I picked up a copy of the day before yesterday’s Temps from the next table, held it before my face, and peered at them over it. She wasn’t in her blue frock now; she wore plain black, with a bit of white round the neck; short skirt and black silk stockings. They brought my tea; I drank it with one hand and held the Temps up with the other; naturally I didn’t want Mrs. Forrester and Eunice to see me!

“They were the deuce of a time – Lord, I could buy or sell half Europe in the time a woman takes over a pocket-handkerchief! – but I didn’t mind that; I had my plan. At last they went; she did up their parcel and went with them to the door, with lots of ‘Thank you’ and ‘Good-by’ (they spoke English) on both sides. It was past five; I waited still, and meanwhile finished and paid for my tea. I saw her making entries in a ledger; then she went through the case, checking her stock, I suppose; then, just as a clock struck five-thirty, she shut the case with a little bang and turned the key; then she disappeared into a cupboard or something, and came back in her hat and jacket. By that time I was by the door, with my hat and stick in my hand. We met just by her case – which, by the way, had on it in large gilt letters, Maison de la Belle Étoile, Nice.

“‘Good-evening,’ I said. ‘May I have the pleasure of walking home with you, Madame Valdez?’

“She didn’t seem surprised. ‘I’m Mademoiselle Lucie here,’ she said, smiling. ‘Oh, yes, if you like. Take me down to the Promenade – by the sea. I’m half stifled.’

“We said hardly anything on the way down – at any rate, nothing of any importance; and it was dusk; I could see her face only dimly. When we got to the Promenade, and the wind from the sea caught us in the face, she sighed, ‘Ah!’ and suddenly took my arm. ‘Was it a fluke, or did you come to look for me? Did Arsenio tell you?’

“‘No, he didn’t. I’ve hunted the town all day for you. And I’ve found you at last. Arsenio’s gone to Monte Carlo.’

“‘I know he has. Why did you want to find me? You needn’t worry about me. I’m all right. I’ve got a very good situation now. I find it’s easier work to sell things than to make them, Mr. Frost. And the patrons are pleased with me. They say I have an ingratiating way that produces business! I wonder whether I was ingratiating with that woman and girl just now! They spent three hundred francs!’

“Do you know the sudden change that comes in her voice when she means to be extra friendly? I can’t begin to describe it – something like the jolliest kitten in the world purring! No, that’s absurd – Oh, well! What she said was, ‘I like you and I like your dinners. But aren’t you rather silly to do it?’ Yes, she was very friendly, but just a bit contemptuous too. ‘Because you’re a great young man, aren’t you? And I’m a midinette! Besides, you know about me, I expect. And so you’ll know that Arsenio and I are married. Ask your cousin, Mr. Frost.’

“All I said was, ‘I’m glad you like me.’ She laughed. ‘And you like me? Why?’

“Then I made a most damned fool of myself, Julius. I don’t really know how I came to do it, except that the thing’s true, of course. I’ve laughed at the thing myself ever since I laughed at anything – in revues, and Punch, and everywhere. I said, – yes, by Jove, I did! – I said, ‘You’re so different from other women, Donna Lucinda!’

“What an ass! Of course you can’t help laughing too, Julius! But, after all, I’m glad I did make such an ass of myself, because she just burst into an honest guffaw – and so did I, a minute later. We became a thousand times better friends just in that minute.”

Godfrey paused in his narrative and gazed at me. I am afraid that a smile still lingered on my face. “You didn’t do yourself justice; you tell the story very well,” I said.

“Of course I wasn’t quite such an ass as I sounded,” said he. “What I really meant, but couldn’t exactly have said, was – ”

“I know exactly what it was, Godfrey. But I think it was much cleverer of you to know you meant it than it is of me to know that you meant it. You meant that Donna Lucinda Valdez has a personality markedly different from that possessed by Lady Dundrannan?”

“I don’t suppose that I did know that I meant it – at that moment.”

“But you know that you mean it now?”

“That – and more,” he said.

“Your idea of seeing whether Arsenio’s system worked seems to have led you a little further than you contemplated,” I observed. He had chaffed me that evening, after my dinner at Arsenio’s – or Nina’s – expense; he had aired his shrewdness. I seemed entitled to give him a dig.

