I
Peter did not hesitate now. He should win Clare back with his strong right hand and he would rule The Roundabout with a rod of iron. Ruling The Roundabout meant ruling Mrs. Rossiter and he was surprised at the ease with which he won his victory over that lady. Had he considered it more deeply that easy victory might have seemed to him ominous.
At luncheon on the day after his talk with Clare they three sat together—Mrs. Rossiter silent, Clare silent, Peter silent.
Suddenly Peter said: “Oh by the way, Clare, I telephoned for seats this morning for the new thing at the Criterion. I got two stalls.”
They had not been to the theatre together since Stephen's death.
Clare lifted a white face—“I don't think I—”
“Oh yes,” said Peter, smiling across at her—“you'll enjoy it.”
Mrs. Rossiter stroking her large bosom with a flat white hand said, “I don't think Clare—”
“Oh yes,” said Peter again, “it will do her good.”
Mrs. Rossiter smiled. “Get another stall, Peter, and I will come too.”
“I'm afraid,” said Peter very politely, “that it's too late. The piece is a thumping success. I was very lucky to get any seats at all.”
And then Mrs. Rossiter subsided, absolutely subsided ... very strange.
That was not a very happy evening. Clare scarcely spoke, she answered him with “Yes” and “No,” she sat in the stalls looking like a little unhappy ghost. She did not in any way repulse him—she let him take her hand coming home in the cab. She shivered and he asked whether she were cold and she said, Yes, she thought that she was. That night he came in, took her for a moment in his hands, kissed her very gently on the lips, and said—
“Clare, you're not angry with me for last night?”
“No” she answered him. Then she added slowly, as though she were repeating a part that she'd learnt, “Thank you for taking me to the play, Peter. I was rather tired. But thank you for taking me.”
He went to bed thanking God for this change in her. “I'll make her love me just as she used to, those days on our honeymoon. God bless her.”
Yes, Mrs. Rossiter was strangely altered. It all shows what one can do with a woman when one tries. Her hostile placidity had given place to something almost pathetic. One would have thought, had one not known that lady's invariable assurance of movement, that she was perplexed, almost distressed.
Peter was conscious that Clare was now as silent with her mother as she was with him. He perceived that Mrs. Rossiter was disturbed at Clare's reticence. He fancied that he sometimes interrupted little conversations between the mother and the daughter the intention of which was, on Mrs. Rossiter's part at any rate, that “Clare should tell her something.” There was no doubt at all, that Mrs. Rossiter was anxious. Even—although this seemed impossible—she appeared to be ready to accept Peter as a friend and ally now—now after these many weeks of hostility. Surely women are strange creatures. In any case, one may observe the yellow brooch agitated now and ill at ease.
Very soon, too, Cards came to make his farewells—he was going to Paris for the whole of May.
“What! Won't you be back for the beginning of the Season?” cried Peter astonished.
“No,” Cards answered, laughing. “For once the Season can commence without me.”
He was especially affectionate but seemed anxious to be gone. His dark eyes avoided Peter's gaze. He didn't look well—a little anxious: and Cards was generally the soul of light-hearted carelessness.
What a splendid fellow he was! Peter looked him up and down taking that same delight that he had always taken in his distinction, his good looks, his ease. “He ought to have been born king of somewhere,” Peter used to think, “he ought really—no wonder people spoil him.”
“There's another thing,” Peter said, “you're forgetting Clare's birthday next week. She'll be dreadfully disappointed at your not being here for it.”
“I'll have to remember it from Paris,” Cards said.
“Well—it's an awful pity that you're going for a whole month. I don't know what we shall do without you. And you cheer Clare up—she's rather depressed just now. Thinks of the kid a bit, I expect.”
“Well, I'll write,” said Cards, and was gone.