“Well—if Elsie’ll come I’ll have her; but no one else, mind you. And you mustn’t call on her in the morning. She doesn’t let anyone disturb her.”
“Then I’ll stay to lunch and see to it you don’t change your mind.”
CHAPTER XVI
Elsie, after a long and sweeping talk with Polly Pleyden, accepted the invitation. Both agreed that Eustace Bylant was the husband for Gita—eventually. And, as it was out of the question for her to live alone any longer, Elsie was the one to clear his path.
“Not that I’ll say a word to her,” said the young author, whose brows still betrayed perplexity. “I told her once I’d never dare meddle with her sex-stream, and I meant it. But if she can fall in love with Eustace it would be an ideal marriage for her. He’s everything she is not, and yet the differences are not the sort that antagonize, but complement. And he’s just the guide she needs—in every way. An impetuous passionate man would repel her from the start. I’ve seen them together once or twice, and I got the impression of a subtle bond between them, quite aside from books, or master and pupil, although, so far, of course, Gita regards him merely as a walking intelligence.”
“Oh, let him do the job,” said Polly lightly. “You just stick round and play long-distance propriety. But if he says anything to you, tell him to go slow. I want to see first what Gita’s like when she’s racketing round with us. . . . But I don’t fancy he’ll rush her. Knows that patience is his long suit. If he loses his head some moonlight night—well! I’d like to be there to see the explosion. He’d probably find himself sitting on the roof. But I fancy he’ll watch out. Must make himself as indispensable and familiar as the old furniture and Topper. And then sort of propose without actually proposing. Get my idea?”
“Oh, yes, I get it!” Elsie gave a faint sigh of envy. This radiant assured young person had evidently never met defeat in her life. But she was the more ready to assist in the achieving of Miss Pleyden’s latest whim because on the only two occasions she had seen her brother since the dinner he had asked abruptly after Gita. He had frowned as if annoyed with himself, no doubt recalling his characteristic remark after he had handed her over to Topper. Probably those black eyes of Gita’s had been haunting him! She could conceive of no bond between those two and was determined they should not meet again if she could prevent it. No doubt Bylant would succeed in his suit before Gita went to New York for the winter. If she knew anything of men he was the sort whose enforced patience would come to an abrupt end when he had accomplished his purpose, and he would marry her at once. But she sighed again. She had had her day-dreams. . . .
She moved over to the manor next day, and, as her novel was hanging fire, she determined to make an experiment. “I know at least one novelist,” she told Gita, “who writes every new book in a new place. Finds that surroundings dissociated from habit stimulate the imagination. So, if you will give me a quiet corner——”
Gita, delighted, gave her a room off the library that had been used as an office by her grandfather, and the experiment was a success. The social gods were placated, Elsie wrote from six until noon, while Gita either amused herself alone, or rode, walked, talked with Eustace Bylant; who was the most complacent of the trio. He never deluded himself that he had struck a spark from his own steady flame, but she depended on him increasingly, she did not wince, at least, if he touched her hand, or shoulder, as they bent together over a book, and he had the field to himself. He knew Polly’s plans but had no intention of considering them. He still had four months, for the Pleydens did not move to New York until January, and he was determined to marry Gita as soon as he had worn down her defenses.
They were strolling on the Boardwalk one Sunday morning after what was known as the “summer crowd”—drawn from every state in the Union—had taken possession of Atlantic City, and commenting on the lack of feminine beauty in the American masses after the mere prettiness of youth had surrendered to an utterly commonplace maturity.