“Are you surprised?” he asked, after a pause, suddenly, taking not the least heed of my gibe.

There were a hundred flippant answers that I might have given him. But I gave him none of them. His young, strong face wore a dour look – the look of a man up against something big, determined to tackle it, not yet seeing how. The animation which had filled him, as he warmed to his story, had for the moment worked itself out. He looked dull, heavy, tired.

“No, I’m not surprised,” I said. “But what’s the use? You know her story.”

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, rather peremptorily.

“She threw up everything in the world for Arsenio Valdez; she still blushes like a school-girl when Arsenio backs Number 21. They’re lovers still, as you yourself said a little while ago. Well, then – ! Besides – there’s Nina. Are you going to – desert?”

“Nina?” He repeated the name half-absently; perhaps the larger share of his attention was occupied by the other part of my remarks. “Yes, Nina, of course!” But, as he dwelt on the thought of Lady Dundrannan (suddenly, as it seemed, recalled to his mind), his look of depression disappeared. He smiled in amusement – with an element of wonder in it; and he spoke as if he were surprising me with a wonderful discovery.

“I say, Julius, Lucinda positively laughs at Nina, you know!”

CHAPTER XVI
PURPLE – AND FINE LINEN

THAT Lucinda had once got the better of Nina had been the thing about her which most stirred Godfrey’s curiosity; that Lucinda now laughed at Nina evidently aroused in him an almost incredulous wonder. Perhaps it was calculated to surprise any one; to a Frost it must have seemed portentous; for Frosts, father, daughter, and nephew, judged by what you did and, consequently, had, not by what you were. Judged by their standards, Lucinda’s laughter was ridiculous, but in Godfrey’s fascinated eyes also sublime: such a sublime audacity as only a supremely attractive woman dare and can carry. The needlewoman, the midinette, the showcase girl, laughing at Lady Dundrannan! But there it was. I think that it shook to its foundations something that was very deeply set in Godfrey Frost.

“Well, I suppose Lucinda knew that you were seeing her on the sly,” I suggested.

He flushed a little. “I don’t particularly like that way of putting it. I’m not responsible to Nina for my actions.”

I shrugged my shoulders. He lit another cigarette, and suddenly resumed his story.

“Well, this is what happened. Arsenio didn’t come back; I suppose he won a bit, or kept his head above water somehow. I stayed in Nice, seeing a lot of Lucinda, for about another week. I used to go up to that hotel for lunch or tea, and put in the time somehow till she knocked off work. Then we had our walk; once or twice she dined with me, but she was rather difficult about that. She always kept just the same as she was at the beginning, except that, as I say, she liked to hear about Nina, and seemed a lot amused at what I told her – Nina’s sort of managing ways, and – and dignity, and so on. By the way, she asked about you too sometimes; what you’d been doing since she last heard from you, and so on. Apparently you used to write to her?”

“Just occasionally – when I was on my travels. I hope she spoke kindly of me?”

“Oh, yes, that was all right,” he assured me carelessly. “Well, then came her weekly afternoon off; it was on a Friday she had it; she got off at half-past twelve. I had managed to persuade her to lunch with me, and I went up to the hotel to fetch her. I was a bit early, and I walked up and down just outside the hotel gardens, waiting for her. Nobody was further from my thoughts at that moment than Nina, but just at a quarter past twelve – I’d looked at my watch the moment before – I saw a big car come up the road. I recognized it directly. It was Nina’s.”

“Rather odd! How did she find out that – ?”

“This is what must have happened, so far as I’ve been able to piece it together. Those two women – Mrs. Forrester, you know, and Eunice Unthank – went back to Villa San Carlo with their three hundred francs’ worth of stuff, and told Nina about Mademoiselle Lucie; described her, I suppose, as something out of the common; they naturally would, finding a girl of her appearance, obviously English, and a lady, doing that job. Nina’s as sharp as a needle, and it’s quite possible that the description by itself was enough to put her on the scent; though, for my own part, I’ve always had my doubts whether she didn’t know more about the Valdez’s than she chose to admit; something in her manner when I brought the conversation round to them – and I did sometimes – always gave me that impression. Anyhow, there she was, and Eunice Unthank with her.”

