Part 11 (1/2)

Eleanor's blood runs cold at the sight of her husband. She knows well what he will think of this impromptu, supper-party. Giddy's feet for the moment are mercifully concealed by the table-cloth. She half rises, however, and stretches out her hand to Mr. Roche.

”Eleanor was just wis.h.i.+ng you would come back,” she murmurs sweetly.

”I returned quite by chance,” he answers coldly, knowing her words to be untrue. ”Brown could not put me up after all,” turning to his wife, ”so I drove down.”

”Philip, this is Mr. Quinton; he kindly saw me home, and--and----”

”We persuaded him to come in,” adds Giddy, as Carol, grasping the situation, says pleasantly:

”Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Roche.”

But, though Philip is far too gentlemanly to show his disapproval, all the hilarity has gone from the evening. Perhaps it is due to Eleanor's sudden tranquillity, the pallor of her face, and nervous hesitating speech. She is no adept at concealing her emotions or ”pa.s.sing things off” like Giddy and Carol. She leaves the rest of the conversation to them, and while Philip is seeing Mr. Quinton out slips upstairs for Giddy's shoes and beseeches her to put them on.

”My husband will think it so odd,” she whispers. ”I saw him looking at your hair.”

”Yes,” replies Mrs. Mounteagle, ”men always admire it. But don't be alarmed, dear; I am far too fond of you to care about making a friend of your husband.” Then she saunters up to bed, with a glance at Eleanor's pretty, troubled face.

”I wonder if she'll have sense enough to hold her own,” thinks Giddy.

”Poor little fool, to be sat upon already!” She hears them come up, and creeping from her room steals on tip-toe to their door, with her ear to the keyhole.

There are high words within, and some unpleasant allusions to herself in distinctly masculine tones. Eleanor is heard crying, but her tears do not hasten a reconciliation. Giddy goes quietly back.

”Bah!” she exclaims, stretching out her hands to the fire. ”What rot!

As if there was any harm!”

She stirs up the blaze and laughs. ”I shall breakfast in bed,” she says to herself.

”He doesn't understand me. He wants me to be so good, so uninteresting, so _domesticated_! I believe he married me for that. Oh! oh! oh!”

Mrs. Roche is wringing her hands and sobbing on the sofa.

”Another quarrel?” sighs Giddy, stroking Eleanor's soft hair. ”Come, come, this won't do. Pluck up your courage, go your own way, act as you like, and laugh at your husband. He _can't_ scold you if you laugh!

Tears will only gratify his vanity, besides they are disastrous to beauty. Once your eyes become swollen, and your nose red, you can no longer hold your own. Your sense of superiority is gone, you are undone!”

”How awful I look!” sighs Eleanor, rising and facing the gla.s.s. ”I hope Sarah will say 'not at home' if anybody calls.”

”I am not going to let you stay in and mope, just because Mr. Roche happened to leave in a lecturing mood this morning. I have arranged a little tea in town at my club.”

”Your club? I did not know you had one.”

”Oh! yes, and I am on the committee. Nearly all the artists and literary women have their clubs nowadays, so I and some friends started one for people who do absolutely nothing. It is very useful to members with jealous husbands. We call it the 'b.u.t.terflies' Club,' a land of cosy corners and rendezvous. You really will have to join it, Eleanor, if Philip goes on like this. I will put you up at our next meeting. It is rather an expensive luxury, ten guineas a year, and a Turkish bath attached.”

Giddy places her arm affectionately through Eleanor's and leads her to the door.

”Come up and dress, dear; my carriage will be here in half an hour, and I don't intend going without you.”

Eleanor cheers up at the prospect. She is like an April day.

Giddy fans her friend's flushed face, rubs some powder gently with her fingers round the swollen eyes, and showers eau-de-Cologne on the burning forehead.