“Oh yes,” remembered Fosland, and was thoughtful for a moment. “No, I don’t think I can come. Sorry.” He felt the eye of Connors fixed on him curiously.
On Fosland’s book was a tea, the date filled in two weeks ago; one of those art things to which men are compelled. Arly had handed it to him, much like a bill for repairs, or a memorandum to secure steamer tickets. He drove home, and dressed, and when William handed him his hat and gloves and stick he laid them on the table beside him, in his lounging room, and sat down, looking patiently out of the window. He glanced at his watch, by and by, and resumed his inspection of the opposite side of the street. He stirred restlessly, and then he suddenly rose, with a little smile at himself. He had been waiting for word from Mrs. Fosland, that she was ready. For just a few abstracted moments he had forgotten that he was to pay the social obligations of the house of Fosland entirely alone.
He picked up his hat and gloves and stick, and started to leave the room. As he passed the door leading to Arly’s apartments, he hesitated, and put his hand on the knob. He glanced over his shoulder, as a guilty conscience made him imagine that William was coming in, then he gently turned the knob, and entered. A tiny vestibule, and then a little French-grey salon, and then the boudoir, all in delicate blue, and sweet with a faint, delicate, evasive fragrance which was like the passing of Arly. Something made him stand, for a moment, with a trace of feeling which came to awe, and then he turned and went out of the terribly solemn place. He did not notice, until afterwards, that he had tiptoed.
Gerald Fosland had never been noted for brilliance, but he was an insufferable bore at the art tea. People asked him the usual polite questions, and he either forgot that they were talking or answered about something else, and he entirely mislaid the fragments of art conversation which he was supposed to have put on with his ascot. Nearly every one asked about Arly, and several with more than perfunctory courtesy. He had always known that Arly was very popular, but he had a new perception, now, that she was extremely well liked; and it gratified him.
Occupied with his own reflections, which were not so much thought as a dull feeling that he was about to have a thought, he nevertheless felt that this was a rather agreeable gathering, after all, until he accidentally joined a group which, with keen fervour, was discussing the accident to Prymm. He had a general aversion to gossip anyhow, and shortly after that he went home.
He wrote some letters, and, when it grew dark, he rang for William.
“I shall remain in for dinner to-night,” he observed, and mechanically took up the evening paper which the quiet William laid before him. A headline which made his hand tremble, caught his eye, and he dropped the paper. Prymm had shot himself.
No tragedy had ever shaken Gerald Fosland so much as this. Why, he had met Prymm only that noon. Prymm had said: “Good morning, beautiful weather.” For a moment Fosland almost changed his mind about remaining in for dinner, but, after all, the big panelled dining room, with its dark wainscoting and its heavily carved furniture and its super-abundant service, was less lonely than the club. The only words which broke the silence of the dim dining room during that dinner, were: “Sauce, sir?”
Gerald took his coffee in his lounging room, and then he went again to Arly’s door. He turned before he opened it, and tossed his cigarette in the fireplace. He did not enter by stealth this time. He walked in. He even went on to the dainty blue bedroom, and looked earnestly about it, then he went back to the boudoir and seated himself on the stiff chair in which he had, on rare occasions, sat and chatted with her. He remained there perhaps half an hour. Suddenly he arose, and called for his limousine, and drove to Teasdale’s. They were out, he was told. They were at Mr. Sargent’s, and he drove straight there. Somehow, he was glad that, since they were out, they had gone to Sargent’s. He was most anxious to see Lucile.
“Just in time to join the mourners, Gerald,” greeted Ted. “We’re doing a very solemn lot of Gailing.”