VI

But she was weak; it was such fun; she couldn’t spoil it; not for this one evening.

There were the roses, sisters to the roses in her room, making the table a thing apart and cared for among the flock of tables decorated cynically with a sad daffodil or wrinkled tulip stuck in sprigs of box and fir; and there the welcoming head waiter, himself hovering over the proper serving of dishes which all seemed to be what she chanced to like best, and there sat Christopher opposite her, flushed with happiness and so obviously adoring that the other diners noticed it and sent frequent discreet glances of benevolent and sympathetic interest across to their corner, and nobody seemed to think his attitude was anything but natural, for she couldn’t help seeing that the glances, after dwelling benevolently on him, dwelt with equal benevolence on her. It was too funny. It wouldn’t have been human not to like it; and whatever misconception it was based on, and however certainly it was bound to end, while it lasted it was–well, amusing.

On the wall to her left was a long strip of looking-glass, and she caught sight of herself in it. No, she didn’t seem old–not unsuitably old, even for Christopher; in fact not old at all. It was really rather surprising. When did one begin? True, the rose-coloured lights were very kindly in this restaurant, and besides, she was amused and enjoying herself, and amusement and enjoyment do for the time hide a lot of things in one’s face, she reflected. What would Stephen say if he saw her at this moment?

She looked up quickly at Christopher, the thought laughing in her eyes; but meeting his, fixed on her face in adoration, the thought changed to: What would Stephen say if he saw Christopher?–and the laughter became a little uneasy. Well, she couldn’t bother about that to-night; she would take the good the gods were providing. There was always to-morrow, and to-morrow and to-morrow to be dusty and dim in. For the next two hours she was Cinderella at the ball; and afterwards, though there would be the rags, all the rags of all the years, still she would have been at the ball.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Christopher, himself one large laugh of joy.

“I was wondering what Stephen–your friend Stephen–would say if he saw us now.”

“Poor old Jack-in-the-Box,” said Christopher with easy irreverence. “I suppose he’d think us worldly.”

She leaned forward. “What?” she asked, her face rippling with a mixture of laughter and dismay, “what was it you called him?”

“I said poor old Jack-in-the-Box. So he is. I saw him in his box on Sunday at St. Paul’s. I went, of course. I’d go anywhere on the chance of seeing you. And there he was, poor old back number, gassing away about love. What on earth he thinks he knows about it–”

“Perhaps–” She hesitated. “Perhaps he knows a great deal. He has got”–she hesitated again–“he has got a quite young wife.”

“Has he? Then he ought to be ashamed of himself. Old bone.”

She stared at him. “Old what?” she asked.

“Bone,” said Christopher. “You can’t get love out of a bone.”

“But–but he loves her very much,” she said.

“Then he’s a rocky old reprobate.”

“Oh Christopher!” she said, helplessly.

It was the first time she had called him that, and it came out now as a cry, half of rebuke, half of horrified amusement; but in whatever form it came out the great thing to his enchanted ears was that it had got out, for from that to Chris would be an easy step.

“Well, so he is. He shouldn’t at that age. He should pray.”

“Oh Christopher!” cried Catherine again. “But she loves him too.”

“Then she’s a nasty girl,” said Christopher stoutly; and after staring at him a moment she went off into a fit of laughter, and laughed in the heavenly way he had already seen her laugh once before–yes, that was over Stephen too–so it was; Stephen seemed a sure draw–with complete abandonment, till she had to pull out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

“I don’t mind your crying that sort of tears,” said Christopher benignly, “but I won’t have any others.”

“Oh,” said Catherine, trying to recover, diligently wiping her eyes, “oh, you’re so funny–you’ve no idea how funny–”

“I can be funnier than that,” said Christopher proudly, delighted that he could make her laugh.

“Oh, don’t be–don’t be–I couldn’t bear it. I haven’t laughed like this since–I can’t remember when. Not for years, anyhow.”

“Was George at all like his furniture?”

“His furniture?”

“Well, you’re not going to persuade me that that isn’t George’s, all that solemn stuff in your drawing-room. Was he like that? I mean, because if he was naturally you didn’t laugh much.”

“Oh–poor darling,” said Catherine quickly, leaving off laughing.

He had been tactless. He had been brutal. He wanted to throw himself at her feet. It was the champagne, of course; for in reality he had the highest opinion of George, who not only was so admirably dead but also had evidently taken great care of Catherine while he wasn’t.

“I say, I’m most awfully sorry,” he murmured, deeply contrite–whatever had possessed him to drag George into their little feast? “And I like George most awfully. I’m sure he was a thoroughly decent chap. And he can’t help it if he’s got a bit crystallised–in his furniture, I mean, and still hangs round–”

His voice trailed out. He was making it worse. Catherine’s face, bent over her plate, was solemn.

