claudia did not belong to the tribe of unpunctual women who stretch the minutes at their will and snap derisive fingers at greenwich. the person who was unpunctual in their house was its master. that, however, was not due to carelessness, but to his uncertain calls. often it was claudia who, when the motor was at the door, sat down in her cloak and waited for her spouse.

so this evening she was ready in good time. it wanted still a few minutes to the half-hour when she cast a last critical look at herself in the mirror.

she was one of those women whom a décolleté dress shows at their best, and claudia knew, as she surveyed herself, that the result was good. she was as little conceited as any of her sex—she had too much brain and good looks for that; but she could not fail to see that the gown she was wearing for the first time made her look strikingly handsome in the best and most individual way. it was as though the creator of the gown had loved his task, for the deep orange of the rich yet light-weight fabric, softened with some exquisite pearl-embroidered lace and bordered on the skirt with dark-hued skunk, threw up into relief the darkly-bronze lights in her hair[106] and made the big brown eyes seem softer and deeper than ever. a strange oriental-looking headpiece studded with topazes and pearls accentuated the foreign note in her appearance, which so impressed strangers that they refused to believe that she was entirely english as she averred and believed. they said the way she moved and wore her dresses was not english, that she could not belong to the nation of women who know how to choose a frock but not how to wear it. as she stood in front of the mirror she was a flat contradiction to the american who said that english men were dressed, but the women only wore frocks.

her looks had improved since her marriage. for some unknown reason she scrutinized herself dispassionately that night, and she realized that she was infinitely more attractive to men than when gilbert had married her. her figure now was almost as good as her mother’s had been at her age. indeed, the tops of her arms and her wrists were even prettier. she remembered what an old friend of her mother’s had once said to her just before her marriage. “you will be much admired, my dear, and you will remain naturally good-looking longer than your mother has done. but you will never enslave all sorts and conditions of men as she did—not that you come so far below her in looks, but because hers is the beauté du diable, that irresistible magnet to unregenerate man. you look too intelligent, too independent, too critical. that will pique some here and there, but the woman who shows obviously that she likes men and that they are necessary to her always finds a return for that compliment. besides, she holds out hopes of reward which your type does not. the majority of men are childish and lazy: they pick the fruit on the lowest branches. you would be too exigeante, you would demand more than they could give. your nature is not that of a circe, and men will know it instinctively.”[107] then she had kissed her affectionately and added, “i am glad you have no beauté du diable. the world is better without it. take your place in the heart of one man, not in the passions of many.”

claudia thought over these words as she thoughtfully pulled on her gloves. and simultaneously she recalled a scene soon after gilbert’s proposal when she had, as to-night, stood in front of the mirror and slowly divesting herself of her garments, half shyly, half exultingly, because of her love of beauty, had watched the charms of her body emerge. she had rejoiced in her own comeliness because it was a gift she was bringing to her husband, a wedding gift such as few women could present.

she shrugged her shoulders at the recollection, and her face hardened a little. she had learned how evanescent a thing is passion with a man of gilbert’s self-centred, violent nature. and the knowledge rankled, so that as she looked at herself something which was not the individual, claudia currey, the wife of the new k.c., but women unsatisfied and disappointed, crept into her eyes and mouth, and which, for the first time, gave her some fleeting resemblance to her mother. was her mother’s old friend quite right? was there no touch of the devil’s beauty in her looks now? perhaps she would have changed her mind if she could have seen the woman looking broodingly at her own reflection, a smouldering defiance in her eyes, an unformed challenge on her lips. that it was not the real claudia that looked so, the passionate-hearted, idealistic woman who walked away with her head held high, the elder woman would have known; but she would have had to acknowledge regretfully that claudia was evolving.

then had she been present she would have seen the little hardness disappear as morning mist before the sun, as a familiar padding sound became evident along the carpet.

[108]

only billie, only a dog, but so unchangeably devoted, so unceasingly responsive. in a sudden burst of thwarted affection she caught him up, heedless of her costly embroideries, and hugged his fat bundle of soft brown fur. at least this creature loved her, she was his whole world and——

“mr. hamilton, madam.”

billie found himself gently deposited on the floor, where he stood wagging his tail with pleasure at the caress, yet eyeing her beseechingly, as he always did when she was going out, as if to say, “are you really going to leave me again?”

“tell mr. hamilton that i am quite ready. is the fur rug in the motor? it will be cold coming home to-night.”

she refastened a corsage spray that had been loosened, and picked up an eastern-looking garment of dull golds and browns, with a chiffon and skunk muff that matched. outside it was freezing, and the trees in the park were lightly powdered with snow. billie stood on his short stumpy hind legs—a great effort by reason of his plumpness—and besought her to stay with him. claudia laughed gently, and stooping down, took the little useless, dangling paws in her hand.

“billie, you fool, don’t you know how ridiculous it is; to love anyone so much? better far to cut your heart up into lots of little pieces and distribute them than give it away in a lump. don’t you know that?”

no, billie didn’t know that at all.

“well, it is. listen to my words of wisdom and ponder them in your doggy understanding. it hurts, billie boy, to love very much, it hurts dreadfully, though you pretend, except to a little dog who keeps your counsel, that it doesn’t. well, i shall never do it again, and it’s all over, billie; it’s all over, both the dream and the awakening.... go to your basket and sleep the sleep of the faithful.”

