“We are going to be married—in my name. Will that be legal?”
“Extraordinary delusions a woman has about the marriage service! Of course it will be legal.”
“I ought to be going to Victoria to get my luggage. It is in the cloak-room.”
She never forgot the witchery of that evening. Edred was so adoring, so recklessly generous, so optimistic. They dined; they had a box at the theater. No tinge of conscience whipped up her light heart. She never threw one half-thought back, across the lonely miles of suburb and common and pasture, to the mellow old house, girt with a great pond, whose master at that moment might be sitting by the empty hearth with his whole big faithful heart full of her.
The one disconcerting touch was when they parted at the door of Marquise Mansions. Edred had been talking of his successes, of the many clever, shifty schemes he had in prospect.
“We must entertain—in a Bohemian way,” he said. “Only men; jossers I want to persuade into doing things. You understand? Very often a look from a pretty, well-dressed woman will do more than hours of plausibility, of convincing proof, from the woman’s husband. You must have some Paris frocks; get your hair dressed well.”
“We shall only entertain men?”
“Women are not interesting—the wives and daughters of city men. We shall only entertain from diplomacy—other women would spoil everything. You must help me to play my game. It is to your interest, isn’t it?”
She did not answer. He thought that her expression in the uncertain light—stars and gas lamps competing—was rebellious. He became savagely petulant.