“I thought,” she went on, “it seemed rather a shame that I should always have breakfast upstairs, and leave you alone, without anyone to keep you company.”
“Awfully kind of you, but, really, I don’t mind a bit.”
He gave a quick look round the room. He had again that curious, bitter sensation of being trapped. Was he now not even going to have this pleasant morning hour to himself?
Probably there was not a prettier room in London than this one. It had the pale pink and green, blue and mauve colouring of spring flowers; the curved shapes of the dainty artificial creatures who lived for fine and trivial pleasure only; the best Louis Quinze decoration. And to-day it was a lovely day; and the warm west wind blew in the breath of the pink and blue hyacinths in the window-boxes. There was that pleasant gay buzzing sound of London in June outside in Grosvenor Street: the growing hum of the season, that made one feel right in it, even if one wasn’t. Everything was peacefully happy, harsh and hard things seemed unreal; the world seemed made for birds and butterflies, light sentiment, colour, perfume and gay music. In this London life seemed like a Watteau picture.
Nigel saw that he had never yet realised why he was so fond of this room, where he always had breakfast. It was because there he was free, and alone.
Now he was determined that there should be no quarrelling to-day. It is only fair to Nigel to say that he was always quite determined to keep away the quarrels; and fought against them. Placed as they were, with such infinitely more possibilities of happiness than nine ménages out of ten—though leaving out unfortunately one, and that the most important part—love—it was terrible that they should quarrel. He was so easy-going, so ready to ignore her faults, to make the best of things as they were. And she liked to quarrel, merely because it made her, for the time, of importance to him. In fact, being madly in love with him, and both wildly and stupidly jealous, to get up a quarrel was almost the only satisfaction she ever had, the only effect she ever produced now.
Since the other evening, when she had behaved with entire want of self-control, or, perhaps, rather with a kind of instinctive premeditated hysteria, she appeared to recognise that manner had not been a real success. She had tried, at all costs, to prevent him going to the theatre, and had failed.
The next day they ignored the trouble; and for some time afterwards she seemed pleasanter, while he was kind and attentive, believing she had really forgotten her grievance.
On the contrary, it was more firmly fixed in her mind than before. She was absolutely determined that, on no excuse whatever, should he continue to see Bertha Kellynch.