From that memorable night in July when Ivor first dined with Magdalen he almost literally saw no one else during the ensuing twelve months and more—unless Gerald Trevor happened to insist, as he occasionally did. Ivor simply had no interest in any one else throughout that time; for it is the way of certain natures to show their consummate interest in one person by the neglect of all others. And so Ivor missed many exciting happenings, for the summer of 1913 was a very eventful one in many ways.
The season of 1913 was, as every one remembers, more than usually brilliant. Mayfair was brilliant, nothing disturbed Mayfair—and Mayfair disturbed nothing; which curious phenomenon was explained by thinking men by the rather far-fetched theory that Mayfair does not really matter in England, that it is not England: that, in fact, Mayfair does not represent England any more than, say, the Duke of Manchester represents Manchester. But, all the same, young men make fortunes by writing about it, Gentlemen with Dusters by reviling it, gallant Colonels by describing it, and the London Mail circulates tremendously.
Mayfair was the centre of England, America, and Palestine. And it was observed with pleasure that the young Prince of Wales was the only royal person since Charles II. who even looked like being “in” Society. It was the season of very brilliant débutantes, daring matrons, and startling dowagers. Of course suburban people went about saying nasty things about them, silly things like: “You can’t tell a débutante from a déclassée nowadays,” and thought they had made an epigram. Gentlewomen of the middle sort were horrified by the rumours concerning the immoralities and perversities of the lovely young ladies whose photographs they breathlessly looked at in the weekly papers; and a woman had only to be found dead in an elegant flat in Maida Vale for the Press to report: “Strange Death of Society Woman. Believed to have been due to Drugs.” It was commonly said that the number of ‘society women’ who took drugs was unbelievable, while as for drink!... One way and another “society women” began to come in for a lot of contempt. Chorus-girls despised them, and wanted to know what would happen to them if they did Such Things. Young men were very cynical that year.
Every one tried to learn the tango that season, and then every one decided that it wasn’t really a ballroom dance. Young women began to look like the portraits that the fashionable portrait-painters were painting of them—lovely but “untemperamental”; and middle-aged men shook their heads over them, saying that these young women seemed to have no temperament. But the young women knew better, for whereas their Victorian mothers had baffled men with reticence, they baffled men with candour; and every now and then one of them would commit adultery at the top of her voice. [Whereupon—a divorce has been arranged and will shortly take place. Letters: “Dear Bubbles” her lawyers write, “why do you not come back to me? I have always tried to do my duty to you, I have always tried to make a comfortable home for you, and now that I am panting to see you, you won’t come near me. Please, Bubbly dear, why are you so cold to me? Yrs. ever adoring Bunny.” His lawyers passionately retort: “Nothing will induce me to return to you. I have been thinking this out carefully, and have decided never to live with you again. We are too different, temperamentally and financially. Yrs. sincerely, Derek Maltravers.” Restitution of Conjugal Rights. A rest. Nothing doing about Restitution of Conjugal Rights. Formal Adultery proved. Decree nisi. Another rest. Decree absolute. It’s only a trick, of course—but it needs money. There’s nothing at all to prevent poor people doing it—except, of course, that it needs money. Mr. Justice Darling might make a joke about that. He makes such good jokes.] Dancing increased in popularity and violence, night-clubs became fashionable, and young ladies were sometimes seen drunk in them. Many Americans settled in London that season, saying they were crazy about it, but most of them have gone since, crazier than ever about it. The slits disappeared from the back of men’s jackets, but top-hats and gent.’s morning-suits were still worn.
And Lady Lois Lamprey was married to a companionable little earl, a notable wedding that lit the world from Peru to Samarcand. (Samarcand was just then becoming fashionable among those who go down to the sea in poetry). But she was still called Lady Lois. “You have made it so difficult for people to realise it’s your maiden name,” said her mother the marchioness severely. And Lady Lois was loved by many young men, but she loved not one. But they were wonderfully revenged by the artists who painted portraits of her and the writers who wrote novels about her, in which poor Lois was always shown as a femme fatale par excellence with a heart of jade and innumerable lovers. The Hon. Virginia Tracy became more than ever famous for her beauty, clothes and witty silences. Also she painted portraits of her women friends in bed, and made a few trips in a thing called an aeroplane: about which her mother, Lady Carnal, told the Press that she was very annoyed indeed, and that Virginia should not do these things, for she had a weak heart; but there was somehow a misunderstanding about that weak heart, it was never exactly located, the Northcliffe Press saying it was Lady Carnal’s and the Rest that it was Virginia’s, and the question was not finally settled until Lady Carnal’s sudden death a year later. Virginia almost got married twice, but finally made a brilliant coup de cœur by marrying an American during a week-end at Bognor. Which, Lois said, is the kind of thing that might happen to any one who wastes week-ends at Bognor. He was a millionaire, however, which was more than her little earl was.... And there was a wonderful party of celebration at the Mont Agel, one in a chain of many wonderful parties. And then, later, every one went to Venice....
That is more or less how it all appeared to Ivor in his happy corner. And every now and then he would dine with Gerald Trevor at the Café Royal, and he would hear of great dinners and dances and potins, of the hostesses that were made and the hearts that were broken, of the amazing progress of the legend of Lady Lois and of the recklessness of Virginia. But it didn’t seem to Ivor that he was missing much; it seemed to Ivor that he would be missing very much if he hadn’t met Magdalen.
CHAPTER VII
1
A year had passed, from one July day to its elder brother. And Ivor had not realised the wonder of that special day in July, he had no head for dates—until, calling to see her that afternoon, she suddenly held her date-book-calendar under his nose and very slowly tore off the leaf of the previous day, when behold! there, below the date of that day, was writ largely the name “Ivor!”
“Our birthday,” she told him gravely. “Birthday of that night last year when first you came to dinner....”