“That must have been a week – or nearly – since she’d heard about Mademoiselle Lucie from the two women. Had you heard anything from her in the interval?”

“Yes, I’d had two letters from her, addressed to our works and forwarded on – I had to leave an address at the works – saying they missed me at the Villa and asking when I expected to be back; but I hadn’t answered them. I didn’t exactly know what to say, you see, so I said nothing. As a matter of fact, I felt bored at the idea of going back; but I couldn’t have said that, could I?”

“Certainly not. And so – at last – she had to come?”

“What do you mean by ‘at last’? And why had she to come?”

There was in my mind a vivid imagining of what that week had been to Lady Dundrannan; a week of irresolution and indecision, of pride struggling against her old jealousy, her old memory of defeat and shame. To seem to take any interest in the woman was beneath her; yet her interest in the woman was intense. And if an encounter could seem quite accidental – ? Why shouldn’t it? Just the two women’s report – no hasty appearance after it – quite a natural thing to motor over to Cimiez for lunch! And, given that the encounter was quite accidental, it admitted no interest; it would satisfy curiosity; she had the power of turning it into a triumph. And Godfrey – her protégé, her property – had been missing a week and had left two letters unanswered. My own talk with her – just before I came away – returned to my mind.

“I suppose that Lady Eunice – or Mrs. Forrester – kept on worrying her. Was that it?” My attempt to explain away the form of my question was not very convincing. Godfrey disposed of it unceremoniously.

“If you were really such a damned fool as you’re trying to appear, I shouldn’t be here talking to you,” he remarked. “There was more in it than that of course.”

“Well, tell me what happened. We can discuss it afterwards,” I suggested.

“Just what happened? All right – and soon told. Nina saw me walking up and down, smoking. She smiled what they call brightly; so did Lady Eunice. One or other of them pulled the string, I suppose; the car stopped; the chauffeur lay back in his seat in the resigned sort of way those chaps have when they’re stopped for some silly reason or other – most reasons do seem to appear silly to them, don’t they? Really superior chauffeurs, I mean, such as Nina’s bound to have. I took off my hat and went up to the car. ‘Why, it’s Mr. Frost!’ said Eunice, just as surprised as you’d have expected her to be.”

“I certainly acquit Lady Eunice of malice aforethought,” said I.

“‘And who’d have thought of meeting him here?’ said Nina. You know that smile of hers?”

“Have I found thee, O my enemy?”

“Exactly. I must say that you do know a thing or two about Nina. ‘I thought you were in Nice all the time!’ she went on – oh, quite pleasantly. ‘We’ll take him in to lunch and make him give an account of himself, won’t we, Eunice? He’s deserted us disgracefully!’ You never saw anybody more amiable. And Lady Eunice was awfully cordial too – ‘Oh, yes, you must lunch with us, Mr. Frost, and tell us what you’ve been doing. We’ve been very dull, haven’t we, Lady Dundrannan?’ The thing seemed going so well” – here Godfrey gave one of the reflective smiles which witnessed to the humor that lay in him, though it was deeply hidden under other and more serviceable qualities – “that the chauffeur, after a yawn, got down from his seat and opened the door of the car for me to get in. And I was just going to get in – hypnotized or something, I suppose – when down the drive from the hotel came Donna Lucinda. She came along with that free swinging walk of hers, as independent and unconcerned as you please, in her neat, plain, black frock, and carrying one of those big, round, shiny black boxes that you see the midinettes with. Only her stockings looked a shade smarter than most of them run to. Of course she didn’t know the car by sight as I did – some people think that yellow too showy, but I like it myself, provided you’ve got a good car to show it off on – and I suppose I was hidden, or half hidden by it. At any rate, she came sailing down the hotel drive all serene. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking more splendid in all my life!”

“You’d known her for just about a week.”

“Well, then, damn it, in all the week that I had known her. I do wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, Julius!”

“I don’t interrupt you half as much as you interrupt yourself. I want to know what happened. What’s the good of gassing about the chauffeur and the color of the car?”

