"No!" he said presently, "I feel pretty sure it is not passion pure and simple—or impure and complex if you like. Critics may sneer, but I can not help thinking it may soon be love, if it is not that already. Wherefore, I had better fly to do her errands as soon as possible.... But I can not accept the ascetic ideal ... yet. Hypothetical Mizzis may cross my path, and if they do I feel sure I shall kiss them, but the moment I see a possible chance of winning her, why, then I shall be very good.
"... 'Myes ... not very lofty ... but I want to be honest, and feel pretty sure that is what I shall do.... No doubt I shall not be happy, but...?"
With a dissatisfied growl he began to undress, and soon he was in bed. To quiet his uneasy conscience before he fell asleep he muttered, "And of course I shall do anything she tells me."
The unheroic but truthful pleasure-seeker then gave an unromantic snore.
CHAPTER V
THE PLOT THICKENS
A knock on his door roused Lionel at half past eight, and he sprang up clear-eyed and joyous to meet the sun. The events of the previous day sped pleasantly through his brain; and now that the morning was upon him and the London sparrows twittering optimism, he could not dwell seriously on the indignation of his hostess. "Oh, it is bound to be all right!" he said to himself, stropping a razor that he found on the dressing-table and whistling a merry tune. The cold tub strung him to a higher mood, and as he plied the towel he broke into song. "Horchen Sie doch!" said Mizzi approvingly to the cat, as she prepared breakfast and heard the melodious strain: "Er ist ein braver Kerl, der sich nicht erzürnt. Er ist ein lustiger Geist, wirklich. Die anderen habe ich zum Besten." No doubt she was right.
Lionel breakfasted alone. Mizzi said that her mistress begged to be excused for an hour; after that she would be ready. The maid lingered a moment more than was necessary after bringing in the coffee, and seemed markedly assiduous for his comfort. But Lionel did not detain her in conversation; he had no intention of elaborating the affaire of the previous night. What amusement fell to his share he was ready to accept with a youthful zest, but he was old enough not to pursue happiness too zealously nor to magnify trifles. A kiss was well enough, provided it embarrassed neither the recipient nor himself. He was never a man to raise false hopes or win success by lies or a pretended love. His philosophy embraced the theory that girls, or some of them at least, liked being petted, and he was not averse from the kindly office. Only, there must be a clear, if unspoken, understanding that he was not to be taken au sérieux. This philosophy, of course, did not apply to Beatrice Blair: she was altogether outside routine. He was a butterfly, if you like, but at any rate honest.
So when Mizzi hoped that monsieur had slept well, he said gravely, "Perfectly, ma p'tite," and asked for the morning's newspaper. She brought it, with a pout of resentment, and as she handed it to him discovered a fly on his collar. This she was allowed to remove with the most absolute decorum; but when the operation was finished and she smiled persuasively, he stroked her hair paternally and said, "You must not be foolish, my child." Mizzi retired with a heightened color, and he sat down with satisfaction to the cricket reports and deviled kidneys. To tell the truth, in spite of his arguments he felt slightly ashamed of the momentary swerve from loyalty.