Under any other circumstances than the present ones Marjorie would, I think, have selected Gaston Arbuthnot as the type of human creature least to be encouraged under heaven. Was he not obtrusively good-looking, a popularity man, a dandy for whom Bond Street tailors would be content, as a flesh-and-blood block, a living advertisement, to stitch gratis? Was he not a coolly neglectful husband, a pleasure-seeker, a frequenter of the afternoon teas of frivolous, attention-loving women?
But in her rush of joyous surprise, of contradictory relief, in her gratitude to him for not being Geoffrey, the girl was ready to extend a hand of hearty friendship to Dinah’s husband—during the first half hour of their acquaintance, at all events.
‘You wish to see the Tintajeux roses? Come, then, and let me play show-woman. Unfortunately,’ Marjorie added, ‘I don’t know in which quarter of the globe the “Duc de Rohan” lives.’
‘I believe I can guide you. I know the whereabouts of every stall in the Arsenal.’
And Lord Rex neatly affixed himself to the party as Marjorie and Dinah rose.
Dinah’s breath came short. She knew instinctively how the eyes of this pale-haired, sun-burnt youth avoided her face, and in that avoidance read the fact of his admiration. She divined that Lord Rex’s intention was to walk at her side. She foresaw, with terror, the necessity of conversation.
Gaston Arbuthnot gave his wife a quick, comprehensive look—Lord Chesterfield embodied in a glance! Then he went through a brief, informal word of introduction.
‘Lord Rex Basire—my wife. I fancied, Dinah, that you and Basire had met already. Now, Miss Bartrand, let us make an exploring tour of the Arsenal. We shall reach the Seigneur’s dark roses, sooner or later. I look to you,’ Gaston added, ‘for enlightenment as to some of the human elements of the show.’
Marjorie’s mood was abundantly bright; the ‘enlightenment’ was not slow of coming. Her prattle, with its brisk bitterish flavour, amused Gaston as he would have thought it impossible to be amused by any classico-mathematical girl extant. As they passed the bench that still supported Madame the Archdeaconess’s sacerdotal weight, Marjorie broke into a laugh—that hearty, human, unmistakable laugh of hers. For Doctor Thorne stood beside the great female pillar of the Church, delivering an oration in his most verbose little manner, to which not only the Archdeaconess, but the wives of the inferior clergy, listened with respect. And Marjorie’s quick ear had caught his text.
‘One ought not to laugh at our betters, Mr. Arbuthnot, ought one?’