“Well, to me that’s all part of the picture – I suppose I can’t make it for you. The big yellow car – a three thousand wouldn’t nearly cover it nowadays, you know – and Jefferson, a tall, slim chap, dark; been a company sergeant-major – oh, damned genteel! – Lady Eunice quite out of the situation – as she would be – but – what do you call it? – a little patrician all over – and Nina – at her most stately! Over against all that – and it was rather overpowering; I can tell you I felt it – the midinette with her box walking down the drive. That girl – she didn’t look more than a girl, I swear, though I suppose she’s five-and-twenty – ”

“And who were you going to lunch with?” I interrupted again. I could not help it. I think that I laughed, shortly and rather harshly. A ridiculous little impasse it seemed for him. He had told his story clumsily, but somehow he had brought the scene before my eyes. Memory helped me, I imagine; it put more into the figure swinging down the drive, more into her stately ladyship seated in that challenging, possibly too showy, yellow car. “Which of them did you lunch with?” I laughed on the question, but I was rather excited.

He had stopped smoking; he sat in a rather odd attitude – upright, with his legs so close together that they left only just room for him to thrust his hands, held together as if he were saying his prayers, between them just above the knees.

“After all – was it a matter of so much importance? A lunch!” I mocked.

He didn’t pay attention to that, and he did not change his position. “Then Nina saw her. Things are funny. She’d come on purpose to see her, of course. Still, when she did, her mouth suddenly went stiff – you know what I mean? She didn’t move, though; it was just her mouth. And I stood there like a fool – actually with one foot on the ground and one on the step of the car, I believe; and Jefferson stifling another yawn beside me!

“Donna Lucinda came through the gate of the drive and up to where the car was standing; it was sideways on to the gate; Lady Eunice sat on the side near the gate, I was on the other side, with Nina between us. Lucinda seemed to see Eunice first, and to recognize her; she made a very slight formal little bow – as she would to a customer. The next second her eyes fell on Nina and on me. She stopped short, just by the car. Her cheeks flushed a little, and she gave a little low exclamation – ‘Oh!’ or ‘Ah!’ – I hardly heard it. Then, ‘It’s Nina!’ That was hardly louder. I just heard it. Eunice, of course, must have and Nina; I doubt whether Jefferson could. Then she gave a queer little laugh – what you’d call a chuckle coming from an ordinary person – as if she were laughing to herself, inwardly amused, but not expecting anybody else to share her amusement. She didn’t look a bit put out or awkward. But the next moment she smiled directly at me – across the other two – and shook her head – sympathizing with me in my predicament, I think.

“Nina made her a stately bow. She was very dignified, but a little flushed too. She looked somehow disturbed and puzzled. It seemed as if she really were shocked and upset to see Lucinda like that. The next moment she leant right across Eunice, throwing out her hand towards the bandbox that Lucinda was carrying.

“‘Surely there’s no need for you to do that?’ she said, speaking very low. ‘And – I hope you’re better?’

“Lucinda spoke up quite loud. ‘I like it, thank you. There’s every need for me to earn my living; and I’ve never been better in my life, thank you.’

“Nina turned her head round to the chauffeur. ‘I’ll call you, Jefferson.’ He touched his hat and strolled off along the road, taking out a cigarette case. Nina turned back to Lucinda, leaning again across Lady Eunice, who was sitting back in her seat, looking rather frightened; I don’t know whether she knew who Lucinda was; I don’t think so; but it must have been pretty evident to her that there was thunder in the air.

“‘How long have you been doing this? Does your husband know you’re doing it?’

“Her questions sounded sharp and peremptory; Lucinda might well have resented them.

“‘Of course he knows; he’s known it for three months. It’s just that I like to be independent.’ She gave a little bow with that, as if she meant to end the conversation, but before she could walk on – if that was what she meant to do – Nina flung herself back on the cushions, exclaiming in a low voice, but passionately, ‘How dare he tell me lies like that!’

“‘What do you mean – ?’ Lucinda began. But Nina would not wait for her. ‘Call Jefferson,’ she told me. ‘Are you coming with us, Godfrey?’