She said: "He will come back here to-night—probably very late—and you must tell him then, and persuade him, and not go away till he hass given in...." She leaned forward across the table towards me and suddenly laid her cool hand on mine. "Oh, I know it will not be easy for you—I know it iss like trying to move a rock ... but...." An atom of calmness left her as she continued: "I can do nothing. I haf tried, but it iss no use. He takes no notice of me now.... Oh, I know how I haf deranged you—you leave your work in London and come all the way here thinking he iss ill, and then you find he iss not ill as you expect—I know you think I ought not to haf sent this telegraph for you—but I—I am glad you haf come—because you can help him. Oh, you must help him—you must take him away where he cannot work. He iss worth helping—he iss worth anything that can be done—you know that, don't you?"
I nodded, and she suddenly began to cry. "It iss stupid of me," she said, wiping her eyes. "I did not think I should be so stupid.... But after seven years, I like him very much. I did not ever meet any man—except him—whom I could marry...."
So that was it.
I thought of that afternoon, years before, when Helen had made a similar confession across the table at Rumpelmayer's. But Helen, of course, had told me differently; she had been excited, ecstatic; whereas Mizzi was calm and a little sad. What was it in Terry that could so attract them both—Helen the brilliant, pleasure-loving woman who was still, in so many ways, a girl; and Mizzi, the calm, business-like girl who was almost more than a woman?
And then I remembered how, on my former visit to Vienna, I had jocularly suggested to him that he should marry Mizzi.... Well, why not? If only he loved her a little, it wouldn't be at all a bad match. She on her side had love for him, brains, energy, and a flourishing business of her own. Hadn't he once told me that she was "the sort of woman he could stand, anyway"? ... Supposing they were to marry? The idea curiously attracted me.... Terry as a hotel-proprietor—but no, of course; Mizzi would always be that; she wouldn't be such a fool as to let him have anything to do with the business. He would plod along with his research-work, and she would look after him and see that he didn't overwork, and on fine Sundays she would positively compel him to go with her to the Semmering.... And I should spend my annual holidays at the Hotel London and take the pair of them to all the theatres and operas.... Delightful vision!
I said, marvelling at her: "And yet, although you feel like that about him, you want me to take him back with me to England?"
And she answered: "Yes, if it iss the best for him. I want anything to happen that iss the best for him...."
III
We did not talk for long because she had so much business to attend to. But she had said enough—enough for anger, if there had ever been any—to melt into compassion.
The day was very hot, and I was very sleepy after the long journey. I didn't go out of doors except to send a reassuring telegram to Roebuck; most of the time I spent dozing in an armchair in the cool lounge. Towards the red-gold dusk I fell asleep, and it was Terry who waked me. I was startled, because I hadn't expected him to arrive so soon. Mizzi must have prepared him about me, for his surprise, though obvious, was restrained. "How are you?" he began with an odd sort of calmness. "Mizzi says you're over here on business."