Chapter XVIII: Lorimer's Plot 270 (3)

Philip had lately been several times to Paris without taking Dora, as he had always done formerly. He had not confided to her the object of these journeys, but had contented himself with telling her that he was going on business. He was always back again on the second or third day.

Without entering into details, he had mentioned some visits to the Russian Embassy. He had even confided to her that, in consequence of a rather lengthy correspondence between the Russian ambassador in Paris and General Ivan Sabaroff, War Minister in St. Petersburg, it was not impossible that the Czar might make overtures to him for the purchase of the shell he had invented. The French Government, he said, would not be opposed to his accepting such overtures from an ally of France.

There would be nothing very extraordinary in such a proceeding, of course. The young Czar of all the Russias and the worthy President of the Republic had given each other the kiss of brotherhood in public; Monsieur Felix Faure had returned the visit which the young Sovereign had paid him; and there had been signed at St. Petersburg that gigantic joke, that Titanic hoax which is called the Franco-Russian alliance, an alliance between the Phrygian cap and the Cossack cap, between the sons of the great Revolution and the scourgers of women, an alliance by the terms of which the blind Gallic cook undertook to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for the wily bear of the Caucasians, and gave to the rest of Europe a grotesque and amusing spectacle. The French _badaud_ rarely misses an opportunity of making France the laughing-stock of the whole world. It is much to be regretted that the French do not read the two or three columns that are devoted to them every day by the newspapers of London, New York, and Berlin. Their follies supply these great dailies with more material for comment than they can hope to get out of all that goes on in their respective countries, and that, I say it to their credit and to be just, without bitterness, without prejudice, for France counts among her sincerest friends and admirers, in England and America, all that is most intelligent and enlightened in these two countries of light and leading. It is a cosmopolitan traveller, French-born and still French at heart, who ventures to speak thus in parenthesis. Alexis de Tocqueville might have written in the year of grace 1899 the following lines, which were penned by him in 1849: "France, the most brilliant and most dangerous nation of Europe, is destined ever to be, in turn, an object of admiration, of hatred, of terror and of pity, but of indifference, never."

VIII

THE HOUSE-WARMING

Philip decided to give a house-warming party in the month of November, and to ask to a large _soiree musicale_ all the society notabilities, in fact all London and his wife. Cards of invitation were sent to ambassadors, cabinet ministers, aristocracy, and City princes. He invited a few literary friends, but not many artists, being afraid of passing for a man who was trying to dazzle his less fortunate brothers in art by his wealth. Perhaps he also rather feared meeting them--the studio world has not a very developed bump of admiration for painters who make a rapid fortune and settle in Belgravia. Those who believed that he still painted had nicknamed him _le Grantham des Salons_, a not very brilliant pun upon his name which sounded rather like the two French words _grand homme_. Between four and five hundred people accepted invitations. The artists for the most part refused, "having a previous engagement which prevented them from accepting Mrs. Philip Grantham's kind invitation." Poor Dora seemed to see the artistic world slipping away from her, since Art itself had deserted the house. Lorimer had accepted. Thank Heaven, she would at least have one real friend at her reception. She set about doing her best to ensure the success of her party. She had a long list of the people who were coming, all well-known names. She gave _carte blanche_ to the best impresario of London, who was entrusted with the arrangement of the musical programme. She ordered her supper from Benoist, and flowers and palms in profusion for the decoration of the house, and went to the best dressmaker in London for a gown which, when it came home, Philip pronounced simply beyond competition. Dora was a born _grande dame_. True, she preferred the simple intellectual life that she had led hitherto, but she was fitted to shine in the gay world. If she had been the wife of the President of the French Republic, all the Faubourg St. Germain would willingly have rendered her homage at the Elysee, and would probably have said, on returning home, "A _Republicaine_ can be as beautiful, witty, and distinguished-looking as the most high-born _Marquise_, were she as noble as Charlemagne or Louis XIV."

Dora felt sure of herself, certain of doing honour to Philip, and, notwithstanding the profound sadness that reigned in her heart, she was still woman enough to rejoice in advance over the success which she anticipated. She accordingly made all her preparations to that end, and took pains to put her beauty and intelligence at her husband's service. Philip, for that matter, did things in lordly style; he had given Dora an unlimited credit, _carte blanche_, that is to say a blank cheque. Philip wished to have a great social success.

Without saying anything to his wife, he had sent invitations to all the principal papers, thinking that if the editors did not come they would not fail to send reporters who would write accounts of the party, the publication of which would make them known, he and Dora, in the society in which he had taken a firm resolution to shine.

The concert alone caused Dora some anxiety. She almost regretted having had _music_ printed on her cards. Her artistic temperament had often caused her to pity from the bottom of her heart those pianists and singers, whom nobody listens to at parties, and whose first notes invariably give the signal for general conversation. She thought this unmannerly, even offensive, not only to the hosts, but to the artistes. The shopkeeper demands only the price of the goods that he sells you, and it is a matter of indifference to him whether you have your hat in your hand or on your head in his shop. The artiste is more difficult to please. He asks for the appreciation of those who pay him, and more than one celebrated star has consented to sing in drawing-rooms for hundreds of pounds, but only on the formal condition that silence would be enforced. It must be said that at these gatherings many people, who are too busy to pay one another frequent calls, are pleased to have the opportunity of meeting, the men to talk of politics and business, the women of dress, theatres, gossip, or scandals. They can so well dispense with music that many Englishwomen have the words _no music_ printed on their invitation cards. I know one who, in order to persuade me to accept her invitation, put a postscript thus: "I shall have a Hungarian orchestra, but you won't hear it."

