If the votes of Mayfair had been taken to elect the most popular married couple living, moving and having its being in Society, there is little doubt that Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival would have headed the poll.
The lady was twenty-five and of great beauty. She was very fair, and the light in her grave, blue eyes was a lovely thing. Her face might have been her fortune—easily. So might her figure. This was the dressmakers’ joy. If Katharine liked fine feathers, she knew how to put them on. Dancing, bathing, riding—always she filled the eye. But if she was refreshing to look at, her fellowship lifted up the heart. I can think of no company which she did not adorn. Someone once called her ‘Champagne’: certainly she went to the head. That she had so few enemies is the best evidence of her remarkable charm. Women liked her—as often as not against their will. Her nature would, I think, have disarmed a Sycorax. Caliban would certainly have eaten out of her hand.
Giles was thirty, and looked a young twenty-six. Tall, fair, handsome, lazy-eyed, he did everything well. The way in which he made war brought him a V.C. The way in which he made love won him his wife. At the Marlborough he was universally liked. In certain cabmen’s shelters he was adored. He had, I suppose, the secret of adaptability. His laugh was infectious; his turn-out, above reproach. His manners would have made any man.
Both had a keen sense of humour, and neither was ever dull. They went everywhere, and everywhere their coming was awaited and their going deplored. They had been individually invaluable: as a combination they were unique. What made them so excellent was their mutual devotion. Of this they offered no evidence, but it was obvious as the day. Had Society paraded in the Park, by common consent Giles and Katharine would have been led at the head of the column, like regimental goats. For the second year in succession they were the Season’s pets.
But now an east wind had arisen out of a clear sky. Though no one else knew it, it had cursed the twain steadily for more than three months. The two peace-loving hearts found themselves constantly at war. Worse. The very qualities which should have pacified seemed monstrously to provoke. The position had become unbearable.
An hour had gone by.
As Katharine entered the dining-room, her husband looked up from his eggs.
“Forsyth,” he said, “will see us at twelve o’clock. Meanwhile”—he tapped a volume—“this little Know All says that we ought to have trustees.”