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<h3> XVIII </h3> He awoke at noon. His first impression was that a large black bat was sitting on his brain. The darkened room seemed to contain a visible presence of disaster. He sprang out of bed and took a hot and cold shower; hobgoblins fled, although he felt no inclination to sing! He called down for his breakfast and opened his hall door. A pile of letters lay on his newspapers, and the topmost one, in a large envelope, addressed in a flowing meticulously fine hand, he knew, without speculation, to be from Madame Zattiany. He threw back the curtains, settled himself in an armchair, read his other letters deliberately, and glanced at the headlines of the papers, before he carefully slit the envelope that had seemed to press his eyeballs. The time had come for self-discipline, consistently exercised. Moreover, he was afraid of it. What—why had she written to him? Why hadn't she telephoned? Was this a tardy dismissal? His breath was short and his hands shaking as he opened the letter. It was sufficiently commonplace. "Dear Mr. Clavering: "I have been in Atlantic City for a few days getting rid of a cold. I hope you have not called. Will you dine with me tomorrow night at half after eight? I shall not ask any one else. "Sincerely,     "MARIE ZATTIANY." So her name was Marie. It had struck him once or twice as humorous that he didn't know the first name of the woman who was demanding his every waking thought. And she had been out of town and unaware that he had deliberately avoided her. Had taken for granted that he had been polite enough to call—and had left his cards at home. Should he go? He'd have his breakfast first and do his thinking afterward. He did ample justice to the breakfast which was also lunch, read his newspapers, cursed the printers of his own for two typographical errors he found in his column, then called up her house. Feeling as normal and unromantic as a man generally does when digesting a meal and the news, he concluded that to refuse her invitation, to attempt to avoid her, in short, would not only be futile, as he was bound to respond to that magnet sooner or later, but would be a further confession of cowardice. Whatever his fate, he'd see it through. He gave his acceptance to the butler, went out and took a brisk walk, returned and wrote his column for the next day, then visited his club and talked with congenial souls until it was time to dress for dinner. No more thinking at present. Nevertheless, he ascended her steps at exactly half-past eight with the blood pounding in his ears and his heart acting like a schoolboy's in his first attack of calf love. But he managed to compose himself before the footman leisurely answered his ring. If there was one point upon which he was primarily determined it was to keep his head. If he gave her a hint that she had reduced him to a state of imbecility before his moment came—if it ever did!—his chances would be done for—dished. He looked more saturnine than ever as he strode into the hall. "Dinner will be served in the library, sir," said the footman. "Madame will be down in a moment." A tête-à-tête by the fire! Worse and worse. He had been fortified by the thought of the butler and footman. An hour under their supercilious eyes would mean the most impersonal kind of small talk. But they'd hardly stand round the library. However, the small table before the blazing logs looked very cosy and the imposing room was full of mellow light. Two Gothic chairs had been drawn to the table. They, at least, looked uncomfortable enough to avert sentiment. Not that he felt sentimental. He was holding down something a good deal stronger than sentiment, but he flattered himself that he looked as saturnine as Satan himself as he warmed his back at the fire. He hoped she had a cold in her head. But she had not. As she entered, dressed in a white tea gown of chiffon and lace, she looked like a moonbeam, and as if no mortal indisposition had ever brushed her in passing. Instead of her pearls she wore a long thin necklace of diamonds that seemed to frost her gown. She was smiling and gracious and infinitely remote. The effect was as cold and steadying as his morning's icy shower. He shook her hand firmly. "Sorry you've been seedy. Hope it didn't lay you up." "Oh, no. I fancy I merely wanted an excuse to see Atlantic City. It was just a touch of bronchitis and fled at once." "Like Atlantic City?" "No. It is merely an interminable line of ostentatiously rich hotels on a board walk! None of the grace and dignity of Ostend—poor Ostend as it used to be. The digue was one of the most brilliant sights in Europe—but no doubt you have seen it," she added politely. "Yes, I spent a week there once, but Bruges interested me more. I was very young at the time." "You must have been! Don't you like to gamble? The Kursaal could be very exciting." "Oh, yes, I like to gamble occasionally." (God! What banal talk!) "Gambling with life, however, is a long sight more exciting." "Yes, is it not? Atlantic City might do you good. You do not look at all well." "Never felt better in my life. A bit tired. Generally am at this time of the year. May take a run down to Florida." "I should," she said politely. "Shall you stay long?" "That depends." (Presence of servants superfluous!) "Are you fond of the sea?" "I detest it—that boundless flat gray waste. A wild and rocky coast in a terrific storm, yes—but not that moving gray plain that comes in and falls down, comes in and falls down. It is the mountains I turn to when I can. I often long for the Austrian Alps. The Dolomites! The translucent green lakes like enormous emeralds, sparkling in the sun and set in straight white walls. A glimpse of pine forest beyond. The roar of an avalanche in the night." "New York and Atlantic City must seem prosaic." He had never felt so polite. "I suppose you are eager to return?" (Why in hell don't those servants bring the dinner!) "I have not seen the Alps since two years before the war. Some day—yes! Oh, yes! Shall we sit down?" The two men entered with enormous dignity bearing plates of oysters as if offering the Holy Grail and the head of Saint John the Baptist on a charger. Impossible to associate class-consciousness with beings who looked as impersonal as fate, and would have regarded a fork out of alignment as a stain on their private 'scutcheon. They performed the rite of placing the oysters on the table and retired. Madame Zattiany and Clavering adjusted themselves to the Gothic period. The oysters were succulent. They discussed the weather. "This was a happy thought," he said. "It feels