A tinge of cold disgust came into Mrs. Clutton’s dark eyes.
“I won’t wrong you by believing that you’re serious,” she said at last, with some distaste—with a great deal more seriousness than she usually allowed herself. “Go back! It would be immoral, horrible. You can’t do it. You can’t possibly mean what you say. We won’t mention him again. You must stay here; things will arrange themselves—they always do.”
“But Mr. Clutton?”
“Tim. He has gone abroad as war correspondent. It is as well. We quarrel if we are together too long, or we grow apathetic, which is worse. I’d rather have isolated episodes of rapture than a matter-of-fact, unbroken affection. I could never endure the kind of husband who calls you ‘my dear,’ who draws you a check without grumbling, who politely wishes you good-morning when you meet at the breakfast table and asks anxiously if you are sure his shirts are aired.
“We are happy, prosperous. Tim makes money, although brains, as a rule, are a positive hindrance to worldly success. We know lots of clever people. To them I am only Tim’s wife: I used to hope that he would be only my husband. We rush through society; he the kite, I the tail. I used to think I was clever—I’m merely voluble. I can’t even succeed in being positively stupid: in a brilliant age like this it’s a distinction to be unmistakably stupid. Nancy has been up to stay with me. I took her about. She made a tremendous sensation—with her complexion, her red locks, her gift of silence. People said she had an air, was uncommonly clever. She is going to be married to Mr. Minns, the Liddleshorn curate. And some people say that Mr. Jayne is to be married too—they talk of Maria Furlonger. Isabel Crisp has married that prig Egbert Turle. He has bought old Dr. Smith’s practice at Liddleshorn. Mrs. Turle—she came up with Nancy—says that old Gainah is wonderfully active, more active than ever. Why! You are nearly asleep. We’ll go upstairs. There is a room ready. Annie Jayne was to have spent the night here on Monday. She has at last decided to have false teeth—greatly against her will: her mother had only six stumps in her head when she died. But the baby—there’s another since your time—had an attack of rose rash, whatever that may be. It sounds pretty.”
She led the way upstairs softly. The house was most luxurious, and the tail of her gown, as she swept it over the thick carpets, was like a molten stream of silver.
Pamela fell asleep in a mahogany bed draped with some wonderful fabric full of color and of bold design. When she woke the sun was fierce in the room. Her limbs felt stiff and her head muddled. She started up on her elbow, looking wildly round for her own possessions—the big toilet table, the winged, ugly wardrobe with the long glass. Her tea-gown, all frilled and limp and pale on a chair by the bed, was eloquent. It brought back the nightmare: the person in brown; Sutton, with his atrocious proposal and disclosure; the long walk, the meeting with her hostess. She looked over the side of the bed. Her slippers were kicked off, soles upward. There was a round hole in one, the other had broken away at the side. Her black silk stockings, lying near, had holes, too. She fell back despairingly on the square pillow, its frill tickling her cheeks. Where was the use of waking?
The door opened, and Barbara Clutton stole in. When she saw that her guest was awake she sat down on the edge of the bed. Then, as Pamela, like a child, lifted her face, she jumped up and kissed her gravely between the widely set, melancholy eyes.
“I was always fond of you,” she said, going back to the foot of the bed. “I always suspected you of drama. I’ve a plan. You must stay here—it will be a charity to me. When Tim comes home—we’ll see! I shan’t want you then.” She made a little frank grimace. “When Tim comes home I want no one—until the first rapture of reunion wears off. We are like a couple of very juvenile lovers—but we don’t keep up the strain for long. He won’t return for a couple of months at the very least. We can have a splendid time, you and I together. There is only one thing I must insist on—one thing.” The disgustful expression of the night before momentarily hardened her laughing face. “You must vow, by something solemn—what binding instrument can we get for you to kiss or swear by? There is really nothing but a back glass—which is frivolous—and a poker, which is threatening. Give me your bare word. Promise not to attempt to see that man; not to degrade me by going back, by writing. You mustn’t even speak of him. It’s all terrible tragedy to you; to me it is merely a disgraceful, unavoidable episode. The woman in brown transforms the situation. I’m more sorry for her than for you; we can’t help our respectable prejudices. He is never to be mentioned. We’ll put away, if you please, the very tea-gown which he has touched. I’ve brought you a coat and skirt—a pale blue skirt which ought to suit you beautifully. Is it all settled?”
“All!” Pamela returned with promptitude. “I vow. I am only too grateful to be saved—from myself.”