His hostess appeared in due course, looking exceedingly pretty and self-possessed. She was dressed smartly in blue, a color that contrasted favorably with her hair and eyes. Lionel thrilled with gladness at the sight of her, for in brief moments of doubt he had thought that perhaps his imagination had played tricks: the night and artificial lights might possibly have lent her a fascination that would pass with the dawn. Could there indeed be so delightful a creature in London? These doubts, it must be insisted, had been exceedingly brief; still, they had had existence, and the joy of seeing them dissolve like frost in sunlight made life more desirable than ever.
There was no embarrassment at the meeting. Both were highly civilized, educated, up-to-date; with a kindred instinct of what to admit or ignore, a knowledge of the times when silence or speech was best. The lady made no reference to the impasse of the night before, and Lionel was too full of the present to dwell churlishly on the past. Instead, they talked cheerfully of trivialities for a time, and then Miss Blair announced her intention of going out to do some shopping. "I will not ask you to come with me," she observed smiling, "for I can guess how bored you would be. But I shall be with you again for lunch. For the present, au revoir."
Lionel, who would cheerfully have carried a score of parcels or hat-boxes for the pleasure of her company, had no choice but to acquiesce. There was no pressing reason for returning to his lodgings—indeed, there was every reason for staying away until he could earn some money. True, there was no immediate prospect of acquiring any; but at least he was in the middle of an interesting experience, and he had promised to help in a burglary. So with a fine disregard of circumstances he chose the most comfortable armchair and the lightest novel he could find, and put the cigarette-box within easy reach. Thus he passed an unprofitable but pleasant morning.
Miss Blair returned soon after one o'clock, and they had lunch together. In the afternoon they went for a drive in a hired motor to Thames Ditton. They stopped there for tea and got back to Bloomsbury about seven. Lionel was put down at the flat and Miss Blair went on to the theater, from which she returned late at night. Supper followed, and then they smoked and chatted for half an hour before going to bed. Lionel had expected to hear more of the conspiracy and projected felony, but nothing was said. Wherefore he kept silence, awaited events, and went to sleep, wondering whether a farce or tragedy was being played.
This uneventful life went on for several days, during which he had plenty of time to study his hostess. He learned nothing more than he knew already. A brilliant and charming personality, grave or humorous as occasion demanded, apparently sincere in her conviction of a great conspiracy, devoted to her absent husband, resolute to strike when opportunity offered—such was Beatrice Blair. When he was in her company he could not doubt her; alone, he could not help wondering what this Arabian Night might mean. The utter fantasy of it all bewildered him, but even if false he could not conceive her motive. In the end he usually came back to the conclusion that the apparently absurd was true, and always that at all costs he would see it through to the end.
Her attitude to him was that of a gay comrade. There were no more "gratitude" kisses—no hint of danger. She had referred only once again to his act of stopping the runaway horse and her wish to do something to show her thankfulness. This he had laughed at; now that the opportunity had come he was loath to use it; but in a subsequent conversation she had learned that he had written several plays, all unacted, perhaps even unread. One lay at that moment in the office of Ashford Billing, a prominent manager; she knew him, and promised to spur him to read Lionel's play himself. Lionel thanked her, but did not build any castles on so flimsy a foundation. He had been knocking at managers' doors too many years to have any illusions.
So day followed day without anything to break the pleasant monotony. Lionel and Beatrice were rapidly cementing a friendship that was more than a friendship to him. Only the remembrance of Lukos kept him from showing something more of his real feelings—the remembrance of Lukos and the aloof friendliness of Beatrice herself. There was but one fly in the amber of that perfect week, and that was the attitude of Mizzi.
Since the morning after his arrival Mizzi had waited on him with an air of courteous disapproval. She had been as polite as ever, as demure and piquant as could be wished, but she had been less communicative, less sympathique with the stranger. Even in the presence of her mistress there was a suggestion of frigidity that was galling to a sensitive man. Lionel grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had been a little to blame, but, illogically enough, he resented the atmosphere of respectful condemnation. More than once he had tried to dissipate the unhappy misunderstanding, to restore things to a more friendly—but not too friendly—footing. In this he had not been successful. To his cheerful and carefully composed commonplaces Mizzi made the briefest of answers, and on one occasion there had been a distinct toss of the head and an unmistakable sniff. "Women are so unreasonable," he said to himself complainingly, after a sustained effort that fell flat; then with a pang of compunction, "Some women, I mean. I do wish Mizzi would be sensible.... It is very trying."
Matters came to a head after he had been Miss Blair's guest for nearly a week. It was a Saturday, and his hostess went to the theater directly after lunch to get ready for the matinée. Lionel, provided with one of her cards, was to follow her and see the play, for as yet he had not watched her on the stage. The experience proved delightful, for the play was good and her acting excellent. After it was over he went back to the flat alone, for she meant to rest in her dressing-room until the evening performance.
Mizzi opened the door to Lionel, and when he asked her to bring tea she said, "Immediately, m'sieur," in the most correct of tones. Disapproval still hung heavily about her, mixed, as it seemed, with something of compassion. Her attitude was almost that of a perfect mother to a well-meaning but erring child. "Hang it!" thought Lionel, as he waited in the sitting-room, "she has no business to behave like this. I have a good mind ... a jolly good mind to..." He fell into a reverie and gloomily whistled the opening bars of Chopin's Marche Funèbre.