Dora was reassured, however, as the impresario, who was to arrange the music, knew his public. He had guaranteed her "complete satisfaction."

She thought no more about it, and awaited the day with all the serenity of a society stager who had done nothing else all her life.

IX

THE CONFESSION

Like the great Conde, on the eve of the battle of Rocroy, Dora slept peacefully and profoundly on the eve of the day that was to see her play the role of hostess for the first time in her new house in Belgravia.

She was careful not to tire herself during the day, in order to feel fresh and alert at half-past nine, the hour at which the guests would begin to arrive.

For a mistress of a house, for a novice especially, a reception of this kind is a severe trial. She stands four mortal hours at the entrance of the drawing-room, all the while on the _qui-vive_. She would like to possess a hundred pairs of eyes instead of one, to assure herself that everything is going as smoothly as she could wish, for the least little _contretemps_ will spoil the party. Out of four hundred people who accept an invitation, two hundred come to criticise--some the music, others the supper, others the wines, others the dresses. If there is the slightest hitch in the proceedings, there are whispered comments on it. If the music is bad, people drown it with their voices; if the supper is of doubtful quality, they go early; if the servants do not number the hats carefully, the men, on leaving, choose the best that come to their notice; if the hostess is embarrassed, they smile. If the women meet people whom they have ceased to know, they look bored. The most thankless task in the world is giving a large "At home." I know many women who, after giving such parties, have to go to bed for a couple of days.

Dora dined lightly at seven o'clock, and, after giving her last instructions, went to dress. At nine o'clock she was ready. Her white dress of exquisite material, trimmed with old lace and silver embroidery, suited her to perfection, and set off every line of her supple figure. She seemed to be moulded in it. She wore a _riviere_ of diamonds and emeralds, and three magnificent diamond stars were fastened on her bodice. Philip had given her these diamonds, to console her for the portrait that he had not had the courage to finish. She would have infinitely preferred the portrait, but she accepted the jewels willingly, and, thanking her husband prettily, she said to herself, "When the shell bursts, its pieces will be useful. I shall at any rate have a couple of thousand pounds with which to face the situation." She wore no ornament in her hair, which seemed to be proud of being entrusted alone with the task of showing off her beautiful pure Madonna-like face. Never had a lovelier head, framed in luxuriant tresses, been placed more proudly on classical shoulders. Her beauty was dazzling.

She went into the drawing-room to give a last glance at the decorations. Everything looked perfect.

Notwithstanding the air of calm and simple dignity that she wore, like all who have the knowledge of their own worth and who know their triumph is assured, those who had examined Dora's expression attentively would have discovered a new anxiety depicted on her countenance, perhaps nothing very important, but nevertheless an annoyance at the least.

General Ivan Sabaroff, Russian War Minister, was in London. Philip had invited him to Dora's party, and he had accepted. Philip told his wife this at dinner.

Dora sat down in the drawing-room with a cloud on her brow.

"Sabaroff!" she said to herself, "General Sabaroff! What if it be the Colonel Sabaroff that I met eight years ago at Monte Carlo? He was already much talked about. To-day he is the Russian Minister of War--it is quite possible, even probable; but then? See the man again! Oh no, never! And yet, I shall be obliged to receive him--I shall warn Philip that he had a detestable reputation with women, and if that does not suffice, well--I will tell Philip everything. And why shouldn't I? The confession will not be very painful, and I have often been on the point of making it. I have made up my mind--I will not, and I cannot meet this man. I will be polite to him to-night, but very distant; of course, I know what is expected of me as hostess. After that I hope there will be an end of it."

This resolution seemed to clear away the clouds from her face. She smiled eagerly at her husband when he came gaily into the drawing-room.

"Everything is ready and admirably arranged," said Philip. "The drawing-room is decorated with such taste! Ah, my dearest, it is easy to see you have had a hand in the arrangements. I recognise your touch in a thousand little details. Your party will be a huge success--the rooms will look splendid, the music will be excellent, the supper first-rate, and we shall have a regular crowd of celebrities and pretty women--it will be a triumph! And you, darling--how beautiful you look to-night! that gown suits you to perfection. I wish I was going to have you all to myself."

"How absurd! nothing would have been easier, if you had only expressed the wish," said she, a little piqued.

There are many men who are on the point of falling in love with their wives when they see them near to making the conquest of a crowd of outsiders.

"And those diamonds," continued he, "how splendid they look on you! You were built to wear a diadem, that's your style. At last you are playing your proper role, and I am proud to see you doing the honours of a house that is worthy of you. When I come to think of it, fortune has been very kind to me."

On seeing Dora quite unmoved, he added--

"Really, one would think, to look at you, that all this does not stir you to the least enthusiasm: it's curious! sometimes I can't quite make you out. I am nearly beside myself with delight. Now, listen a moment," said he, taking her hand. "I am negotiating with Russia. If they take my invention, as I have every hope that they will, my ambition will be satisfied, my wildest dreams realised. I shall be rich. You know we are not really rich. It costs a perfect fortune to keep this house going. Ah, but only let General Sabaroff approve of my shell, and, dearest,--we are all right."

