That rather stung me. I said that to me, at any rate, it was perfectly obvious that he was thinking of Helen. Not that there was anything unworthy in that; but it came oddly from one who had not long before been boasting that he had put all that side of his life away from him and didn't want to be even reminded of it. "If you have put it away from you," I said, "why don't you keep it away from you? Why are you so keen to plunge back into the midst of it on the slightest excuse?"
Once again the mention of Helen's name had made him less calm. He told me eagerly that he had put it all away from him, but that wouldn't and oughtn't to stop him from helping friends he had known in the past. He said, with eyes burning sharply: "I tell you—in case you're thinking what isn't true—I tell you—I haven't any affection—that sort of affection—for her.... Do you believe me?"
"I believe you're speaking sincerely."
He ignored the innuendo. "I'm not thinking of Helen alone," he went on. "Or of Severn.... In a way, they're old enough to do what they like, whatever it is. But ... I'll tell you something about myself—years ago. In those days—just before I came out here—I wanted Helen—you understand?—I wanted her. And I'd have done anything to get her, but for—one thing.... Of course I'm not defending myself—there ought to have been a hundred reasons to stop me, but in fact there was only that one.... It would have been caddish and ungrateful to Severn, but that wasn't the reason. And it wasn't—just morality.... It was ... it was ... this ... I felt I could put up with Severn's reproaches and the world's reproaches ... I could stand everything except—except the thought of June—June growing up and wondering why her mother had left home, and then—some day—guessing or being told or finding out—the reason.... I couldn't stand that...." He made an effort to gain completer control of himself, and then, only half-succeeding, continued: "I gave up what I wanted for her sake, and now—after that—I'm damned if I'll see another man destroy it all! He shan't! You say I can do nothing! You don't know what I can do. Neither do I. But I know what I can't do—I can't stand by and see things happening as they are happening I tell you I can't—I can't—and I won't!"
The longest speech, I think, he had ever made in his life, and he was pale and trembling after it. He broke off sharply and stared round at the swing-doors; and no wonder, for at that moment Severn was entering, and with him, lovely to the eye, was this other woman....
XIII
It looked as if a scene was inevitable. Terry's hands gripped the sides of the table and the colour came flooding into his face; he looked like some wild animal about to spring. And meanwhile, breaking into the uneasy silence, came the sound of Severn's voice, smooth and exquisite in a language I didn't recognize, much less understand. He was obviously making some witticism, and the woman answered him by a tinkling little chime of laughter. The very loveliness of it and of her was like a goad. And then, just when I was beginning to wonder if it would be possible to manœuvre Terry out of the room without a disturbance, Severn looked round and saw us.
As an exhibition of sang-froid I have never in my life seen anything to equal what happened then. Severn and the woman hadn't quite reached their table when he saw us, and immediately, with a few swift words and gestures, he changed his direction and came over to us, bringing the woman with him. Not a muscle of his face or an inflexion of his voice betrayed the slightest embarrassment. "My dear Hilton, to think of finding you here!" He shook hands with me cordially. "And Terry as well—how are you both?" Somehow or other he had got hold of Terry's hand and had shaken it. "On business here, are you? Or is it pleasure? Or both? ... Well, really, things do happen, don't they?" (Decidedly they did, I thought.) "Of course you will breakfast with me. You have had breakfast? Then you will have some more coffee, at any rate, at my table ... I insist.... And I must introduce my friend—doubtless her name will be familiar to you—Madame Lydia Danopoulos, the danseuse—quite one of the most fascinating ladies in this half of Europe.... She doesn't speak English or German, but just a little French, I think...." He addressed a few rapid words to her, amongst which I could recognize our names, and she favoured us with a graceful but rather distant bow.
A minute later we were all sitting together at Severn's table. The whole thing had happened so quickly that I could hardly realize what it was that had happened; and that, I suppose, was Severn's method, as successful with us as it usually was with the most hostile police-court witness. But to have reduced Terry in a moment from the highest pitch of excitement to a calm level of slightly sullen taciturnity was more than a method; it was a miracle.
But now, when I look back upon that extraordinary breakfast-party, it seems to me that it was nothing but a miracle altogether—or rather, perhaps, an infinite series of miracles. Imagine, if you can, a long and brilliant monologue, punctuated by staccato translations into modern Greek and consequent bursts of silvery feminine laughter. Imagine me sitting there making a few interjectory remarks from time to time, and Terry sitting there making no remarks at all, and the waiters hovering round us and wondering (very possibly) why we hadn't made ourselves known to one another on the previous evening.... But the really marvellous thing was that Severn's improvisation wasn't only brilliant and witty; it was also very subtly and dangerously reassuring. More than once I caught myself wondering whether Terry and I hadn't made a thundering mistake. The man's whole attitude was so frank and disarming; he told us exactly how he had met Madame Danopoulos at Bukarest, and how her company had considerably relieved the tedium of the Pan-Balkan Conference, at which he had had the misfortune to be the representative of His Britannic Majesty. Madame had been on her way to Buda-Pesth, and he, after the Conference, had promised to visit some Embassy friends at Warsaw; so what more natural than that they should share together the dust and heat of a midsummer journey? It was sheer luck, he added, that he had seen us, for otherwise his departure for Warsaw that morning would have removed the happy opportunity....