"How glorious! It was just the dear, splendid thing you would do, Henry," Moravia cried, getting up from her knees. "But we won't tell Sabine; we will just let her mope there up in her room, feeling as miserable as she deserves to be for not knowing her own mind. We will all have a nice dinner—no, that won't be it—you and I will dine alone here, up in this room, and Papa can talk to Madame Imogen. In this house, thank goodness, we can all do what we like, and I am not going to leave you, Henry, until we have got to say good-night. I don't care whether you want me or not—I have just taken charge of you, and I mean you to do what I wish—there!"
And she crept closer to him again and laid her face upon his breast, so that his cheek was resting upon her soft dark hair. Great waves of comfort flowed to Henry. This sweet woman loved him, at all events. So he put his arm round her again, while he assured her he did want her, and that she was an angel, and other such terms. And by the time she allowed him to go to his room to dress for dinner, a great measure of his usual nerve and balance was restored. She had not given him a moment to think, even shaking her finger at him and saying that if he was more than twenty minutes dressing, she would herself come and fetch him and bring him back to her room.
Then, when he had left her, this true daughter of Eve, after ordering dinner to be served to them, proceeded to make herself as beautiful as possible for the next scene. She felt radiant. It was enormous what she had done.
"Why, he was on the verge of suicide!" she said to herself, "and now he is almost ready to smile. Before the evening is over I shall have made him kiss me—and before a month is past we shall be engaged. What perfect nonsense to have silly mawkish sentiment over anything! The thing to do is to win one's game."
CHAPTER XXII
L ord Fordyce found himself dressing in the usual way and with the usual care, such creatures of habit are we—and yet, two hours earlier, he had felt that life was over for him. Although he did not know it, Moravia had been like a strong restorative applied at the right moment, and the crisis of his agony had gone by. It was not that he was not still overcome by sorrow, or that moments of complete anguish would not recur, but the current had been diverted from taking a fatal turn, and gradually things would mend. The perfect, practical common sense of Moravia was so good for him. She was not intellectual like Sabine, she was just a dear, beautiful, kind, ordinary woman, extremely in love with him, but too truly American ever to lose her head, and now in real spirits at the prospect of playing so delightful a game. She was thoroughly versed in the ways of male creatures, and although she possessed none of Sabine's indescribable charm, she had had numbers of admirers and would-be lovers and was in every way fitted to cope with any man. This evening, she had determined so to soothe, flatter and pet Henry that he should go to bed not realizing that there was any change in himself, but should be in reality completely changed. Her preparations had been swift but elaborate. She had rushed to Madame Imogen's room, and got her to take special messages to the chef, and dinner would be waited on by her own maid—with Nicholas just to run in and open the champagne. Then she selected a ravishing rose-pink chiffon tea-gown, all lacy and fresh, and lastly she had a big fire made up and all the curtains drawn, and so she awaited Henry's coming with anticipations of delight. She had even got Mr. Cloudwater (that père aprivoisé!) to mix her two dry Martini cocktails, which were ready for her guest.
Henry knocked at the door exactly at eight o'clock, and she went to meet him with all the air of authority of a mother, and led him into the room, pushing him gently into the chair she had prepared for him. A man may have a broken heart—but the hurt cannot feel so great when he is surrounded with every comfort and ministered to by a beautiful young woman, who is not only in love with him, but has the nerve to keep her head and not neglect a single point which can be of use in her game.
If she had shown him too much sympathy, or just been ultra-refined and silent and adoring, Henry by this time would have been quite as unhappy as he had been at first; but he was too courteous by nature not to try to be polite and appreciative of kindness when she tendered it so frankly, no matter what his inward feelings might be—and this she knew she could count upon and meant to exploit. She argued very truly that if he were obliged to act, it would brace him up and be beneficial to him, even though at the moment he would much prefer to be alone. So now she made him drink the cocktail, and then she deliberately spoke of Sabine, wondering if she would be awfully surprised to see Michael, and if he would take her back with him to Arranstoun. Henry winced at every word, but he had to answer, and presently he found he did not feel so sad. Then, with dexterity, she turned the conversation to English politics and got him to explain points to her, and at every moment she poured in insidious flattery and frank, kind affection, so that by the time the ice had come, Henry had begun to feel unaccountably soothed. She was really a beautiful woman and arranged with a wonderful chic, and he realized that she had never looked more charming or been so sweet. She had all the sense of power being on her side, now that she had a free hand, unhampered by honor to her friend, and when the dessert and the cigarettes had come, she felt that she might indulge in a little sentiment.