Balefanio - tmp0

When he got back, late that autumn, to London, he told Margaret:

"I'm getting old. That was the last time. I shan't run away again."

One should never say such things. Next summer, in Paris, he'd met Mitka.

A month passed. On the impulse, he wrote one day to Margaret, who was still at the villa. She must come up and visit them. Rather disconcert­ingly, she answered that she would.

Edward had found a studio in the Rue Lepic. Margaret admired it, smiling, while he made tea.

"You've no right to a place like this, my dear," she said.

Edward answered that he'd have to take up sculpture to justify his existence. They spoke French. Margaret had tactfully started it. But Mitka wouldn't be drawn into saying a word. He just sat, watching them, and occasionally—with a furtive movement—pushing the lock of fair hair away from his eyes. Her faintly amused smile explored everything. She asked:

"Who mends your socks?" and

"Which of you gets the breakfast?"

At last Edward couldn't stand it any longer. He packed Mitka off brusquely to the cinema, with twenty francs. And Margaret looked on at this little performance, smiling.

They were alone. Staring out of the window, frowning, with his hands in his pockets, Edward asked abruptly:

"Well?"

"Well what, my dear?"

Edward's frown tightened.

"What do you think of him?"

"I think he's charming," said Margaret sweetly.

It was just beginning to rain. Edward turned wearily from the wet pane, crossed the room slowly, sat down on the divan:

"I suppose I was a fool to have asked you here."

"By that, my dear, you mean that I was a fool to have come."

"No."

"I must admit," said Margaret, "that it was largely out of curiosity."

"And you've been disappointed."

"Is my approval so essential to your happiness?"

"On the contrary."

"Well, then------?"

"The truth is," said Edward, with his quick, unhappy, malicious little smile, "you wanted to be

quite certain that the exception really did prove the rule."

Margaret asked, with a sigh:

"Need we discuss this?"

"It seems to me that we might as well. Foronce."

She was silent.

"But tell me, Margaret, this interests me. What have you got against Mitka?"

"That child? I barely noticed him."

"'That child?'" He mimicked her voice. "You're starting to show off, my dear."

"Well, perhaps I am, a little bit," she grinned; "but I'm really and truly not saying one word against—Mitka? What a pretty name."

"Very. You mean you think this kind of thing is always a failure?"

"No, I don't say that. Not always." She hesi­tated. "Not for everybody."

"But for me?"

"Yes, Edward, I admit I do think that."

There was a silence. Edward cleared his throat slightly; asked in a different, softer voice:

"Why?"

"I don't know. It isn't your style. It's so------"

she paused suddenly, uncontrollably laughed.

"Oh, Edward, I'm sorry, but I just can't see you------"

"I wish you'd tell me the joke."

"There isn't a joke. Or, at least—yes, I can't help it, it is funny—it's like------"

"What?"

"Like being a nursery governess. Or a respons­ible private tutor."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry, Edward. You made me say it, you know. But it is. I think one would have to have absolutely no sense of humour. You've got far too much."

"Perhaps not so much as you imagine."

"My dear, you're not angry with me, are you?"

"No."

"You are."

"Not in the least. I'm very much interested."

Again she sighed.

"Gracious! it's late. I must be going."

He followed her down the flights of stairs.

"My dear," she said suddenly, "you know I hope I'm wrong."

"I'm certain you hope you're right."

They parted smiling. Edward grinned, made his little bow. But he hated her. Really hated her. Taking hold of himself, clenching his will into a hard fist of obstinacy and hatred, he slowly climbed the stairs to the studio to wait for Mitka.

One evening, nearly seven months later, Mitka left the studio. He was going downstairs, he said, to the cafe for a packet of cigarettes. Edward had not been much surprised when, after three hours,

he had not returned. Yet he couldn't sleep. He could seldom sleep nowadays until he was pretty drunk. He sat up three-quarters of the night becoming so.

Next morning Mitka wasn't there. That evening Edward went down to the Rue de Lappe. He did not come back to the studio until the afternoon of the next day.

On the third day he telephoned to the hospitals and the police. But Mitka had not been arrested or injured. He was simply gone.

Gone. So it's happened at last, Edward had thought, in the instant before losing consciousness, after his crash in Flanders. Thank God!

Within a week he was getting out of the boat-train at Victoria, gloriously tight. "I'm never going to be sober again," he told Margaret. "Never, never again." She had looked scared. They had all looked slightly scared of him. Rabbits. He wasn't going to hurt anyone. What a comic little town London was. He went to their rabbit parties and played at being a rabbit—the biggest rabbit of them all. People who didn't know him were charmed. His friends were very bright and friendly and a trifle scared.

But this was all temporary. It couldn't go on, and he knew how it would end. At last he had got to be alone. But not here. Not in Paris. Someone

mentioned Berlin. He'd taken it for an omen. In forty-eight hours he was on his way.

And that was a year ago.

Edward's brilliant forlorn eyes looked out from the warm, lighted dining-car into the cold brief afternoon world. Twilight was gathering on the huge revolving disc of the plain. The passengers were going back to their compartments. Not long to wait now. His mouth twitched into a little nervous grin. He picked up his pencil. He'd suddenly thought of something funny to write to Margaret.

IV

Mary rang the bell. Lily herself opened the door of the flat.

"Why, Mary! This is a surprise!"

"Good afternoon, Lily. How are you?"

After a moment's hesitation they kissed.

"Very well, thank you. Come in."

Mary followed Lily into the grey and silver sitting-room, admiring the condition in which everything was kept.

"Sit down, won't you?" said Lily, smiling, pushing forward a chair.

"May I look round a little, first?"

"Of course. Why, you've never seen the flat—-have you?"

"No—may I?"

They smiled at each other. Lily, smiling with sudden childish pleasure, opened a door.

"This is my bedroom."

Over the bed hung a water-colour of the Hall as seen from the end of the garden.

"I've never seen this before," said Mary.

"Richard did it."

They stood together in silence looking at the picture. Then Lily quietly moved away:

"And this is the bathroom."

"I see you've got the shape of bath I've always wanted."

"Yes, it's quite comfortable."

"And what a nice shade for the light."

"Do you know who sent me that the other day? Mrs. Beddoes."

"Really? Where is she now?"

"She's gone back to her married daughter in Chester. Her son-in-law has a lamp shop, she says."

They moved into the little kitchen.

"I wish I'd known you were coming," said Lily; "I wouldn't have let the maid go out. But really, when I'm alone, there seems no reason for her to stay in. I generally have a cup of tea by myself in here."

"Well, then," said Mary, "let's have it here together."

"Oh, yes, let's! How nice."

"May I take off my coat, and I'll help you?"

"Of course."

Smiling, Lily took plates from the rack. Mary cut bread and butter. Lily heated the kettle on the ring. Mary fetched the teapot. Lily watched.