That was the advice with which René Fourmy’s second venture in cohabitation was blessed. As usually happens with advice, he was too deeply engrossed in present interests to apply what wisdom it contained to his own case. He drifted down the stream of bliss they had tapped, and, as generously as she, brought into their common stock as much kindness, consideration, and warmth, excitement and curiosity as they needed to take them from moment to moment. Only he brought no laughter, of which she supplied abundance. Both were out early and all day long, and both returned in the evening tired but eager for the new wonder of each other’s company. Indeed it was wonderful, the easy sympathy they had for each other. They could be frank. She had no preconception of what love should be, and took all its delights simply as they came, and her simplicity fed and encouraged his. It was a novelty for him to live from day to day satisfied; a kind of Paradise, if Paradise is a place where the appetites are a little overfed, so that body and mind are brought to indolence.
Kilner had disappeared for a time, having made enough to be able to retire to his painting, and René had no other society than the chauffeurs in the shelters during the day and the familiars of Mitcham Mews in the evening. He became sluggishly content to drift. He was making good money, increased by Ann’s earnings. If he ever thought of the old life in the North at all, it was with lazy contempt and indifference. His first attitude toward London was reversed. He had begun with all the northerner’s contempt for the easy ways of the metropolis. He never read anything but the newspaper, and every evening would read aloud the “fooltong” in the Star. Ann took it for the betting. She put aside two shillings a week for “the horses,” and he joined her in that pursuit. He did not so much enjoy her pleasures as her zest for them, and it became his object to keep that alive. Without that he was at moments aware of a sickening sensation that was truly horrible, making him gird at his surroundings, at certain tricks that Ann had, at habits, gestures, tones in her voice that were like his sister-in-law Elsie’s. He saw the resemblance first on receiving a letter from his brother George:
“DEAR R,—A pal of mine who has been on the spree saw you in London the other day, says you drove him from the Troc to Bernard Street. I thought you’d have been off that long ago, but there’s no accounting for tastes. I meant to write some time since to say the old man has hopped it again, and the mother has taken up her quarters with us. It seems some money came in—I can’t make out where from—and he grabbed it and offed. It seems to have finished her; she’s shut up tight, sits and knits, toddles off to church whenever there’s a service, never mentions him or you. Elsie can’t get anything out of her, though they talk enough together. It makes the house seem full of women. I’ve never set eyes on you know who since you cleared. I’m doing well enough, and hope to get something of my own in a few years, though small business don’t stand much chance in these days against the big combines. You’d be amazed at the huge joint warehouses they’re putting up now. Thrigsby’s changing, and things are queer all round. People shift a bit now, what with the Colonies and all that. They don’t stay in offices like they used to do, only it doesn’t seem to make things any better for those who stay. Elsie sends her love; she always was a bit soft on you and didn’t mind a bit when you cleared. I only meant to tell you about the mother, thinking you ought to know. If ever I get to London I’ll look you up.—Thine, G.—Oh! Kurt Brock has gone in for the aviation and is making quite a name for himself up here.”
The letter took René back pleasantly in memory, when he was suddenly startled to find himself meeting George on his own ground, with complacent acceptance of “having a good time,” as the one desirable object which could redeem the ever-present evil. And then he was compelled, from that footing, to see his own revolt as an unaccountable aberration, an eccentricity, an escapade unfortunately disastrous in its consequences. He did not like that, nor did he relish being coupled in George’s mind with his father, who was first indolent, then a vagabond, then irresponsible. His confidence was shaken, and he was made conscious of discrepancy and narrowly aware of having missed something of that which he set out to seek. Experience had taught him that it was no use taking any unhappiness to Ann. She would merely assume that he was unwell and probably dose him with physic from the herbalist’s round the corner. Again, he saw that George, like Ann, had a gusto in his way of living which he himself lacked, and now only enjoyed vicariously. That could no longer fret his nerves as in the old days it had done; he was fortified by the memory of his act of revolt and the months of entire independence he had enjoyed since his coming to London. He looked up at Ann from his letter.
“Bad news?” she said.
“I don’t know whether it’s good or bad. My father has cleared out again.”
“It’s made you sorry. You always look like that when you think of your home. Sometimes I fancy you really wish you had never come away.”
“That’s not true. I’m perfectly content. I’m learning not to blame anybody. That isn’t easy.”
“If you’re not sorry, I don’t see why you want to think about it.”
“You can’t forget people so completely as all that.”