He had, it appeared, joined the Italian Army rather late in the day. Whether he took the step of his free will—having solved his difficulties as to the proper side to champion in the war—or on compulsion, he did not say, and I have never discovered; I was ignorant of Italian legislation, and even of his legal nationality. Perhaps he made no great figure as a soldier, brave as Lucinda had declared him to be; at any rate, before very long he was put on transport work connected with the Italian troops serving on the Western front, with his quarters at Genoa. Even from this form of military service the Armistice appeared now to have freed him. He was for the present “out of a job,” he said, and he gave me an address in Nice, to which I was to reply, enclosing the fifty pounds with which he suggested that I should accommodate him. “Number 21 hasn’t been quite so good a friend to me lately; hence temporary straits,” he wrote. I could imagine the monkeyish look on his face. And that reference to “Number 21” was as near as he approached to any mention of his wife.
I arranged for him to get the money through my bank, and wrote to him saying that possibly I should be in the South of France shortly and that, if so, I would look him up. More precise details of my plans I did not give; it was no business of his with whom I proposed to stay. A week later I set out for Mentone—with, I suppose, treason in my heart; for, during my sojourn at Villa San Carlo, I meant to enter into communication with the enemy, if I could; and I did not intend to ask Lady Dundrannan’s permission.
It was just before Christmas that I reached Mentone—without Frost facilities—and joined the Big Three; that nickname developed a little later (and was accepted by her ladyship with complaisant smiles); I use it now for convenience. They were established, of course, in the height of luxury; there seemed no difficulty about getting anything; the furniture had all come; they had two cars—one to enable Godfrey to visit those works near Marseilles, another to promote the convalescence of Waldo. I gathered that another could be procured for me, if I liked—on what particular false pretense I did not inquire. I said that, what with trams, trains, and legs, I could manage my own private excursions; it was only when I accompanied them that dignity was essential. Nina never objected to sly digs at her grandeur; they were homage, though indirect.
Besides Godfrey and myself, the only guest in the house was Lady Eunice Unthank, a small, fair girl of about nineteen or twenty, younger sister of a friend whom Nina had made at her “finishing” school in Paris, and who had subsequently made what is called a brilliant marriage, so brilliant that it reflected added luster on Lady Eunice’s own aristocracy. The latter was a pleasant, simple, unassuming little person, very fond of the baby (as babies go, it was quite a nice one), obedient and adoring to Nina, frankly delighted with the luxury in which she found herself. I understood that her own family was large and not rich. However, Godfrey was rich enough for two. Yes, that was the idea which at once suggested itself. Mr. Godfrey (he had dropped his “Captain” by now) and Lady Eunice Frost! The one thing Godfrey needed. And a gentle, amenable Lady Eunice too, quite satisfying the Apostle! That perhaps was what Lady Dundrannan also desired, that her rule might not be undermined; the far-seeing eye embraced the future. Anybody vulgar enough might have said that Lady Eunice was at Villa San Carlo “on appro.” What Lady Dundrannan said was that it was a charity to give the child a good time; she did not get much fun at home. But I think that it was organized charity—on business principles.
What the sultan who had the handkerchief to throw thought about this possible recipient of it, it was too soon to say. He was attentive and friendly, but as yet showed no signs of sentiment, and made no efforts after solitude à deux. We were all very jolly together, and enjoyed ourselves famously; for the first ten days or so I quite forgot that Arsenio’s letter had had anything to do with bringing me to Mentone! In fact, I had never before encountered Nina in such an entirely benign and gracious mood; her happiness in her husband and baby seemed to spread its rays over all of us. In such a temper she was very attractive; but it also signified that she was well content. In fact, there was, just now, an air of triumph about her good humor and her benevolence; it seemed especially pronounced in some smiles which she gave me as it were, aside, all to myself. What was there about me to excite her triumph? It could hardly be because I came to stay with her; were we not now cousins, and privileged—or doomed—to one another’s society all our lives?
“Well, this is a fine time, after all our labors,” I said to Waldo one morning as we smoked our pipes after early breakfast. “You look tons better already!”
He smoked on for a moment before he spoke. “I’m a very happy man now,” he said, and smiled at me. “I know you laugh a bit, old chap, at the way Nina runs us all. I don’t mind that. By Jove, look how well she does it! She’s a wonderful girl!”
“She is,” I agreed.
“After all, unless a man takes the position that all men are cleverer than any woman——”
“Which is absurd! Yes, Waldo?”