He rubbed his hands with joy.

"Philip," said Dora, "I want to speak to you about this General Sabaroff."

"Yes, yes," said Philip, without heeding her; "I want you to charm him. You must make a conquest of him. Bring all your diplomacy to bear. He has an immense influence at the Russian Court, and is, I hear, the favourite Minister of the Czar. Being Minister of War, he is the master, the autocrat of his department. And, darling, I count on you to help me. I repeat to you, everything depends on him."

"Money again, Philip, always money," replied Dora. "Are you not rich enough yet? If we have not the income to keep a house like this, why do we live in it? Why should we live beyond our means? I don't think it is right, Philip. What has become of those happy days when we loved each other so much, and when you thought only of your art? Ah, give me back my dear studio."

"I am not rich enough yet," said Philip, "but I am perhaps on the road that leads to fortune."

"You were rich before, and on the road to fame. I loved an artist and I adored his art."

"Oh, deuce take art and artists," cried Philip, getting angry.

"Philip, how can you? If you only knew how it pains me to hear you speak like that."

"Well, my dear Dora," said Philip, "there are times at which I can scarcely keep my patience with you--you don't interest yourself in me as you used to do."

"Is it really you who dare speak to me in that way?" exclaimed Dora indignantly. "Is it you who accuse me of not being the same, you who consecrated your life to art and to my happiness, and who to-day think of nothing but making money, like the first City man in the street? There are times when I long to go and earn my own living with my brush. The only thing that holds me back is Eva--you too, perhaps, for I am certain that one of these days you will cry 'Help!' and I shall have to rescue you from drowning."

"You are ungrateful, Dora. It is for you that I work."

"For me? But can't you see I loathe the life I lead? For me? When the thirst for wealth gets hold of a man, he has always the same excuse--it is not for himself. It is even the eternal parrot-cry of the miser; if he holds fast to his money, it is for the children; and under this pretext he renders his wife, his children, and everyone around him as miserable as he is himself."

"Night and day," said Philip, "I have worked, and God is my witness that in working all my thoughts were for you. Now that I am almost at the goal, you turn against me--you refuse to give a smile to the man who can realise all my hopes."

"Ah, why do you choose that one?" said Dora, frowning.

"What a funny remark!" said Philip. "Just as if he was my choice."

Then, looking at Dora, who seemed agitated, he added--

"What do you mean?"

"I have been told that General Sabaroff is a libertine, a roue of the worst type, and you know what a detestation I have of such men."

"Let him be what he likes; what on earth does it matter to me?" exclaimed Philip. "Really, Dora, you can help me with a few smiles; ask him to come and see you on one of your Thursdays, without compromising yourself, and without your virtue running any danger. It ought to be easy enough for a woman to protect her virtue against a man--in a drawing-room," added Philip, with a slightly mocking air which intensely displeased Dora.

"Yes, much easier than protecting one's reputation against women. I hope you will not insist. I shall receive the General politely, that goes without saying, but I shall certainly not ask him to come and see me on the days I receive or the days on which I do not receive."

Philip and Dora looked at each other for a few seconds. They seemed both very determined.

"And suppose I insist," said Philip, who was the first to break the silence, "and, what is more, suppose I expect you to do what I wish?"

"In that case," said Dora, "since there is no other way of obtaining your indulgence, stay a moment and listen to me."

Philip looked at the clock.

"There is plenty of time," continued Dora, "we have nearly half an hour before anyone will come. My dear Philip, I have every reason to believe that this General Sabaroff is no stranger to me. Perhaps I should have told you this before, but when I have been on the point of doing so, I always said to myself, 'What is the use?' and I really did not see the need of it. This is the incident in two words. When I was nineteen, just out of the schoolroom, my aunt took me to winter in the Riviera. Among the many people we met there was a Colonel Sabaroff, a man of about thirty-five. From the first he paid me marked attention, and at the end of two months he made me an offer of marriage. He was handsome, clever, say fascinating if you like, had the reputation of being a brilliant officer, and was much sought after in society. I, a mere child, could not but feel flattered at his choice of me. What my answer might have been--I had asked for a week to consider it--I can scarcely tell, although my heart, I can say in all sincerity, was not touched. A _bal masque_ was to be held that week and my aunt had subscribed to it, but she disliked public balls, and it had been decided that we were not to go, especially as she thought it hardly proper for two women alone to be present at such a ball. You know, my aunt was then still young and pretty. However, my uncle, arriving from England on the day of the ball, persuaded her to let him take me, for he guessed at my eagerness to go, and he assured her that if he came with me, the strictest British propriety would be satisfied. When we reached the ball, it was already late. After making a tour of the rooms, we sat down in a dimly lit conservatory, and I was just going to tell him of the offer of marriage I had received, when I started at hearing Colonel Sabaroff's voice in low but fierce altercation with that of a woman. Both were masked, and the language they spoke in was French, which was unintelligible to my uncle. Signing to him to keep silence, I listened intently. My own future was decided in those few minutes. But what need I tell you more except that I, a girl ignorant of all the world's falseness and ugly coarseness, sat dumfounded, petrified, as the history of a vulgar liaison was unfolded to my young ears, and the man who had asked for my hand and heart flung off a wretched woman who, to her own undoing, had given herself to him a year before."

