"School with her," called Claudia, hurrying away. "Known her all my life. So have you. Come and talk to her."
It was evidently to be a bright evening. Edgar followed, trying to remember Olivia Stephens, and to recall what he knew of her. There came back to his mind a picture of a girl who came to see Claudia in bygone days, a girl with a long plait of hair and very arched brows and a freckled snub nose; of an older girl with her hair up, who had not very much to say for herself; of a young creature who flaunted a shapeless olive-green frock down the cobbled street of a Cornish fishing village, attended by an amiable fellow in a reddish-brown Norfolk suit, bearing a black-bowled pipe and a cudgel. This picture, which wavered and sharpened in its successive stages, like a series of kinema close-ups, recalled Olivia to his experience. She was the girl who had married an artist—the Norfolk-jacketed young man with the pipe; upon whose behalf Edgar had been persuaded to buy some water-colour drawings which hung in his mother's bedroom. What was it about her?—poor, artist-husband—cheerful—ah, babies! Olivia was the girl who had the two babies! The girl of his ideal! She it was of whom Claudia had given accounts which had filled him with admiring approval. Edgar was triumphant at his own instinct for clues and associations. It came into his head that he had seen vague resemblances to Olivia and the young artist at Monty's September party. Of course! He had not spoken to her, because his memory had been too vague; but now he was clear. The girl he had seen must indeed have been Olivia; and her artistic husband must have been the link with Monty and the æsthetes. They were the young people who were still in love with each other. He could recall their happiness. Even in recollection Edgar was pleased with them.
"Babies," he ejaculated recognisingly to himself. He entered the sitting-room with the anticipation of interest; but with a certain sinking of the heart lest Olivia should be restricted to a single topic.
iv
"How are you, Edgar?" asked Olivia. She sat by the fire in the blue-grey drawing-room; and there was work in her hands. The work was obviously a garment for a small child. He recognised her at once by the well-arched eyebrows, and by the fact that she wore—as in his first vision—a dress which was olive-green in colour. The freckles were banished (whether by the season, or by some more permanent cure, he could not tell); but the calm, innocent eyes and odd little nose were much as he remembered them to have been. Her shoulders were broader, and her breast had developed. Otherwise she was the agreeable creature he had known, between fair and dark, with plump arms and legs and a lot of fair hair. She had a very sweet lazy smile, and an unself-conscious manner which came of not taking herself very seriously. She was about twenty-six. Theoretically, Edgar knew, Olivia was his ideal type of woman. She gave love with the eager readiness of the trustful child; she spoke quietly and seldom, but without constraints; she had courage and patience and unselfishness. And he was in love with her opposite. One more insoluble problem.
"How are you?" he answered. "And how's ... er, Stephens?" Then, with the proud feeling of taking his fences: "And how are the babies?"
"How nice of you to ask about them!" said Olivia, comfortably, with her slow, happy, lazy smile. "Joan isn't very grand. She's got a cold. That makes her just a little trying and sentimental at the moment. But Michael is tremendously hefty, and already weighs about ten stone. He's a sort of prize ox. In fact Mercy—Peter's sister—says he's not like a baby at all, but like a beautiful white calf. You haven't seen either of them, I expect, though Claudia has. Joan's three; and Michael's just over a year, and walks well. Look here, you ought to come and see them. They'd do you good. You must be getting quite middle-aged, Edgar. Yes, I can see you are. You ought to have children of your own. Then you wouldn't have time to grow old. Come and see them, will you?"
"This conversation is going to be extremely indelicate and extremely rude, I can see," replied Edgar. "I begin already to remember you as an excessively rude and, indelicate girl in a pigtail. I am not middle-aged, and I don't look as though I were middle-aged. So that's finished. As to the babies, I will come. I ought to have come before; but I had forgotten all about you. When Claudia said you were here I had really to recall who you were. How is it you never come to see us? Or do you come, secretly?"
Olivia grimaced.
"I go out very little. The babies, you see. Michael needs somebody still—they both need somebody to put them to bed; and Michael sometimes yells for me. I'm only out this evening because Peter's sister is staying with us. Peter's coming for me later on. He couldn't come to dinner, because he's finishing some work."