THE SLAVES OF SOCIETY
SCENE I
A MOTHER’S CARES
“After all,” sighed the marchioness, as she conveyed a three-cornered piece of muffin from the silver chafing-dish to her mouth, and nibbled delicately at one of the corners—“after all, what are we but slaves of society?”
Mr. Despencer extended a hand almost as white and slender as the marchioness’s own, and abstracted a small cube of sugar from the porcelain basin, of the thinness and transparency of a sea-shell, on the marchioness’s silver tray, while he meditated a becoming response.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, giving his head a slow, mournful movement from side to side, “you are right. We are no better off than prisoners on the treadmill. Even you are but a bird of paradise held captive in a gilded cage.”
The bird of paradise removed the piece of muffin from its beak to turn a pair of bright, steel-blue eyes on the speaker, gazing at him for some moments as though in doubt whether to accept this beautiful sentiment as a tribute or to rebuke it as a familiarity.
The cage so feelingly referred to was one of a set of drawing-rooms on the first floor of a mansion in Berkeley Square—that is to say, in the heart of that restricted area within which society requires its bond-servants to reside during the spring and early summer. The gilding consisted in a mural decoration of the very latest and most artistic design, representing a number of Japanese dragons going through a kind of dragon drill, apparently adapted to develop their tail muscles according to the system of Mr. Sandow; in curtains of lemon-colored silk on each side of the window and other curtains of lemon-colored plush across the doorways; in a carpet of that rich but chaotic pattern which has been compared to the poetical style of the late Robert Montgomery, and in a thicket of fantastic and inconvenient chairs, of china-laden cabinets and palms in Satsuma jars, which would have rendered it extremely hazardous for the gymnastic dragons to have come down from the walls and transferred their exercises to the floor of the apartment.
The inhabitant of this dungeon was a handsome young woman of forty, or possibly forty-five, with the fresh complexion and vivacious expression of a girl, united with a certain massiveness of outline, the inseparable distinction of the British matron. Just at this moment, moreover, her features were hardened into that business-like aspect which the British matron assumes when she is engaged in doing that duty which England expects of her no less than of its sea-faring population.
Her companion looked even younger than the marchioness. A rather pale face, set off by a carefully cultivated black mustache, gave him that air of concealed wickedness which women find so interesting. His attire was a little too elegant to be in perfect taste. His bow was tied with an artistic grace repugnant to the feelings of an English gentleman. He was a typical specimen of that class of man whom men instinctively taboo and women instinctively confide in; who are blackballed in the best clubs and invited to all the best country-houses, who have no male friends, and are on intimate terms with half our peeresses. Sometimes these men end by getting found out, and sometimes they marry a dowager countess with money—and a temper. As yet neither fate had overtaken Mr. Despencer.
The marchioness decided that her companion had been familiar.