"What did you do?" asked Philip.

"I sat spellbound as long as their conversation lasted; but when they rose and passed in front of us, I removed my mask, looked the man straight in the face, and, in as steady a voice as I could command, asked my uncle to take me home."

"Did you see any more of him after that?"

"No--the next day, at my request, we left Monte Carlo. During several months I received letters from him, all of which I tore up without reading, and soon, thank God, I ceased to know whether he existed or not."

"Perhaps it is he who sends the pansies," said Philip.

"Don't talk nonsense," replied Dora.

"But General Sabaroff may not be the man at all."

"I feel sure he must be," said Dora. "The description I have been giving of him corresponds perfectly. Philip, if it should be so, you won't throw me into the society of this man, will you? You won't ask me to make him welcome here?"

A servant came into the room to say that the decorations in the dining-room were finished, and to ask whether Dora would go and give a look to them before the florist left the house.

"Very well," said she to the servant, "I will go."

And, smiling at Philip, she said to him--

"It is understood, then,--you will not insist any more, Philip."

"Curious tricks Fate plays us all!" exclaimed Philip when Dora had gone. "One would think the devil had a hand in it."

It was half-past nine; nobody was likely to come before ten o'clock. He went downstairs to the library and asked for a glass of fine champagne and seltzer water. He was pained to see Dora lose her gaiety. To give him his due, his one hope was to soon see his ambitious dreams realised, to consecrate anew his whole existence to his wife. He hated himself for being unable to do so at once. But he had gone too far to retrace his steps. He seemed to be carried along by an irresistible current. In his heart of hearts he felt poignantly how much he was in the wrong, but he could not bring himself to break off yet and give up his darling hopes. His behaviour had assumed a disgraceful aspect to his eyes, although he dared not own it to himself. Often and often he longed to go and throw himself at Dora's feet. He had not the moral courage necessary to take a decision on which the whole happiness of his wife depended. Every feeling of delicacy and generosity in his composition revolted within him, for he adored her. He fought hard, but each time he returned to the attack he was vanquished.

Philip was unhappy, in spite of the gaiety he forced himself to assume; within him was a mortal sadness.

He swallowed his drink, sat down, and began to think over what Dora had said to him.

"Suppose," thought he, "that General Sabaroff should turn out to be Dora's old admirer. Well, what then? He must have forgotten her long ago--she never had any love for him--not even a school-girl's love. Where is the danger? She has a painful recollection of him; but she is no longer a child, she is a woman of the world. Why should she not conquer her antipathy for him and make use of a little diplomacy to render me a service? I must absolutely get General Sabaroff's approval. Everything depends on that. But, what if he should not have forgotten her, if he still loves her? He would not feel disposed to place a fortune in my hands. Stay, though, perhaps he would, on the contrary, to please Dora. Another reason why she should be amiable to him" ...

His evil genius urged him on.

"It's decided," said he; "whatever it may cost, I must have the man's approbation of my shell--and I must have that money to be rich--really rich. Yes, my dear father, I shall be wealthy, and I will prove to you that it is possible to make a fortune without being your slave."

His spirits brightened considerably, and, rubbing his hands cheerfully, he strode up and down the room exultantly, perfectly convinced that he had formed a resolution which would turn out to his advantage.

"Suppose I should succeed! Well, of course I shall succeed. I must, something tells me I shall, I will. Yes, this man Sabre-off or Sabre-on must be made much of. As to Dora,--with some wives it might be a risky experiment, but with her,--why, I should as soon think of doubting my own existence as of doubting her! 'Oh, my darling!'" said he aloud, taking up a photograph of Dora and kissing it, "'forgive me for having had such a thought, and still more for having expressed it.' Yes, she must receive this man smilingly whether he turns out to be a Sir Galahad or not. I have gone too far to draw back now. It's annoying all the same--pity there is so much sentimental nonsense in even the best of women, and Dora is one out of ten thousand."

The final chords of a pianoforte solo reached his ears, followed by loud applause.

"By Jove," said he, "I was nearly forgetting all about the party."

He hurriedly left the library and went upstairs to the drawing-room.

X

BELGRAVIA

Dora was receiving her guests at the top of the staircase, at the entrance of the large drawing-room. Philip found about thirty people already arrived, and he proceeded to shake hands and distribute words of welcome. At half-past ten it had become difficult to circulate in the rooms; the staircase and hall were crowded, but a stream of carriages still flowed up.

At eleven o'clock the fete was at its height, veritably dazzling. The lights, the flowers, made it a fairy scene. It was a phantasmagoria of heads, bare shoulders, black coats, diamonds, shimmering satins, and priceless lace; and, permeating the whole, a perfume as of hot-house flowers.

All the types of society were to be recognised in the throng--the diplomatists, with their eternal smile and irreproachably cut clothes; the aristocracy, with its frigid bored look, occasionally smiling, as if by mechanism; the City by its biblical noses; the Stock Exchange by those cold, metallic, careworn men, aged before their time by the wrinkles that money preoccupations plough on their foreheads; literature by men bright and interested in everything around them, cheerily provoking ripples of laughter among the women, and recounting their best anecdotes among the men. The fine arts were represented by a few noble-looking heads rising out of Shakespeare collars.