like a blizzard outside." "The radiator in the dining-room is out of order." "Oh!" She was a woman of the world. Why in thunder didn't she make things easier? Had she asked him here merely because she was too bored to eat alone? He hated small talk. There was nothing he wanted less than the personalities of their previous conversations, but she might have entertained him. She was eating her oysters daintily and giving him the benefit of her dark brown eyelashes. Possibly she was merely in the mood for comfortable silences with an established friend. Well, he was not. Passion had subsided but his nerves jangled. And inspiration came with the soup and some excellent sherry. "By the way! Do you remember I asked you—at that last first-night—if you wouldn't like to see something of the Sophisticates?" "The what?" "Some of them still like to call themselves Intellectuals, but that title—Intelligentsia—is now claimed by every white collar in Europe who has turned Socialist or Revolutionist. He may have the intellect of a cabbage, but he wants a 'new order.' We still have a few pseudo-socialists among our busy young brains, but youth must have its ideals and they can originate nothing better. I thought I'd coin a new head-line that would embrace all of us." "It is comprehensive! Well?" "A friend of mine, Gora Dwight—at present 'foremost woman author of America'—is giving a party next Saturday night. I'd like enormously to take you." "But I do not know Miss Dwight." "She will call in due form. I assure you she understands the conventions. Of course, you need not see her, but she will leave a card. Not that it wouldn't be quite proper for me merely to take you." "I should prefer that she called. Then—yes, I should like to go. Thank you." The men arrived with the entrée and departed with the soup plates. Once more he had an inspiration. "Poor old Dinwiddie's laid up with the gout." "Really? He called a day or two after the dinner, and I enjoyed hearing him talk about the New York of his youth—and of Mary's. Unfortunately, I was out when he called again. But I have seen Mr. Osborne twice. These are his flowers. He also sent me several books." "What were they?" growled Clavering. He remembered with dismay that he hadn't even sent her the usual tribute of flowers. There had been no place in his mind for the small amenities. "A verboten romance called 'Jurgen.' Why verboten? Because it is too good for the American public? 'Main Street.' For me, it might as well have been written in Greek. 'The Domesday Book.' A great story. 'Seed of the Sun.' To enlighten me on the 'Japanese Question.' 'Cytherea.' Wonderful English. Why is it not also verboten?" "Even censors must sleep. Is that all he sent you?" "I am waiting for the chocolates—but possibly those are sent only by the very young men to the very young girls." He glowered at his plate. "Do you like chocolates? I'll send some tomorrow. I've been very remiss, I'm afraid, but I've lost the habit." "I detest chocolates." Squabs and green peas displaced the entree. The burgundy was admirable. Once more he was permitted to gaze at her eyelashes. He plunged desperately. "The name Marie doesn't suit you. If ever I know you well enough I shall call you Mary. It suits your vast repose. That is why ordinary Marys are nicknamed 'Mamie' or 'Mame.'" "I was christened Mary." She raised her eyes. They were no longer wise and unfathomable. They looked as young as his own. Probably younger, he reflected. She looked appealing and girlish. Once more he longed to protect her. "Do you want to call me Mary?" she asked, smiling. "I hardly know whether I do or not.… There's something else I should tell you. I swore I'd never ask you any more questions—but I—well, Dinwiddie kept on the scent until he was laid up. One of the Thornhills verified your story in so far as he remembered that a cousin had settled in Virginia and then moved on to Paris. There his information stopped.… But … Dinwiddie met a Countess Loyos at dinner." "Countess Loyos?" "Yes—know her?" "Mathilde Loyos? She is one of my oldest friends." "No doubt you'd like to see her. I can get her address for you." "There is nothing I want less than to see her. Nor any one else from Austria—at present." "I think this could not have been your friend. She emphatically said—I am afraid of being horribly rude——" "Ah!" For the first time since he had known her the color flooded her face; then it receded, leaving her more pale than white. "I understand." "Of course, it may be another Countess Loyos. Like the Zattianys, it may be a large family." "As it happens there is no other." Silence. He swore to himself. He had no desire to skate within a mile of her confounded mysteries and now like a fool he had precipitated himself into their midst again. But if she wouldn't talk.… "Suppose we talk of something else," he said hurriedly. "I assure you that I have deliberately suppressed all curiosity. I am only too thankful to know you on any terms." "But you think I am in danger again?" "Yes, I do. That is, if you wish to keep your identity a secret—for your own good reasons. Of course, no harm can come to you. I assume that you are not a political refugee—in danger of assassination!" "I am not. What is Mr. Dinwiddie's inference?" She was looking at him eagerly. "That you really are a friend of Countess Zattiany, but for some motive or other you are using her name instead of your own. That—that—you had your own reasons for escaping from Austria——" "Escaping?" "One was that you might have got into some political mess—restoration of Charles, or something——" She laughed outright. "The other was—well—that you are hiding from your husband." "My husband is dead," she said emphatically. He had never known that clouds, unless charged with thunder, were noisy. But he heard a black and ominous cloud gather itself and roll off his brain. Had that, after all, been … Nevertheless, he was annoyed to feel that he was smiling boyishly and that he probably looked as saturnine as he felt. "Whatever your little comedy, it is quite within your rights to play it in your own way." "It is not a comedy," she said grimly. "Oh! Not tragedy?" he cried in alarm. "No—not yet. Not yet!… I am beginning to wish that I had never come to America." "Now I shall ask you why." "And I shall not tell you. I have read your Miss Dwight's novel, by the way, and think it quite hideous." "So do I. But that is the reason of its success." And the conversation meandered along the safe bypaths of American fiction through the ices and coffee. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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