Westland looked at him, as he stood now in the pathetic abandonment of his peroration, with a contemplative squint in one eye.
“I see what you mean,” he remarked finally. “You’ve been looking for flesh and blood, and you find only gun-metal.” He thrust out his lips a little, and gave further consideration to the problem. “There isn’t any need for you to go away, you know,” he added after a pause. “You can have any kind of life you like in London. It is all here, if you want it. But what is it that you do want?”
Christian threw himself sidewise into his chair, and bent his head with a sigh. Then, with a new light in his eyes, he looked up. “You yourself said it”—he exclaimed—“to see only my true friends. That is my idea of life: To have a small circle of people whom I love very much, and to make constant opportunities to be with some of them—talking as we like to talk, going about together, making life happy for one another as we go along. All my youth, I envied rich people, because I thought that they used their wealth to command this greatest of delights. I imagined that if one had much money, then one could afford to spend his time only with his close, dear friends. But what I discover is that they do something entirely different. They seem not to let friendship come into their lives at all. They desire only acquaintances, and of these the more they have the better, if they bear the proper cachet.”
“It is the women,” said Dicky, sententiously.
“They like the crowd, and the new faces. And what they like, of course they have. They run the whole show.”
Christian nodded comprehension—then put out a hand to signalize a reservation. “I know women—here in England—who have a higher idea than this,” he declared, softly.
“Of course, so we all do,” assented Westland. “There are a million splendid women, if one could only get at them. But it’s a sort of trades union, don’t you know. You don’t take the workmen you want, on your own terms; you take those the society gives you, and the terms are arranged for you. It’s like that with women. You meet some awfully jolly girls now and then, but they are not in the least degree their own masters. If you try to get to know them well, either they’re frightened, and pull back into their shells, or you’re headed off by their mothers. But,” he added upon reflection—“of course it’s different with you.”
“At least I am not interested,” said Christian, wearily. The advice of Kathleen had produced upon his mind an even greater effect, perhaps, than he imagined. He had encountered, by the dozen, extremely beautiful and engaging girls, whose charm should have been enhanced in his eyes by the dignity and even grandeur of their surroundings. But an impalpable yet efficient barrier had stood always between them and him. If they exhibited reserve, he was too shy for words. If they expanded toward him with smiles or any freedom of demeanor, he recalled instantly the warning of Emanuel’s wife, and that was fatal. “I have not cared for any of them,” he reaffirmed.
“Oh!” cried Westland of a sudden, his comely, boyish face beaming with the thought that had come to him. “How stupid of me! I’d forgotten what I came for—and I’m not sure it doesn’t precisely fill the bill. Are you doing anything to-night? Will you come with me to the Hanover Theater at midnight? It’s the five-hundredth performance of ‘Pansy Blossoms’—and there’s to be supper on the stage and a dance. I don’t think you’ve seen much of that sort of thing, have you?”
Christian shook his head, and regarded his companion doubtfully. “Nothing at all of it,” he said, slowly. “But it does not attract me very much, I’m afraid. You would better take some one else. I should be a fish out of water there. The people of the theaters—they are not congenial to me—that is, I do not think they would be.”