On all sides were exquisite toilettes, setting off forms of dazzling fairness and admirable poise--a complete representative crowd of that calm, proud, haughty British nation, full of dignity, robust health, and self-confidence; a nation that holds in its hands the destinies of half the earth.

Lorimer and de Lussac met in a corner of the drawing-room.

"What a reception!" said de Lussac. "All London is rubbing shoulders here, in order to have a look at the man who has invented the famous shell."

"And his wife," added Lorimer.

"And his wife," repeated de Lussac. "I never saw her looking so lovely. Raphael might have drawn the oval of her face, Murillo her eyes, Titian her hair, Rubens her shoulders."

"And a modern English painter the sadness of her brow," said Lorimer. "Doesn't she look bored, poor woman?"

"That puts the finishing touch, and helps to make her superb--ideal. A calm, cold, sad face is the one _mieux portee_ in England. It is almost _de rigueur_. Nothing is such bad form as to appear to enjoy life. She is quite _a la mode_."

"_A la mort_," said Lorimer. "My dear fellow, I'll tell you what it is, such parties as this give me shivers down the back. Your countrywoman, Madame Vigee-Lebrun, was right when she said, 'The English amuse themselves as the French bore themselves.'"

"Then why do you come here, old fellow?"

"Oh, I! Why, I come as a doctor. I am deeply interested in a special case. I am studying and following carefully the progress of a malady. I am here diagnosing."

"And your patient is" ...

"Our worthy host," said Lorimer.

"How do you find him to-day?"

"The disease is taking its course; he will get over it; but the cure will take time."

Lorimer fixed his eyeglass in his eye, and surveyed the crowd.

"Ah," he ejaculated, letting his glass drop again, "how I preferred the good little Bohemian Sunday suppers, the pretty little house in St. John's Wood! The servants were dismissed, and everybody helped everybody else. There was a house where gaiety reigned supreme, _en autocrate_! And what music we used to have! What glorious talks, what delicious discussions on every topic under the sun! Artists, writers, journalists, out-vied one another in brilliancy. Politics were put aside, and the Bourse and all that makes modern life insufferable. We were never more than twelve of us, so that the conversation could always be general, and, for that matter, the house did not contain a room large enough to hold comfortably more than a dozen people. How all the guests harmonised together! Those were parties. Here they are funereal functions. In a small room conversation is easy, people can talk easily. In a large room one is swamped, and feels like a solution of oneself."

"I see," said de Lussac, "that in spite of all your successes, you have remained a philosopher."

"More than ever. But look round you. Look at all these faces. These people touch a spring to make themselves smile. Oh, if that is your fashion of enjoying yourself, thanks, I prefer something else. Every time I come among this set, I am taken with furious longings every quarter of an hour to rush into the street and shout, to assure myself that I am alive. Poor old Grantham! It was his dream to see his wife shine in society. Poor devil! and such a good fellow, not to speak of his great future as a painter. However, there is our hostess coming towards us. Look at her! How happy she looks, this queen with her new crown--a capital model for 'Mary Stuart going to the Scaffold.'"

De Lussac, recognising some people he knew, moved off to join their group. Lorimer went towards Dora, who smiled with relief at seeing him in the crowd. Everyone seemed to have arrived now, and there was no need for her to remain at her post; but, in case of possible fresh comers, she stayed near the entrance of the room. She looked pale, her face was drawn with fatigue, and her eyes looked unnaturally large.

"Oh, what good it does one to see an old friend's familiar face in a crowd like this," she said to Lorimer, drawing him back towards the doorway of the large drawing-room. "My dear Gerald, I don't believe I know by sight the half of my guests."

The idea struck her as so funny that she began to laugh heartily.

"Do you know half?" exclaimed Lorimer; "that is very good really. As for the crowd, don't complain of that. An English hostess is a failure if people do not stifle in her drawing-room; and if half a dozen women faint, then the party is a social success that covers its giver with glory. The society papers talk of her.--You seem tired."

"Yes," said Dora, "tired--at the end of my strength and my courage."

"Let me take you to the buffet."

They went down together. Lorimer got her a biscuit, an ice, and a glass of champagne, and this light refreshment reanimated her.

On their way back to the drawing-room Lorimer took up the thread of the conversation again.

"Come now, my dear Dora," said he, "your lot is very enviable after all, you know. You are young, beautiful, rich, adored--one of the queens of society. What more do you ask?"

"I ask nothing more," replied Dora; "I ask a great deal less. A queen in society! I had rather be queen at home, as I used to be. We were left in peace in those times. Now all the idlers pry into our life. And why? Oh, it is too silly! Because Philip refused to sell Sir Benjamin Pond a picture which he was painting for me. Yes, that is what is occupying them to-night. They all go to have a look at the portrait, one after another, and then they laugh. Can you conceive such a thing? There exists, or rather there existed, a painter who loved his wife, and did not mind showing it! Is it not droll? So vulgar, you know! It appears that it creates high fun at the clubs. Ah, you may talk about women's tongues, but to retail rubbish and circulate scandal, you must get a dozen men together in a club smoking-room. They are beyond competition, my dear Gerald. I would give all my guests for a couple of intimate friends, for a couple of devoted relatives. Ah, you may say what you like, blood is thicker than afternoon tea."

