“But what a mistake to go as a character you know nothing about. To enjoy a masquerade ball you ought to throw away your own self and be the character you represent. Now Courtenay has been Harlequin since half-way through dinner; I could see it dancing in his eyes. At about six o’clock to-morrow morning he will fall asleep and wake up a member of the British House of Parliament on his honeymoon, but to-night he is unrestrainedly Harlequin.”
Elaine stood in the ball-room surrounded by a laughing jostling throng of pierrots, jockeys, Dresden-china shepherdesses, Roumanian peasant-girls and all the lively make-believe creatures that form the ingredients of a fancy-dress ball. As she stood watching them she experienced a growing feeling of annoyance, chiefly with herself. She was assisting, as the French say, at one of the gayest scenes of Europe’s gayest capital, and she was conscious of being absolutely unaffected by the gaiety around her. The costumes were certainly interesting to look at, and the music good to listen to, and to that extent she was amused, but the abandon of the scene made no appeal to her. It was like watching a game of which you did not know the rules, and in the issue of which you were not interested. Elaine began to wonder what was the earliest moment at which she could drag Madame Kelnicort away from the revel without being guilty of sheer cruelty. Then Courtenay wriggled out of the crush and came towards her, a joyous laughing Courtenay, looking younger and handsomer than she had ever seen him. She could scarcely recognise in him to-night the rising young debater who made embarrassing onslaughts on the Government’s foreign policy before a crowded House of Commons. He claimed her for the dance that was just starting, and steered her dexterously into the heart of the waltzing crowd.
“You look more like Marjolaine than I should have thought a mortal woman of these days could look,” he declared, “only Marjolaine did smile sometimes. You have rather the air of wondering if you’d left out enough tea for the servants’ breakfast. Don’t mind my teasing; I love you to look like that, and besides, it makes a splendid foil to my Harlequin—my selfishness coming to the fore again, you see. But you really are to go home the moment you’re bored; the excellent Kelnicort gets heaps of dances throughout the winter, so don’t mind sacrificing her.”
A little later in the evening Elaine found herself standing out a dance with a grave young gentleman from the Russian Embassy.
“Monsieur Courtenay enjoys himself, doesn’t he?” he observed, as the youthful-looking harlequin flashed past them, looking like some restless gorgeous-hued dragonfly; “why is it that the good God has given your countrymen the boon of eternal youth? Some of your countrywomen, too, but all of the men.”
Elaine could think of many of her countrymen who were not and never could have been youthful, but as far as Courtenay was concerned she recognised the fitness of the remark. And the recognition carried with it a sense of depression. Would he always remain youthful and keen on gaiety and revelling while she grew staid and retiring? She had thrust the lively intractable Comus out of her mind, as by his perverseness he had thrust himself out of her heart, and she had chosen the brilliant young man of affairs as her husband. He had honestly let her see the selfish side of his character while he was courting her, but she had been prepared to make due sacrifices to the selfishness of a public man who had his career to consider above all other things. Would she also have to make sacrifices to the harlequin spirit which was now revealing itself as an undercurrent in his nature? When one has inured oneself to the idea of a particular form of victimisation it is disconcerting to be confronted with another. Many a man who would patiently undergo martyrdom for religion’s sake would be furiously unwilling to be a martyr to neuralgia.
“I think that is why you English love animals so much,” pursued the young diplomat; “you are such splendid animals yourselves. You are lively because you want to be lively, not because people are looking on at you. Monsieur Courtenay is certainly an animal. I mean it as a high compliment.”
“Am I an animal?” asked Elaine.
“I was going to say you are an angel,” said the Russian, in some embarrassment, “but I do not think that would do; angels and animals would never get on together. To get on with animals you must have a sense of humour, and I don’t suppose angels have any sense of humour; you see it would be no use to them as they never hear any jokes.”
“Perhaps,” said Elaine, with a tinge of bitterness in her voice, “perhaps I am a vegetable.”