Sternly Deb removed husband, child and garden by the dream-scruff of their dream-necks,—she sought for some delicate means to enlighten Blair Stevenson of her willingness to—to——
Self-communion slurred over the verbal expression of good—or bad—intent. For it refused to present itself with more elegance than “to go the whole hog”—and such blatant slang did not associate itself readily with Blair’s personality.
“To fulfil my womanhood,”—but that sounded priggish. “To tread the primrose path” was affectation. “To take a lover” was the final selection—but still imperfect. She chose it for the sake of the word “lover” which still hummed to her on that deep sonorous note of wind along the wires ... “lover.”
Meanwhile, her watchfulness lay in ambush for that splendid flare of passion which was to be her impetus and justification. She had a passionate temperament.... How could it be otherwise, with those eyelids and that mouth? Men and women alike had accused her of hot Eastern blood; insisted upon it; warned her, laughing or in envy, of the penalties. She accepted this established version of herself in an unquestioning spirit.
“Child, you’d lead a man to hell!” a victim had once foretold. Now she waited for a man to lead her to hell. She could at least be assured that Blair Stevenson would instinctively and unostentatiously choose quite the least travelled and the most refined and expensive route thither. He was that kind of man; with a reputation, but not a vulgar one, for success with women. Deb, seeking to express crudely the sense he aroused of having dipped to her class from that elusive class which lies midway between the upper middle-class and the aristocracy, told herself in confidence that he made her feel not unlike a housemaid being took notice of by one of the quality. Hitherto, most of the men with whom she had come in contact, could be tabulated as solid business or professional—like Samson or her own father; or else urged by the prevalent rebellion to type, into the artist or vagabond pose—like Cliffe Kennedy.
Blair Stevenson was of such excellent family that he never mentioned his family; probably most of it was extinct, and the rest knew better than to encircle him save at a distance. He had travelled extensively both in cities and in the wilds, so that he combined cosmopolitan ease with the British knack of being able to cope with emergencies. Although he was not much more than thirty-five, the Foreign Office had already recognized his perfect tact and suavity, combined with knowledge of languages, to be extremely useful to them; so that he was accounted one of those mysterious beings “in the know”; “behind the scenes”; one of the men who “pulled strings.”... He had been entrusted with a rather tricky mission to the Balkans, prior to his present leave. His natural appendages and equipments one would assume to be a faithful valet in his town chambers, a faithful maître d’hotel in every capital, and a faithful mistress no one knows where; because Stevenson, though ardent, was discreet where women were concerned; but certainly the carriage of her head proclaimed her exquisite breeding, and she cost him a great deal of money....
And all this about him, speculative and positive, did not quite convey why Deb was not always sure (metaphorically) how to use her knives and forks in his presence. Easy to make mistakes—tiny, silly mistakes of conduct or subtlety—and read in his eyes a dawning recognition that she was not quite “it” after all, or his amusement perhaps at her quaint lapses from sophistication: “Am I an amateur compared with what he’s accustomed to?” Then angrily: “Oh, he swanks, and I’m a snob!” which was inaccurate. He took “form” for granted, and she was shaky about it. Blair Stevenson could be relied on for good manners; not so much the surface good manners connected with the graceful opening of doors for the lady’s exit, but the more fundamental good manners which broke a heart as a heart would most wish to be broken.
IV
“I’ve waited long enough,” said Deb.