"You were too happy," said Lorimer, who had been amused at Dora's tirade; "now you must share your happiness a little."

"Yes, and my husband with everybody. Where is my share? How I should like to leave this room and go and sit in a quiet corner for a good talk, such as we used to have in the good old times in the other house."

"Why move? Stay where you are, and instead of thinking yourself on show, try and imagine that all this crowd is here for your amusement. I know all your guests personally or by sight. I am your 'Who's who' for to-night. Make use of me. I will show and explain the magic lantern."

"So you shall," said Dora, amused by the suggestion. "Now, then, who is that horrible creature painted and dyed, with eyes half out of her head and an eternal sickly smile on her face?"

"Lady Agatha Ashby, an old grump of the fashionable world. No one knows her age. Some say it is seventy-two, others put it at a hundred and seventy-two. She is enamelled, and the mouth, as you see it, is fixed in that way with a smile that lasts three hours. They say she used to be pretty and rather witty. Makes it her duty to know everybody worth knowing. Will probably leave memoirs behind her--a diary at anyrate."

"And those?" said Dora, indicating two couples passing near her.

"The Earl of Gampton. Behind him the Countess, a young American woman, who brought him three million dollars, with which he has been able to get his coat-of-arms out of pawn. Our British aristocracy gets regilded in Chicago and New York."

"How can a woman love or respect a man who allows himself to be purchased for a title of nobility?"

"And," said Lorimer, "how can a man love or respect a woman who buys him, and degrades him in his own eyes?"

"You are right," responded Dora. "I cannot see any possible element of happiness in such marriages. She is ugly," she added, after taking a second look at the Countess.

"Beauty fades," said Lorimer, in excuse for Lord Gampton.

"Yes, but ugliness remains," replied Dora.

"And the dollars, too, happily--it is a compensation--a fine indemnity."

"Not always; fortunes have been known to fade too."

"Ah," ejaculated Lorimer, as there passed by him a middle-aged man, fairly good-looking, but wearing a forbidding, sulky expression, "there is Sir George Hardy. He has not inflicted his wife on you."

"No, thank Heaven!--if what people say is true."

"True enough. People don't ask Lady Hardy, but Sir George is a philosopher; he does not resent being asked out alone; and he has the good sense never to try and introduce one to his wife. There are two kinds of women--those you marry, and those you don't introduce to your friends. Sir George has them both in one."

"What a dead-weight such a woman must be! To be proud of one's wife, to be proud of one's husband--that is one of the great keys to happiness in married life. Oh, Gerald, do look at that imposing-looking matron; who is she?"

"The Dowager-Countess of Chausey, pretty well known for her serious flirtations in 1850."

"How can a woman of her age go about so outrageously uncovered? So long as English women do not show their feet, they think they are all right. Her dress is perfectly indecent."

"Not the dress, but its contents," said Lorimer. "The Countess might, it is true, draw a veil across the past and leave something to the imagination of the beholder. But the fun of the thing is, that the dowager is one of the vice-presidents of the society recently founded for the suppression of the nude in our museums and picture galleries. O the British matron!"

"What a proud carriage she has for a woman of her age," said Dora.

"One would think she was carrying the Holy Grail--two Holy Grails in a Parsifal procession."

"Upon my word, I do believe," said Dora, "that women nowadays trust to providence to keep their dresses on their backs! But what lovely frocks! I do not understand how there can still be people who say that the English woman does not know how to dress."

"Not now. A few years back one might have said with truth that the German woman was covered, the English woman was clothed!"

"Not always," said Dora, laughing.

"The American was arrayed, but the French woman alone was dressed. In the present day, the English woman of good society dresses as tastefully as her French sisters, and this fact would be known in France, if English women had not that bad habit of putting all their oldest garments into requisition when they travel."

"French women have not much to teach us now."

"One or two things still. A little Parisian dressmaker, who would come over and set up in England to teach English women to hold their dresses up in the street, ought to make a fortune in no time. It is the most graceful, artistic, and typical movement of the French woman."

"On the other hand, my dear Gerald," said Dora, "French women mince or trot or proceed, English women walk. We are their superiors in many things."

"We might make comparisons without end, and finally be sorely puzzled where to award the prize."

Here the servant announced "Mrs. Van der Leyd Smith."

"Smythe--not Smith," said the new arrival, indignantly turning to the domestic.

"That is the mother of Lady Gampton," whispered Lorimer to Dora.

Dora rose and went to shake hands with her.

"I am a little late," she said; "I have been to the Queen's Theatre to see _Majella_. It is a play that will draw crowded houses till the end of next season. You have seen it, of course."

"Yes," said Dora, "I was at the first night--allow me to introduce its author--Mr. Gerald Lorimer."

"What a pleasure to meet you!" said she, as Lorimer came forward and bowed. "I congratulate you sincerely; your play is a _chef-d'oeuvre_. The house was packed to-night, and the enthusiasm boundless."