Christopher could have bitten out his tongue. He was amazed at his own folly. Had ever any man before, he asked himself distractedly, dragged in the deceased husband on such an occasion? No kind of husband, no kind at all, could be mentioned with profit at a little party of this nature, but a deceased one was completely fatal. At one stroke Christopher had wiped out her gaiety. Even if she hadn’t been fond of George, she was bound in decency to go solemn directly he was brought in. But she was fond of him; he was sure she was; and his own folly in digging him up at such a moment was positively fantastic. He could only suppose it must be the champagne. Impatiently he waved the waiter away who tried to give him more, and gazed at Catherine, wondering what he could say to get her to smile again.

She was looking thoughtfully at her plate. Thinking of George, of course, which was absolute waste of the precious, precious time, but entirely his own idiotic fault.

“Don’t,” he murmured beseechingly.

She lifted her eyes, and when she saw his expression she couldn’t help smiling a little, it was such intense, such concentrated entreaty. “Don’t what?” she asked.

“Don’t think,” he begged. “Not now. Not here. Except about us.”

“But,” she said, “that’s exactly what I was doing till–”

“I know. I’m a fool. I can’t help somehow blurting things out to you. And yet if you only knew the things I’ve by a miracle managed not to blurt. Why, as if I didn’t know this is no place for George–”

Again. He had done it again. He snapped his mouth to, pressing his lips tight together, and could only look at her.

“Perhaps,” said Catherine smiling, for really he had the exact expression of an agonisedly apologetic dog, “we had better talk about George and get it over. I should hate to think he was something we didn’t mention.”

“Well, don’t talk about him much then. For after all,” pleaded Christopher, “I didn’t ask him to dinner.” And having said this he fell into confusion again, for he couldn’t but recognise it as tactless.

Apparently–how grateful he was–she hadn’t noticed, for her face became pensively reminiscent (imagine it, he said to himself, imagine having started her off on George when things had been going so happily!) and she said, breaking up her toast into small pieces and looking, he thought, like a cherub who should, in the autumn sunshine, contemplate a respectable and not unhappy past–how, he wondered, did a comparison with autumn sunshine get into his head?–she said, breaking up her toast, her eyes on her plate, “George was very good to me.”

“I’m sure he was,” said Christopher. “Any man–”

“He took immense care of me.”

“I’m sure he did. Any man–”

“While he was alive.”

“Yes–while he was alive, of course,” agreed Christopher; and remarked that he couldn’t very well do it while he wasn’t.

“But that’s just what he tried to do. That’s just what he thinks–oh, poor darling, I don’t know if he’s able to think now, but it’s what he did think he had done.”

“What did he think he had done?”

“Arranged my future as carefully as he was accustomed to arrange my present. You see, he was very fond of me–”

“Any man–”

“And he was obsessed by a fear that somebody might want to”–her face, to his relief, broke into amusement again–“might want to marry me.”

“Any man–” began Christopher again, with the utmost earnestness.

“Oh, but listen,” she said, making a little gesture. “Listen. He never thought he’d die–not for ages, anyhow. One doesn’t. So he naturally supposed that by the time he did I’d be too old for anybody to want to marry me for what”–her eyes were smiling–“is called myself. George was rich, you see.”

“Yes, I’ve been imagining him rich.”

“So he thought he’d keep me happy and safe from being a prey to wicked men only wanting money, by making me poor.”

“I see. Sincerely anxious for your good.”

“Oh, he was, he was. He loved me devotedly.”

“And are you poor?”

“Very.”

“Then why do you live in Hertford Street?”

“Because that was his flat when he had to come up on business, and was just big enough for me, he thought. Where we really lived was in the country. It was beautiful there–the house and everything. He left all that in his will to–to another relation, and nearly all his money of course, so as to keep it up properly, besides so as to protect me, and I got the flat, just as it is, for my life, with the rent paid out of the estate, and the use of the furniture and a little money–enough, he thought, for me by myself and one servant, but not enough to make me what he called a prey to some rascally fortune-hunter in my old age.”

She smiled as she used George’s phrase; how well she remembered his saying it, and things like it.

“What a cautious, far-seeing man,” remarked Christopher, his opinion of George not quite what it was.

“He loved me very much,” said Catherine simply.

“Yes–and whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,” said Christopher. “As no doubt Stephen has pointed out.”

“Well, but when George made his will, five hundred a year and no rent to pay at all and all the furniture to use, wasn’t in the least chastening for one woman by herself,” she said.

“Five hundred? Why, I’ve got nearly double that, and I feel as poor as a rat!” exclaimed Christopher.

“Yes, but when George made his will it was worth much more.”

“Was it? Why, when did he make his will?”

And Catherine, suddenly realising that in another moment at this rate she would inevitably tumble right into Virginia, paused an instant, and then said, “Before he died, of course–” and refused after that to say another word about him.