But he had been beaten. And what else could he have expected, after interfering in something that did not concern him? Gaymer’s victorious rebuff did not matter so much as his adroitness in preventing their ever getting to grips over Ivy; he might marry her, or he might not, but at least he had made it plain that he would not be coerced even into saying whether he cared for her....
In his bath and as he dressed, Eric became permeated with the feeling that Gaymer had no intention of marrying. An honourable man with an unclouded conscience would have resented interference far more warmly; and a man who meant to keep his engagement had no motive for not publishing it. And, after all, when Ivy had overcome her immediate unhappiness, was not this all for the best? In a further analysis Eric fancied that he had gone to assure himself of Gaymer’s bad faith, in part because he distrusted the fellow and in part because he did not want to see Ivy’s youth sacrificed to him. Perhaps he would have been a little disappointed if Gaymer had explained everything convincingly.
The first act of Aida was over before Eric reached Covent Garden. Hardly seeing who nodded to him, he hurried through the crowded hall to the pit-tier, only conscious of the languid, chattering double procession on the stairs, as of a well-dressed, rich and soulless stage-army that never participated in the emotions and crises of life; these people surrounded and stared uncomprehendingly at the drama in their midst, but they seemed to have no drama of their own. George Oakleigh’s box-door was open, but he had passed it before he had time to wonder who was inside and in another moment was apologizing to Lady Maitland for his lateness.
“I must apologize to you,” she said, “for disturbing you last night. It was this naughty child’s fault. She went on to a party and never warned me.”
Ivy’s excuse had apparently been accepted without further question, and Eric bowed and shook hands with her as though they had not met earlier that day. She was paler than in the morning, and her eyes and cheeks were hollow with fatigue. He could have described every thought that was passing like a white-hot needle through her brain, for she was feeling as he had felt when Barbara broke faith with him, betrayed and utterly lost; ultimately it might be all for the best, but days of agony lay ahead of her, and she would learn how long and pitiless the nights could be.
As the lights were lowered, he pulled his chair forward, resting his arms on the sill of the box. Ivy leaned back to screen herself from her aunt, and, when he put down his glasses and half-turned to offer them to her, he saw tears standing in her eyes. Feeling for her hand, he pressed it gently, and a tear splashed hot and startling on to his own. She gripped and held his fingers till the end of the act; and, as the curtain fell, he stood up and made a barrier of himself.
“I think this is the appropriate moment for tobacco and fresh air,” he suggested. “You not coming, Lady Maitland? Will you, Miss Maitland?”
He opened the door without waiting for a reply and hurried her downstairs and into the street before the first call had been taken.
“It’s cooler here,” he began, as they walked towards Long Acre. “Do you mind about smoking in public?”
“I feel too ill, thanks... Mr. Lane, I can’t bear it! All this afternoon I had to hold myself back to keep from rushing around and beating on his door! I couldn’t stay in the same room as a telephone. I had to see him and I was afraid he’d turn me away... I can’t bear it, I can’t!”