"I am happy the public appreciate the play," said Lorimer, bowing his acknowledgments of her compliments.

"_Majella_ will place our old friend in the front rank of the dramatic authors of the day."

"And fill his coffers to the brim," said the American lady, with a knowing glance, which meant, "that is the main thing."

Lorimer and Dora exchanged comprehensive looks. The lady's wink had explained in one flash the motto of New York. Not _who are you?_ nor _what are you?_ nor yet _what have you done?_ but _how much do you make?_

Loud and evidently sincere applause was heard coming from the smaller drawing-room where the concert was being given. Presently there appeared, making towards the staircase, a tall fair young man who replied by smiles and repeated bows to the bravos which were accorded to him by this _blase_ audience of people, little accustomed to lavish applause on anyone. It was Schowalski, a well-known pianist who came to London every year to give a concert, and play in drawing-rooms during the season. At a certain distance, Schowalski's head recalled that of his celebrated compatriot and confrere Paderewski; however, he had not the delicate, finely chiselled profile which gives the latter his striking and unforgetable physiognomy. Taller, more vigorous, more solidly and massively built, with long light hair, straight and thick, and his enormous moustache falling in a semicircle around the mouth, he might have sat for Brennus or Vercingetorix.

Dora held out her hand as he was about to go downstairs.

"Thanks a thousand times," said she; "you have played like an angel."

And she introduced him to the American lady still at her side.

"I had the honour of making madame's acquaintance in New York," said Schowalski, bowing.

"Really," replied Mrs. W. G. van der Leyd Smythe, "when was that?"

"Why, two years ago in New York, in your drawing-room, where I had the honour of playing."

"That's true--I think I remember--in January 1896; yes, yes--delighted to meet you again, Mr. ... I never can remember names--what is his name again?" asked she of Dora.

Schowalski heard no more. He bowed, shook hands with a few friends and disappeared.

"Schowalski is one of the greatest pianists of the day," said Dora.

"I know, I know," said the lady with the string of names, "but what impertinence to enter into conversation with your guests, as if he had been invited. Upon my word, the effrontery of these musicians!"

She followed him with her eyes as she stared through a pair of long-handled glasses, that are a weapon of offence in the fingers of some women.

"Well, to be sure," she cried, "if he isn't shaking hands with Lady Gampton now! My dear Mrs. Grantham, in New York we do not entertain musicians, we engage them to entertain us--we pay them and we are quits."

"My dear Mrs. Van der Leyd Smith"--

"Smythe," said the lady, correcting Dora.

"Excuse me, I never can remember names. In England, artists like Schowalski are received by the aristocracy and even at Court. Perhaps that makes them so bold as to think they may be fit to associate with the aristocracy of New York."

"Take that," she said to herself.

The magnificent New Yorker fanned herself, smiled a little awry, and went to join the group which held her daughter, the Countess of Gampton.

Lorimer had not lost a word of the conversation. He would fain have cried "Bravo."

"For a _debutante_," said he, "you are going strong--that was promising."

"My dear Gerald, I feel that I am getting spiteful--I shall bite soon."

Just at this moment, quite near the door, she perceived a lady taking notes. She had already noticed her before--this person who drew up every now and then near certain groups, carefully studied the dresses, and looked up and down the people whom she did not seem to know.

"Do tell me," Dora said to Lorimer, "who is that woman who puzzles me so? What is she doing? She seems to be taking notes; just now she was making little sketches--she is an artist, no doubt."

"How innocent you are!" cried Lorimer, laughing loudly. "Yes, she is an artist, if you will--who works for some fashion paper--or a lady reporter taking notes for a society paper."

"But I do not know her," said Dora; "I am perfectly sure I never asked her here."

"You, no; but perhaps someone else. For that matter reporters find their way pretty nearly everywhere without invitation. It is their calling. This one is taking notes, to publish in her paper an account of your party."

"But it is an insult," cried Dora; "I wish they would leave me alone. I don't want accounts in papers--my house is private."

"Wait a moment--why, yes," exclaimed Lorimer, who had just put up his eyeglass to look at the lady in question; "yes, of course, I know her, she writes for _The Social Wave_, a paper for people in the swim. Shall I introduce her to you?"

"Oh, no thank you, please don't," replied Dora.

"Some time ago," continued Lorimer, "I used to meet her often at parties. She is a rather clever little woman, and has the knack of turning out readable paragraphs. She is tolerated everywhere for the sake of what she writes--you know, there are plenty of people who like publicity."

Lorimer had noticed that the lady reporter had let fall two leaves from her notebook. He watched his opportunity, picked them up, and brought them to Dora.

"Look, we are going to have some fun. I have samples. Listen, 'Lady Mardon looked thrillingly lovely in electric blue ... her superb shoulders'" ...

"Enough, enough," said Dora. "The idea of it."

"Wait a minute; here is something else. 'Lady Margaret Solby wore a dream of sea-green and salmon, and was the admiration of everyone. Mrs. Van der Leyd Smythe received congratulations on all sides on the subject of her daughter's marriage with the young Earl of Gampton.'"

"And people read that!" said Dora.

