Then turning again to Lady Holme she continued:
“Mr. Ulford’s been so lovely and kind. He came up all the way from Hertfordshire just to take care of marmar and me to-day. Marmar’s fair and crazy about him. She says he’s the most lovely feller in Europe.”
Leo twisted the bouquet. He was sitting now on the edge of a chair, and shooting furtive glances in the direction of Lord Holme, who had begun to look extremely stupid, overwhelmed by the cool impudence of the American.
“Your husband looks as if he were perched around on a keg of rattlesnakes,” continued Miss Schley, her clear voice mingling with the passionate tenor cry, “Celeste Aida!” “Ain’t he feeling well to-day?”
“I believe he is perfectly well,” said Lady Holme, in a very low voice.
It was odd, perhaps, but she did not feel at all angry, embarrassed, or even slightly annoyed, by Miss Schley’s very deliberate attempt to distress her. Of course she understood perfectly what had happened and was happening. Fritz had spoken to the actress about her mimicry of his wife, had probably spoken blunderingly, angrily. Miss Schley was secretly furious at his having found out what she had been doing, still more furious at his having dared to criticise any proceeding of hers. To revenge herself at one stroke on both Lord and Lady Holme she had turned to Leo Ulford, whose destiny it evidently was to be used as a weapon against others. Long ago Lady Holme had distracted Leo’s wandering glances from the American and fixed them on herself. With the instinct to be common of an utterly common nature Miss Schley had resolved to awake a double jealousy—of husband and wife—by exhibiting Leo Ulford as her ami intime, perhaps as the latest victim to her fascination. It was the vulgar action of a vulgar woman, but it failed of its effect in one direction. Lord Holme was stirred, but Lady Holme was utterly indifferent. Miss Schley’s quick instinct told her so and she was puzzled. She did not understand Lady Holme. That was scarcely strange, for to-day Lady Holme did not understand herself. The curious mental detachment of which she had been conscious for some time had increased until it began surely to link itself with something physical, something sympathetic in the body that replied to it. She asked herself whether the angel were spreading her wings at last. All the small, sordid details of which lives lived in society, lives such as hers, are full, details which assume often an extraordinary importance, a significance like that of molecules seen through a magnifying glass, had suddenly become to her as nothing. A profound indifference had softly invaded her towards the petty side of life. Miss Schley, Leo Ulford, even Fritz in his suppressed rage and jealousy of a male animal openly trampled upon, had nothing to do with her, could have no effect on her at this moment. She remembered that she had once sighed for release. Well, it seemed to her as if release were at hand.
The tenor finished his romance. Again the muffled applause sounded. As the singer came from behind the screen, wiping beads of perspiration from his self-satisfied face, Lady Holme got up and congratulated him. Then she crossed over to her husband.
“Why don’t you go into the concert-room, Fritz? You’re missing everything, and you’re only in the way here.”
She did not speak unkindly. He said nothing, only cleared his throat.
“Go in,” she said. “I should like to have you there while I am singing.”