This was the beginning of an acquaintance which gave rise to much argument over tea-cups and at dinner parties and in boudoirs—even in corners of Feather’s own gaudy little drawing-room. The argument regarded the degree of Coombe’s interest in her. There was always curiosity as to the degree of his interest in any woman—especially and privately on the part of the woman herself. Casual and shallow observers said he was quite infatuated if such a thing were possible to a man of his temperament; the more concentrated of mind said it was not possible to a man of his temperament and that any attraction Feather might have for him was of a kind special to himself and that he alone could explain it—and he would not.
Remained however the fact that he managed to see a great deal of her. It might be said that he even rather followed her about and more than one among the specially concentrated of mind had seen him on occasion stand apart a little and look at her—watch her—with an expression suggesting equally profound thought and the profound intention to betray his private meditations in no degree. There was no shadow of profundity of thought in his treatment of her. He talked to her as she best liked to be talked to about herself, her successes and her clothes which were more successful than anything else. He went to the little but exceedingly lively dinners the Gareth-Lawlesses gave and though he was understood not to be fond of dancing now and then danced with her at balls.
Feather was guilelessly doubtless concerning him. She was quite sure that he was in love with her. Her idea of that universal emotion was that it was a matter of clothes and propinquity and loveliness and that if one were at all clever one got things one wanted as a result of it. Her overwhelming affection for Bob and his for her had given her life in London and its entertaining accompaniments. Her frankness in the matter of this desirable capture when she talked to her husband was at once light and friendly.
“Of course you will be able to get credit at his tailor’s as you know him so well,” she said. “When I persuaded him to go with me to Madame Hélène’s last week she was quite amiable. He helped me to choose six dresses and I believe she would have let me choose six more.”
“Does she think he is going to pay for them?” asked Bob.
“It doesn’t matter what she thinks”; Feather laughed very prettily.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Not a bit. I shall have the dresses. What’s the matter, Rob? You look quite red and cross.”
“I’ve had a headache for three days,” he answered, “and I feel hot and cross. I don’t care about a lot of things you say, Feather.”
“Don’t be silly,” she retorted. “I don’t care about a lot of things you say—and do, too, for the matter of that.”