"Certainly, and, more wonderful still, people buy it. Oh, listen to this, here is something that concerns you personally. 'Mrs. Philip Grantham wore a dress of white satin, trimmed with lace and silver embroidery, and, blazing with diamonds and emeralds, received her guests with a simplicity and a grace which will speedily make her one of the most popular hostesses in London.' Now, that is what I call amiable; she treats you with generosity." And seeing that Dora seemed very much annoyed, he added, "That is the kind of literature that delights our modest countrywomen."

"There are no more journalists," said Dora, with disgust, "there are only _concierges_."

She took the pages and tore them in shreds. Then, with a little feeling of shame at having been amusing herself at the expense of her guests, she rose, made a little sign to Lorimer, and was soon swallowed up in the crush, saying a few pleasant words here and there to her acquaintances as she went.

Lorimer went down to the buffet, where he found Schowalski, who was going in heavily for sandwiches, cakes and ices and champagne. The appetite of musicians is proverbial!

"Ah, Monsieur Lorimer," said he, "I am so glad to see you, you will be the very man to render me a little service. I have just finished," he added in confidence, "a grand concerto in four parts for the piano. In that concerto I have expressed all the great sorrows of life: First, an adagio--sad, full of tears; then a grand allegro, full of despair. You understand, don't you? Well, what I am trying to find is a title, a telling title. As a playwright you know the importance of a good title. Can you suggest something?"

"My dear sir," said Lorimer, "great sorrows are silent."

"What do you mean?" asked the pianist, for whom British humour was a closed letter. "Are you joking with me? How can one be silent and make music?"

The most thankless task in the world is explaining a joke to a person who has not seen it. Lorimer did not try, and after suggesting _Les peines du Coeur_, _Angoisses de l'ame_, _Le Mal de dents_, _Les Desespoirs de l'Amour_, and a few other eye-tickling titles, he left the puzzled composer and made his way upstairs. It was close upon midnight, the hour at which supper was to be served.

XI

GENERAL SABAROFF

Philip was here, there, and everywhere, playing the host to the admiration of all. Everyone voted him charming. The most exacting society critics admired the ease with which he did the honours of his house, and declared that Philip Grantham was a gentleman. The English man of the world has no higher dignity to confer.

No one thought of going away, although the crowd began to be stifling, but an English crowd is ready to endure anything in order to contemplate at close quarters the celebrity of the moment. The lion that they were expecting to roar for them this evening was General Sabaroff, the _piece de resistance_ of the evening.

Philip began to fear that the General had been detained by some unforeseen business, and would not put in an appearance after all. He had not sent out invitations "to meet General Sabaroff," but he had told a great many of his guests beforehand that he expected him; one person had told another; and it came to much the same thing.

He caught sight of de Lussac, who threw him an appealing little glance which plainly said, "Come to my rescue." He found the young diplomat in the toils of Mrs. Van der Leyd Smythe. He joined them and led off de Lussac, after having passed the lady on to an old banker who happened to be standing near, alone and negotiable.

"My dear fellow," said de Lussac, "I owe you a debt of gratitude for having extracted me from the clutches of that American mamma. I have had to listen to the history of the noble house of Gampton. Upon my word, a lot of those worthy Americans are prouder of their aristocratic alliances than of the brave pioneers who founded the United States. They would sell all the shirt sleeves that felled the forests of America for the coat-of-arms of some ancestor ennobled, a few centuries ago, for something which to-day would perhaps be rewarded with a few years' penal servitude."

"Snobbishness," said Philip, "is a disease that one meets with in all Anglo-Saxons, but with terrible complications in certain Americans.... I almost expected the Minister for War. His lordship promised me he would come."

"If I were you," replied de Lussac, "I would not count upon him. I know he is very busy to-day. Special order to send to Woolwich Arsenal; a message of congratulation to telegraph to the Sirdar on his victory at Atbara; orders to send to various regiments to hold themselves in readiness to set out for India--it appears there is rather disquieting news in the North-West; a consultation with the Commander-in-Chief; a Cabinet Council. Besides which, I fancy, he has promised to speak to-night at a meeting of the Peace Association at the Queen's Hall: the ubiquity of some of you Englishmen is simply prodigious."

"A fine programme," said Philip, "a well-filled day indeed--I should have been pleased to receive his congratulations. Oh, he must be vexed to have been, so to speak, the cause of the refusal I have met with in my own country. Why did they refuse my shell? I should have been prouder of my invention if I had been able to ensure the advantages of it to my motherland."

"My dear fellow, the English do not invent; they buy the inventions of outsiders when they are successful. They looked upon the inventor of the Suez Canal as a dangerous lunatic; to turn him from his project they went so far as to rake up an old theory of Herodotus, that the Red Sea and the Mediterranean were on different levels. At the present day, they hold four millions-worth of stock in the concern, and would only like to have the lot. The fact is, if ever England should meet with a great reverse, if ever she comes to grief, she will have only her vanity and self-confidence to thank."

"Our security is so great."

"I know that," said de Lussac, laughing--"your volunteers can insure their lives without paying any extra premium. By-the-bye, General Sabaroff is in London. He says he has come over to consult a certain oculist. You may be sure, dear boy, that the eye he is concerned about is the one he means to keep on you."

"I know he is in town--I expect him to-night."

"I heard that just now in the other room--you lose no time."

De Lussac drew Philip towards the landing, which was clear of people for the moment.