And his mother had basely deserted him. Invited to join a driving party to the châteaux of northern France, she had left London with a hurried note of explanation to her son, feigning to forget the coming of his friend, but devoutly thankful for any escape from what was assuming the contours of a problem. She might rank among the independent women of London, rather weak on the subject of celebrities; but really! His grandmother doted on him, and he had approached her in the hope that she in her great rank and cynical indifference to a criticism that never could affect her, would help him out of his difficulty, enable him to return some of those hospitalities now bulking in his tormented imagination. But he had merely received a reminder of the duke’s aversion from foreigners and disbursements, and much sound advice against making mistakes in his youth; society had cast out its own before. But he had no intention of insulting Styr by entertaining her without the countenance of his family.
His only success had been among certain personages in the world of art, letters, and music, who, indeed, did not wait for his gentle manipulation; they were thankful for the opportunity to do homage to one of the world’s great artists. Whether the ridiculous stories current were true or not hardly concerned them, but they assumed as a matter of course that they were incidental, having suffered more or less themselves. Styr was certain to receive a social ovation from the sets that Ordham privately thought the best worth while in London, but that by no means satisfied him; after all, they were not of his own class, and it was this class—in the eyes of the world, representative England—that he had set his heart upon honouring his friend.
As he wandered about, glaring at the walls and furniture, far too exclusive to be artistic (it was, indeed, early Victorian), he felt his temper rising every moment; he hated Life, that gave with one hand only to take with the other, that had contracted the habit of late of balking his royal pleasure. Nevertheless, he was able to reflect that it was as well many circumstances had combined to stifle the lover in him for the moment. This first interview was the only one he had dreaded. Could they but shoot those breakers even plain speech between them would not be fraught with danger. He did not need experience to assure him that when lovers, long inarticulate, meet after a separation not too long, those brain centres that check and regulate human actions are liable to suffocation by fire and flood. But, were all barriers razed, he was in too bad a humour to-day (he had also been forced to swallow effusive regrets from Mabel before leaving home) to find a corner in him for ardours. At the same time he sighed at this new evidence of the eternal contrast between the anticipated and the real; his tremours over this first meeting had been very sweet.
Nothing perhaps is so eloquent of the artless respectability of the British race as the composition of its older hotels: drawing-rooms and bedrooms rarely connect. (And yet an Englishwoman, visiting the United States for the first time, innocently remarked that she could see the Americans were a virtuous race, as they used portières instead of doors!) The only door of Styr’s sitting room in this expensive hostelry gave entrance to the public corridor. Ordham heard the hissing of under-flounces for a full minute before the door opened and Styr entered. Her cheeks were flushed. She wore a Fedora gown of white camel’s-hair and silk, with a yellow flower in her hair and another in her girdle. He had never seen her look so lovely off the stage.
“It is too delightful to see you once more!” she cried with the warm hypocrisy of a woman who longs to fling herself into a man’s arms and say nothing. “I know I am unforgiven for not letting you come to the station. But did you really think I should let you see me after twenty-four hours in train and boat? That was like a man! And now I have kept you waiting. But of course I expected that you would be late.”
“How can you say such a thing? I wanted above all things to go to that train. I shall never forgive you.”
“Ah! but had I let you meet me, I never should have forgiven myself. Shall we sit beside these delightful window boxes? I changed the luncheon hour to two o’clock—I woke up so late. Oh, tell me that I was quite wonderful last night. It seemed to me that I never had made a real effort before. I know that I triumphed, but I want to hear that you were satisfied.”
Ordham muttered what banalities he could summon. It was evident that her spirits were high, whether artificial or not. She ran on: “Never, never can I express to you what this sudden and splendid opportunity to sing in London means to me. You are my good angel. What had I ever done that you should take so much trouble for me? Those examinations? Yes, for that I shall take credit till the last of my days. But even so—”
“There was no question of paying any debt.” Ordham was scowling at the roses in the carpet. “I could not if I would repay you for many things. I have not the least desire to do so. I wanted you to come here and force London to accept Wagner. Of course you have become the rage in a night. You will reconquer some seventeen times during this too brief visit. It is hardly worth talking about. I wonder if you will like London. Have you ever been here before? I forget.”
“Never. Think of it! I had often visited the Continent before going there to live, but for one reason or another I never got to London. I am as excited at the idea of seeing as of singing to it.”