[109]

they drove some way in silence. inside the motor it was cosy and warm, in pleasant contrast to the streets, for the snow that lingered still on the trees had turned into slush on the pavements. the pedestrians looked uncomfortable and nipped by the east wind which was blowing, and the mud on the roads gleamed evilly in the light of the street lamps. here and there they passed dirty heaps of snow in sheltered corners. like the lace petticoats of a fine lady once pure and spotless, it was revolting now in its soiled, bedraggled state. people waiting in the wind at street corners for buses looked enviously at the motor as they passed. the padded luxury in which the two were enveloped, the dim frosted light, the narcissi in the silver holder diffusing a faint perfume, were very intime and aloof from the discomfort abroad.

they had left baker street behind them before claudia came out of her reverie and realized that she was not being sociable. she looked sideways at her companion, to find him steadily regarding her.

“are you wondering when i would be polite and talk?” she said, with a smile.

“no.... i was making a mental picture of you. i think—i think i can paint you now. i want to paint you in that velvet cloak—what colour do you call it?—it is like copper in the firelight—with the sable just touching your throat at one side just as it is now and falling off the other shoulder. will you let me? oh! i want my brushes in my hand now.” his eyes suddenly blazed with the inspiration of the moment as they devoured her. quickly she drew the folds of the cloak closer around her neck. she felt as though a scorching wind had swept over her, a sirocco of passion came from him to her. she shrank back a little, yet even as she instinctively did so she wondered why. her husband flagrantly neglected her, most of her friends had consoled themselves[110] for their husbands’ shortcomings, and had not she almost determined to seek the love which she craved outside her home? she met his eyes, and she was half attracted, half repelled by their light. she liked him, she felt his magnetism drawing her, and yet something which she could not quite understand bobbed quickly up to the surface of her mind and surveyed them both with a certain contempt. so she was a little cruel in her reply to his enthusiasm.

“you were not very successful last time. i hope you destroyed that picture.”

“yes, i slashed it to pieces in the middle of the night,” he said sombrely.

claudia laughed lightly.

“why in the middle of the night? why were you moved to be so melodramatic?” she often teased him and made him angry by saying that he ought to have been an actor. for frank hamilton had a torch of the woman in him which clothed in drama many things that he did and said. whether he was conscious of these effects or whether they came naturally to his character claudia could never determine.

“i had been dreaming of you,” he said simply. “i had seen you standing at the foot of my bed, looking down on me, and i knew exactly how i should have painted you. so i sprang out of bed and hacked the beastly canvas to pieces. afterwards i made a rough charcoal sketch of you from memory. to-night you look as you did when you stood at the foot of my bed.” the eyes of the man were audacious, but the words were spoken very quietly.

“i beg to remark that my frock is brand new,” rejoined claudia flippantly. “i have never worn it even in dream-land. it is hard to be deprived of a positively first appearance when frocks are so ruinously expensive.”

“you looked wonderful that night,” he went on[111] dreamily. “i have always seen you since—as you might look.”

“as i might look,” she repeated, her curiosity getting the better of her discretion. “what do you mean by that?”

he was looking out at the glistening streets, at the flakes of snow beginning to fall again, and he made no reply. this piqued her the more, and she repeated her question.

“i suppose you will be angry with me,” he said slowly. “women always resent these things. i don’t know why.... as you might look if you were not so proud and if your brain did not rule your heart, if you would let yourself be the woman—you were meant to be.”

claudia wanted to say “how ridiculous!” but she couldn’t. the motor was passing a large burial ground, the tombstones showing by the railings like dreary grey ghosts in the darkness, shut in with the wet, dripping trees, and looking hungrily at life passing a few yards away. underneath those tombstones were hearts and brains in silent decay that had once been men and women. claudia watched them flit by and she was silent now. she wondered if those tombstones had a message for her. were not the dead saying “live! live! live! death started out to meet as soon as you were born.”

the man beside her commenced to quote softly, almost in a whisper:

“always i know how little severs me

from mine heart’s country, that is yet so far;

and i must lean and long across a bar

that half a word would shatter utterly.

“ah! might it be, that just by touch of hand

or speaking silence, shall the barrier fall;

and she shall pass, with no vain words at all,

but droop into mine arms and understand.”

[112]

the motor came to a standstill, and claudia shook herself free from the spell of his words. there are few men who can quote poetry without divesting it of all lyrical charm and naturalness, but frank hamilton knew or had acquired the art. then, as though the quotation were some nursery jingle, his voice altered, and he said, “heigh ho! is this the house? what is my hostess like? hints, please. i meant to have asked you before.”

“much younger than her husband, but not as young as she would like to be,” whispered claudia hurriedly. “if you flatter her judiciously you may get a portrait out of her. she is dying to have it painted.”

the boy was opening the door, but he caught her arm with every appearance of sudden anger, and made her stop and look at him.

“do you think i only like to come out with you because i may get commissions for portraits from your friends?” he said heatedly. “answer me, please.”

claudia looked at the boy and motioned him to silence. “don’t be foolish, i was only jesting. you mustn’t be so sensitive....” then, as they walked up the steps together she said smilingly, “if you say silly things like that, you shan’t come out with me again. but, seriously, mrs. rivington has been wanting to meet you for a long time. i think she fancies that if she gets to know you the portrait will come cheaper. but she is well able to pay, so don’t take any notice when she hints at her poverty of purse. she is a woman who would try and get a discount off her seat in heaven.”

“you will make time to come to the studio one day quite soon, won’t you?” he pleaded.

“i’ll see,” she said, as the door opened before them.

the maid came forward and slipped off her cloak. as she waited and pulled up her gloves, claudia propounded a question to herself.

[113]

“he seems to care so much—i wonder if he is really sincere.”

when a woman stands and asks that question, the man has scored his first point. but claudia thought the tricks were still all in her hand.