Again the brilliant enigmatical smile flashed over his face,—but I could not smile in answer. I stared moodily out of the window at the bare autumnal fields, past which the train flew,—bare of harvest,—stripped of foliage—like my own miserable life.
“Come and winter with me in Egypt,”—he continued—“Come in my yacht ‘The Flame,’—we will take her to Alexandria,—and then do the Nile in a dahabeah, and forget that such frivolous dolls as women exist except to be played with by us ‘superior’ creatures and thrown aside.”
[p 385]
“Egypt——the Nile!” I murmured,—somehow the idea pleased me—“Yes,——why not?”
“Why not indeed!” he echoed—“The proposal is agreeable to you I am sure. Come and see the land of the old gods,—the land where my princess used to live and torture the souls of men!—perhaps we may discover the remains of her last victim,——who knows!”
I avoided his gaze;—the recollection of the horrible winged thing he persisted in imagining to be the transmigrated soul of an evil woman, was repugnant to me. Almost I felt as if there were some subtle connection between that hateful creature and my wife Sibyl. I was glad when the train reached London, and we, taking a hansom, were plunged into the very vortex of human life. The perpetual noise of traffic, the motley crowds of people, the shouting of news-boys and omnibus-conductors,—all this hubbub was grateful to my ears, and for a time at least, distracted my thoughts. We lunched at the Savoy, and amused ourselves with noting the town noodles of fashion,—the inane young man in the stocks of the stiff high collar, and wearing the manacles of equally stiff and exaggerated cuffs, a veritable prisoner in the dock of silly custom,—the frivolous fool of a woman, painted and powdered, with false hair and dyed eyebrows, trying to look as much like a paid courtezan as possible,—the elderly matron, skipping forward on high heels, and attempting by the assumption of juvenile airs and graces to cover up and conceal the obtrusive facts of a too obvious paunch and overlapping bosom,—the would-be dandy and ‘beau’ of seventy, strangely possessed by youthful desires, and manifesting the same by goat-like caperings at the heels of young married women;—these and such-like contemptible units of a contemptible social swarm, passed before us like puppets at a country fair, and aroused us in turn to laughter or disdain. While we yet lingered over our wine, a man came in alone, and sat down at the table next to ours;—he had with him a book, which, after giving his orders for luncheon, he at once opened at a marked place and began to read with absorbed attention,—I [p 386] recognised the cover of the volume and knew it to be Mavis Clare’s “Differences.” A haze floated before my sight,—a sensation of rising tears was in my throat,—I saw the fair face, earnest eyes, and sweet smile of Mavis,—that woman-wearer of the laurel-crown,—that keeper of the lilies of purity and peace. Alas, those lilies!—they were for me
“des fleurs étranges,[3]
Avec leurs airs de sceptres d’anges;
De thyrses lumineux pour doigts de séraphins,—
Leurs parfums sont trop forts, tout ensemble, et trop fins!”
I shaded my eyes with one hand,—yet under that shade I felt that Lucio watched me closely. Presently he spoke softly, just as if he had read my thoughts.