The Twelfth Hour Part 17

The New Gallery certainly did seem to raise their spirits. They sat there for a long time exchanging ideas and avoiding the pictures in a marked manner. Felicity had nothing whatever to do that evening, which she had intended to spend with her husband. Savile, who was staying with her, wouldn't be back from Craig-y-nos till heaven knew when. Oddly enough, Mr. Wilton also had no engagement that evening. "So much so," he said, that he had taken a large box at the Gaiety all by himself, to go and see that new thing. Felicity, oddly enough--it was the first night--had not seen the piece. He advised that she should. Then she would have to dine all alone at home while poor Mr. Wilton was going to dine in lonely solemnity at the Carlton. Matters were adjusted so far that she agreed to meet him at the restaurant on condition he made up a party.

"Ask Vera Ogilvie and Captain Henderson. Perhaps the horrid noise and vulgarity, and your society, may brighten me up," she said consolingly, "or at least divert my thoughts."

He sincerely hoped so. Much telephoning at the Club resulted in a promise from Bob and Mrs. Ogilvie to come too, so all was well.

But Felicity dressed for dinner in quite an irritable frame of mind, and nearly cried because she accidentally broke a fan Chetwode had given her.

Mr. Wilton could not have been quite so depressed, really, for after flying off in the adored motor to the Gaiety and the Carlton on urgent matters of business, he went home and looked a very long time at the little Romney quite cheerfully. He found himself beaming so markedly in the mirror over his b.u.t.ton-hole and white waistcoat when dressing, that it suddenly struck him both the smile and the b.u.t.ton-hole were overdone.

They were triumphant, and triumph was vulgar (and premature). He removed them both, and went out with a suitable tinge of gentle restrained melancholy, at once very becoming, respectful, and, he trusted, interesting. He knew he had not lost much ground by his boldness at his first visit. A woman can pardon a moment of audacity more easily than a moment of misplaced respectful coldness. The one may be an attack on her dignity, but the other is a slight to her charm. And Felicity had such pretty manners; there was a touch of formality always with all her gaiety that left a das.h.i.+ng young man in doubt. It was certainly an interesting doubt.

"I never met any one quite so definite in my life as that young man,"

said Felicity as she ate her toast, holding the _Daily Mail_ upside down. She and Savile were sitting rather late over a somewhat silent breakfast. He appeared rather absent-minded and replied to her remark.

"Yes, she was perfectly gorgeous, she looked magnificent. (Pa.s.s me the toast, old girl. Thanks.) I say, she looked at me!"

"He said such peculiar things. He's different from other people, certainly," said Felicity argumentatively. "A really brilliant talker.

It's so rare."

"No wonder she was called the Nightingale! Thanks very much. Don't talk to me about Jenny Lind."

"I wasn't. You see he's rather lonely and unhappy, after all, you know, under all that cynicism and rattling. Every one has two sides to their character (I believe in Browning up to a certain point)--one to face the world with, and the other to show."

"As to Clara b.u.t.t, or any of these newfangled people, that's all rot! I tell you straight, I don't believe it," said Savile.

"You're quite right, dear. One can't deny that he's amusing. There's something so ready about him, and he's so kind and good-hearted as well as clever. He has personality. That's the word."

"Yes, she's a ripping, glorious creature! Oh, it is a pity she married again before I knew her! And a Swede too! But still, that's her business...."

"Of course I told him not to call again until I wrote. There's a good deal in him--when you know him better, you know."

Suddenly Savile looked up and said--

"I say, Felicity, what are you doing to-night?"

"I don't know, I haven't thought of it."

"Chetwode not turning up yesterday you were disappointed."

"I know I was. And, yet--look at this letter!" she showed him another of her husband's long elaborate love-letters.

"Letters are all right, and of course no man, especially your husband, would write all that stuff--I beg your pardon--unless everything was all right. But Chetwode's eccentric."

"I suppose he is. I think I shall dine out to-night, Savile, after all."

"After all what?" asked Savile.

"I'm engaged to-night, dear."

"You're surely not going to dine with Mrs. Ogilvie and her pals--and Wilton, at the Carlton again?"

"How right you are! Clever boy! I'm not, we're going to the Savoy."

"Same idea. Look here, Felicity, you're a bit off colour. It's about Chetwode. He doesn't know it. He ought to."

"Somehow I can't tell him I hate his being away. When he's here there's no need. Besides it's pride, or the family obstinacy."

"Look here, if I could go to Wales for myself, I can go to--what's the name of the place--for you. I'll go off this morning, and pretend I've come to help Chetwode to dig up old cabinets and things. I'll bring him back, give him a hint that people talk. Oh, I know how to do it--and there you are."

"My dear boy, how sweet of you! But it must come from yourself, mind.

Perhaps you'd better not. Then I shall see him to-night? You'll bring him."

"I'll undertake to--if you'll give up your Savoy."

Felicity hesitated. "I'll ask them to dine here. I should be too nervous alone. Then you will just come in with Chetwode as early as you can this evening!" (She clapped her hands.) "This evening, won't you?

He'll be at the village this afternoon, you know. He says he'll return to-morrow."

"And to-morrow he'll go straight on to York for the races. He only puts it off because he doesn't know you want him. My dear old girl, this has got to be put straight. Now, then, shut up, Felicity!"

"But, Savile, darling--pet! Suppose----"

"Pa.s.s me the Bradshaw!"

Felicity made no objection. He again started off for a long and tedious journey. He was supported by the feeling he was doing the right thing, and by re-reading the programme of the Craig-y-nos concert and remembering the look he firmly believed SHE had given him.

Felicity, after telegraphing to Bertie Wilton--"Come to dine here to-night. Can't go out. Felicity Chetwode"--then went to Onslow Square, where she found Sylvia in the garden. Sylvia was not reading a book, and seemed very busy smiling--smiling to herself in a dream of some rose-coloured happiness.

They interchanged ideas without words for a time. Then Sylvia said, "I do hope, Felicity, that Chetwode----"

"He's coming back to-night," she answered decidedly; then said rather abruptly--

"How's Mr. Woodville?"

For the first time Sylvia blushed at his name, as she bent down to pick up the book she had dropped.

"Oh, all right, I suppose. Won't it be nice when we go on the river?

We're going quite early--in July."

"Is papa going to have the same house he had last year?"

"Oh, yes; but he's having it all differently furnished. He means to buy it, I think. And I'm to have a music-room opening out of my bedroom, in pale green! Won't it be lovely?"

"Yes," said Felicity, "lovely. And ... what did you say you thought of Bertie Wilton? There's something I rather like about his face."

"Yes, I know what it is--he's very good-looking. Not only that, he might be--well, rather too much of a good thing, if you know what I mean. I wouldn't flirt with him, Felicity."

"I know you wouldn't, darling." Felicity smiled.