“I want to live my own life... work... money of my own,” she answered vaguely. “I don’t want to ask them for leave to go to a dance, leave to do this and that....”
Eric looked for a moment at the petulant little face and made no comment. Ivy Maitland collected other people’s phrases with the undiscriminating energy of a rag-picker; her brain was fermenting with ill-digested theories; but, when she came to put them into practice, ignorance or wilfulness set her doing all the things that she should have instinctively avoided. Decorum habitually took a holiday on board a big liner, but Ivy’s idea of emancipation consisted in sitting on the boat-deck with the least desirable of the returning soldiers. On the second day out, Lady Woodstock had been compelled to detach her from a boisterous ring of cocktail-drinkers in the smoking-room.
“You’re very young, Miss Maitland,” he said at length.
“But I’ve been in all sorts of places. And girls nowadays can take care of themselves... Well, I mustn’t keep you. Every one wants to say good-bye. I wish I were famous!”
As she ran away, Eric settled himself to the exchange of addresses and invitations which always lent an insincere good-will to the last day of a voyage. O’Rane he was careful to avoid, for, after the Plaza dinner and in this new flattering farewell, he felt unable to live up to the greatness which his admirers thrust upon him, however much he might talk of the big effort that he intended to make. In his return to England they saw triumph where he felt only despair. Every mile brought him nearer to streets and houses, theatres and restaurants haunted by the ghosts of his dead life; as the Lithuania steamed majestically into the Mersey, he felt that he was going into action....
As the great ship slowed to a standstill, a boat-load of assertive officials hurried on board. Port authorities, health authorities, emissaries of Scotland Yard... Eric was still idly wondering who they were, when the chief steward thrust a sheaf of telegrams into his hand. Welcome and good wishes, welcome and good wishes... This was a reduced replica of New York! There were telegrams from the family, telegrams from friends, telegrams from the theatre and from half-forgotten societies. He crammed them uncomprehendingly into his pocket, as a short, buoyant figure, rime-white in the mist, lined and mischievous as a monkey, steered towards him and slapped a crushing hand of welcome on to his shoulder.
“Manders!”
“Eric, boy! You bet you never expected to see me here! The company came up three days ago for a fortnight. Your old “Mother’s Son”. And a very fair play, though you did write it. I saw in all the papers that you were coming home and, though they didn’t give the name of the ship, I put my pants on the Lithuania. Good old packet! Crossed on her a dozen times! Now look here! You needn’t wait for the tender; I’ve chartered a motor-launch, and we’ll be ashore half-an-hour before the rest. I hope you’re in no hurry to get back to town, because I’ve ordered a bite of lunch for you at the Adelphi. One or two old friends... I’m mightly glad to see you again, boy.”
He held out his hand a second time, and Eric took it with the unwillingness of embarrassment. This triumphal progress was well enough for America, but he could never live up to it in England. A semicircle of fellow-passengers was watching him, wide-eyed and envious, counting the telegrams which he thrust half-read into his pocket and speculating on the identity of Manders, who could play Marc Antony or Louis Dubedat on the stage and never contrived, in private life, to look anything but a blend of pugilist, publican and book-maker.
“Is the launch here?”