VI
There was no letter for Evie when she arrived at the store. Curiously enough she was not as disappointed as she expected to be. There was a chance that Ronnie would have written after his visit to the house, but when she found her desk bare, she accepted his neglect with equanimity.
Her love for Ronnie was undiminished. She faced, with a coolness which was unnatural in her, the future he had sketched, and if at times she felt a twinge of uneasiness, she put the less pleasant aspect away from her. It would not be honorable to go back on her word, even if she wanted to do so. And she did not. As to the more agreeable prospect she did not think about that either. It was easier to dismiss the whole thing from her mind. She told herself she was being philosophical. In reality, she was solving her problem by the simple process of forgetting it.
Leaving the store at midday to get her lunch, she saw Ronnie. He was driving past in his big Rolls and apparently he did not see her. Why was she glad—for glad she was? That thought had to be puzzled out in the afternoon, with disastrous consequences to her cash balance, for when she made her return that night, she was short the price of a hot-water bottle.
But Ronnie had seen her, long before she had seen him. He was on his way to lunch with a man he knew but toward whom he had for some reason conceived a dislike. It was rather strange, because Jerry Talbot was the one acquaintance he possessed who might be called "friend". They had known one another at Oxford, they had for some time hunted in pairs, they shared memories of a common shame. Yet when Jerry's excited voice had called him on the telephone that morning and had begged him to meet his erstwhile partner at Vivaldi's, Ronnie experienced a sense of nausea. He would have refused the invitation, but before he could frame the words, Jerry had rung off.
Vivaldi's is a smart but not too smart restaurant, and had been a favorite lunching place of Ronnie's. It was all the more unreasonable in him, that he should descend beneath the glass-roofed portico with a feeling of revulsion.
Mr. Talbot had not arrived, said the beaming maître de hotel. Yes, he had booked a table. Ronnie seated himself in the lounge and a bellboy brought him an evening newspaper which he did not read. Had he done so, he would not have waited.
Half an hour passed and Ronnie was feeling hungry. Another quarter of an hour.
"I am going into the restaurant—when Mr. Talbot comes, tell him I have begun my lunch."
He was shown to the table and chose a simple meal from the card. At any rate, Jerry's unpardonable rudeness gave him an excuse for declining further invitations.
He had finished his lunch and had signalled for his bill when, looking round, he recognized two men at one of the window tables. He would not have approached them, but Sir John Maxton beckoned.
Dr. Merville would gladly have dispensed with his presence, thought Ronnie, and wondered if he had intruded into an important conference.
"Come and sit down, Ronnie. Lunching alone? That is rather unusual, isn't it?"
"My friend disappointed me," said Ronnie and he saw the doctor's lip curl.
"Did she—too bad," said Maxton.
"It was a 'he'," corrected Ronnie, and knew that neither man believed him.
He noticed Sir John glancing at his companion.
"Ronnie, I wonder if you can help us. Do you remember the flotation of that Traction Company of Steppe's?"
"I don't think it is much good asking Ronnie," the doctor broke in with a touch of impatience. "Ronnie's memory is a little too convenient."
"I remember the flotation—in a way," admitted Ronnie.
"Do you remember the meeting that was held at Steppe's house when he produced the draft of the prospectus?"
Ronnie nodded.
"Before we go any farther, John," interrupted Merville, "I think it will be fair to Ronnie, if we tell him that there is trouble over the prospectus. Some of the financial papers are accusing us of faking the assets. The question is, was I responsible, by including properties which I should not have included, or did Steppe, in his draft, give me the facts as I published them? I don't think Ronnie will remember quite so vividly if he knows that he may be running counter to Steppe."
Ronnie did not answer.
"You see what I am driving at," Sir John went on. "There may be bad trouble if the Public Prosecutor takes these accusations seriously—which, so far he hasn't. We want to be prepared if he does."
"I cannot remember very clearly," said Ronnie. "I am not a member of the Board. But I do recall very clearly Steppe showing a draft and not only showing it, but reading it."
"Do you remember whether in that draft he referred to the Woodside Repairing Sheds; and if he did, whether he spoke of those as being the absolute property or leased property of the company?"
"The absolute property," said Ronnie. "I remember distinctly because the Woodside Repairing Shops are on the edge of a little estate which my father left me—you remember, John? And naturally I was interested."
Merville was dumbfounded. Never in his most sanguine moments did he suppose that Ronnie would assist him in this respect. Ronnie, who shivered at a word from Steppe, whose sycophantic servant he had been!
"This may come to a fight," said Sir John, "and that would mean putting you in the box to testify against Steppe. Have you quarrelled with him?"
"Good gracious, no!" said Ronnie in surprise. "Why should I quarrel with him? He doesn't worry me. In a way he is amusing, in another way pathetic. I feel sometimes sorry for him. A man with such attainments, such powers and yet so paltry! I often wonder why he prefers the mean way to the big way. He uses his power outrageously, his strength brutally. Perhaps he didn't start right—got all his proportions wrong. I was working it out last night—the beginnings of Steppe—and concluded that he must have had an unhappy childhood. If a child is treated meanly, and is the victim of mean tyrannies, he grows up to regard the triumph of meanness as the supreme end in life. His whole outlook is colored that way, and methods which we normal people look upon as despicable are perfectly legitimate in his eyes."
"Good God!" said Sir John aghast. It was the man, not the arguments which startled him.
"Children ought not to be left to the chance training which their parents give them," Ronnie went on, full of his subject, "but here, I admit, I am postulating a condition of society which will never be realized. Some day I will start my Mother College. It is a queer sounding title," he said apologetically, "but you will understand I want a great institution where we can take the illegitimate children of the country, the unwanted children. They go to baby farmers and beasts of that kind now. I want a college of babies where we will teach them and train them from their babyhood up to think and feel goodly, not piously. That doesn't matter. But bigly and generously. To have high ideals and broad visions; to—"
He stopped and blushed, conscious of their interest and stupefaction; squirmed unhappily in his chair, and rubbed his chin nervously with the knuckles of his hand.
Sir John Maxton leaned back in his chair, his face twitching.
A waiter was passing.
"Bring me a brandy," he said hoarsely, "a double brandy."
Christina had only wanted water.