Mrs. Phillips was at Marlow with some friends, Mr. Herbert was there also.
Mrs. Phillips had written to Launa telling her the new shirts were becoming and the new punt a success. From this Launa gathered that Mr. Herbert, as well as the punt, was agreeable. Lily had too much experience to give in to his supplications at once, or to agree with him that love was of any avail in life. She said marriage rhymed with carriage very properly, and love with nothing. Besides, she was aware that after a woman has said “I love you” frequently there is nothing left to say.
Launa was all alone.
This particular afternoon she had arrayed herself in a wonderful tea-gown—a combination of Greece and Paris with flashes of audacity thrown in, green and cream and gold—it was loose where it is pretty to be loose, and tight where it showed the curves of her figure.
She was playing to herself—Chopin and Wagner. Her wrists had gained in strength, her tone in volume, and her mind—that, too, had gained in experience and insight. The world was opening to her—undreamt of possibilities intruded sometimes—but Lily’s ideas of taking the goods the gods give to-day while never thinking of to-morrow, were attractive. Yet Launa could not forget Paul; in her heart she believed in the future “Goldene Zeit” which must come.
It was impossible for her to realise that she could not command fate—destiny. She had assumed the command once, that day with Paul, and now she regretted it. She could not write to him; everything was against that, and if he were to come over, as she often hoped he would, how much better would it be? The Indian girl came between them. She knew her father would never consent to any marriage between herself and Paul. Launa had cultivated an ideal of women’s behaviour to other women; they should always support the wronged woman, even when it means losing a hearts desire. Until it meant losing her own heart’s desire she had derived much joy from this theory, now she realised that no one can be happy on a theory.
She played a Chopin study: relentless fate—a chilling, creeping fiend of Impossibility—went through it, which mocked the delusive sound of far-away joy and happiness somewhere—the indefinite somewhere.
She heard a faint rustle of a portière behind her, but she played on. When it was over she put her head in her hands, then let her hands fall with a crash upon the keys. The sound expressed her feelings, the discord was a relief.
“How do you do?” said some one softly behind her.
She started and turned round to see Mr. Wainbridge. There were tears in her eyes enough to soften them as she looked up at him. She did not rise hurriedly, or look startled as the majority of women would have done, but held out her hand, which he took.