Seeds of nobility? One must suppose it. Perhaps a sense, dim-recognized, that the cheapening of ideals by frequent draughts at wayside fountains lessens the value and appreciation of the ultimate prize. Men find it hard to resist a drink. If they could look forward with assurance to the final realization of their hopes there would be fewer loveless marriages, fewer abandoned maidens, fewer degenerate men. But they feel that youth slips by—the ideal woman is hard to find, harder to win: why not sip the pleasant fountain that will slake them for a moment? So, vogue la galère! We will have one swig before we die—a good swig to drown regret: if we find it is not Veuve Clicquot but only muddy ale, at least we can get drunk on one as well as the other.
These profound reflections did not present themselves so lucidly to Lionel as to the temperate reader who never gets drunk—never so much as sips. He comprehended them vaguely, unconsciously almost, in the thought, "Oh, damn! she's not Beatrice—she's not Beatrice—I can't." A man of unsettled purpose, you perceive, who had mapped his course of pleasure and then forsaken it, vacillating, lukewarm, halting between two opinions. "The evil that I would, I do not!" he thought in humorous astonishment at himself; and then aloud, "I am at a loss for words."
He felt rather a fool, but was pleased to note that Miss Arkwright looked neither ill-at-ease nor disappointed. He searched her countenance for a hint of contempt, but found none. Dropping her hands with an unaffected laugh she said, "You are duller than I thought, Mr. Mortimer. Come! let us go and see if they have brought tea out yet." They turned, and suddenly her face flushed scarlet. She drew in her breath sharply. Forbes was coming across the lawn, followed by the ambassador.
She ran forward and shook hands, murmuring something Lionel did not hear. Then, as Forbes retired, she introduced the two men: "Mr. Mortimer—Mr. Beckett." Lionel surveyed the ambassador with curiosity, his late-lulled suspicions once more awake. What was he doing here? Mr. Beckett returned the scrutiny something in the manner of a jealous lover who would like an explanation of a stranger's presence. But he was a diplomatic gentleman, and it was with a slight laugh, merry and sincere, that he held out his hand.
"We have met before," he said in a friendly fashion, "but under less happy auspices. Mr. Mortimer, you saw me under a cloud. I was exceedingly rude. You who are a golfer will readily find excuses, I hope. I am very sorry."
Miss Arkwright's eyes looked anxiously upon them. When had they met and where? How odd that he had never mentioned it once! She must hear the story of their meeting; and "rude"—what did he mean by that?
Lionel smiled and referred her to the ambassador. He, genuinely anxious to atone for a foolish contretemps, did not spare himself in the recital. Miss Arkwright laughed gaily over the tale.
"Men are so silly," she said merrily as he finished. "Fancy getting angry over a game of golf! And all by yourself, too! If there had been some one to vent your rage upon——"
"Alas, there was!" said Mr. Beckett, with a whimsical glance at Lionel, who, despite himself and his suspicions, felt drawn toward the enemy. It was a friendly party of three that walked toward the summer-house.
On the whole, tea was a successful meal. Miss Arkwright led the conversation—monopolized it, almost; hardly pausing for replies, agreement, or contradiction. She looked splendid, her color heightened with pleasure, excitement, or kindred emotions. Lionel, who had studied her attentively for no short period, had never seen her in such a mood. She was gay and charming, unusually ready with the froth of sparkling small-talk. Any one meeting her for the first time would have believed her a clever flaneuse, a butterfly with brains and beauty, living solely for the moment. But Lionel, who knew her better and had some secret knowledge of her possibilities for intrigue and conspiracy, found himself questioning. Was she nervous? And if so, of what?