Wayne heard his father’s door close, but he sat smoking and pondering. His interview with him had left him irritated and restless. He was well aware that Mrs. Craighill had found relief and pleasure in his company, and he smiled as he recalled her hurried flight through the pantry at his father’s approach. The incident lacked dignity, but his father’s treatment of her had lacked, too, and she was a young woman and admiration was sweet to her. The girl at the parish house stole across the smoke-dimmed horizon of his dreaming, in her gingham apron, with the towel and cup in her hands. Her friend had called her Jean—Jean, dearest of names, with its hint of Scottish mists and moors and heatherbloom; and Jean seemed the inevitable name for her, predestined of all time. Simplicity and sincerity were in the haunting tones of her voice. His ready imagination threw a bright glamour round her. She suggested all manner of pictures; perhaps it was the remembrance of her against Sargent’s masterly portrait that prompted this; at any rate she was the most vivid person he had ever known, and his memory flung him back sharply upon that first meeting, and he saw the anger in her eyes and heard her saying: “I don’t care for your acquaintance, Mr. Wayne Craighill.”

He turned off the lights impatiently and went to bed.

CHAPTER XV
MRS. BLAIR IS DISPLEASED

WAYNE went on a Saturday afternoon in November to a matinée of the Symphony Orchestra, expecting to find Wingfield, who kept close touch with the box-office in the interest of the guarantors. Not seeing his friend at once, he climbed to the gallery where Wingfield sometimes went to study the emotions of those who, he said, got more for their money than holders of first-floor seats. Wingfield again proved elusive, but Wayne sat down on the last row and gave heed to the Tannhaüser overture. His eyes roamed the audience aimlessly; he was, it seemed, the only man in the place. He was aware, as the familiar strains wove their spell upon the house, of something familiar in the dark head before him. He bent forward slightly to make sure; but there was, he told himself, but one head like that—there was no doubt of its being Jean Morley.

She did not stir until the end of the number. Then with a little sigh she turned slightly so that he saw the faint shadow of a dark lash on her cheek. A scarlet ribbon, tied under a plain collar, flashed an instant’s colour to her face before she settled herself for the next number. There was something distinguished, noble even, in the poise of her head; and soon before the mad flight of the Valkyries it bent as to a storm. It pleased his fancy that the waves of sound floating upward surged round her with a particular intent. He was quite sure, however, that she must not see him here. He knew the quality of her anger; the ground he had gained at the parish house must not be lost. If he wished to retain her respect he must avoid the appearance of lying in wait for her. The sensation of caring for anyone’s respect, least of all that of this unknown girl, who had instinctively, on first sight, set up barriers of defense against him, was new to his experience. He left before the last number to continue his search for Wingfield, and found a scrawl at the box-office explaining his friend’s absence, but suggesting that they dine together at the Club. Wayne glanced at the treasurer’s report, made a note of the day’s proceeds, and as he mingled in the crowd, found himself walking at Miss Morley’s side.

“It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” she said, as the crowd caught and held them. One or two women bowed to him distantly and eyed with cold interest the tall girl in the unfashionable clothes to whom he was speaking. He was conscious of this inspection of her and it angered him. He heard his name spoken by someone behind him—“That’s Wayne Craighill,”—as though he were a notorious character to be pointed out boldly to strangers.

“You think they liked it? It wasn’t too much on one key?”

“It was lovely, but of course I don’t know, I never heard an orchestra before. It probably meant more to me for that reason.”

“Yes, I suppose first times bring the rarest sensations. They really did the Valkyries in great form.”

“That was perfectly glorious; I should like to hear all the opera.”