“Capital! We’re close together. Come on! We’ll do the West End like two gay young bucks. Five o’clock, isn’t it? We’ll walk up Regent Street and have an ‘apéritif’ at Biflore’s. Wait till I brush my hat.”
Macheson made no difficulties, but he was puzzled. Holderness he knew well enough had no leanings towards the things which he proposed with so much enthusiasm. Was it a pilgrimage they were to start upon—or what? After all, why need he worry? He was content to go his friend’s way.
So they walked up Regent Street, bright with the late afternoon sunshine, threading their way through the throngs of sauntering men and women gazing into the shops—and at one another! At Biflore’s Macheson would have felt out of his element but for Holderness’ self-possession. He had the air of going through what might have been an everyday performance, ordered vermouth mixed, lit a cigarette, leaned back at his ease upon the cushioned seat, and told with zest and point a humorous story. There were women there, a dozen or more, some alone, some in little groups, women smartly enough dressed, good-looking, too, and prosperous, with gold purses and Paris hats, yet—lacking something. Macheson did not ask himself what it was. He felt it; he knew, too, that Holderness meant him to feel it. The shadow of tragedy was there—the world’s tragedy....
They went back to their rooms to dress and met at a popular restaurant—one of the smartest. Here Macheson began to recover his spirits. The music was soft yet inspiring, the women—there were none alone here—were well dressed, and pleasant to look at, the sound of their laughter and the gay murmur of conversation was like a delightful undernote. The dinner and wine were good. Holderness seemed to know very well how to choose both. Macheson began to feel the depression of a few hours ago slipping away from him. Once or twice he laughed softly to himself. Holderness looked at him questioningly.
“You should have been with me for the last fortnight, Dick,” he remarked, smiling. “The lady of the manor at Thorpe didn’t approve of me, and I had to sleep for two nights in a gamekeeper’s shelter.”
“Didn’t approve of you to such an extent?” Holderness remarked. “Was she one of those old country frumps—all starch and prejudice?”
Then for a moment the heel was lifted, and a rush of memory kept him dumb. He felt the tearing of the blood in his veins, the burning of his cheeks, the wild, delicious sense of an exaltation, indefinable, mysterious. He was tongue-tied, suddenly apprehensive of himself and his surroundings. He felt somehow nearer to her—it was her atmosphere, this. Was he weaker than his friend—had he, indeed, more to fear? He raised his glass mechanically to his lips, and the soft fire of the amber wine soothed whilst it disquieted him. Again he wondered at his friend’s whim in choosing this manner of spending their evening.
“No!” he said at last, and he was surprised to find his voice composed and natural, “the mistress of Thorpe is not in the least that sort. Thorpe is almost a model village, and of course there is the church, and a very decent fellow for vicar. I am not at all sure that she was not right. I must have seemed a fearful interloper.”
Holderness stretched his long limbs under the table and laughed softly.