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<h3 id="id00591" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XI</h3> <h5 id="id00592">P.P.C.</h5> 'It always seems to me so unlike you,' Aylmer said (he had arrived punctually at twenty minutes to four)—'your extreme fondness for newspapers. You're quite celebrated as a collector of Last Editions, aren't you?' 'I know it's very unliterary of me, but I enjoy reading newspapers better than reading anything else in the world. After all, it's contemporary history, that's my defence. But I suppose it is because I'm so intensely interested in life.' 'Tell me exactly, what papers do you really read?' She laughed. 'Four morning papers—never mind their names—four evening papers; five Sunday papers: The Academy, The Saturday Review, The Bookman, The World, The English Review.' 'Well, I think it's wicked of you to encourage all this frivolity. And what price The Queen, Horrie Notes, or The Tatler?' 'Oh, we have those too—for Bruce.' 'And does Archie show any of this morbid desire for journalism?' 'Oh yes. He takes in Chums and Little Folks.' 'And I see you're reading Rhythm. That's Vincy's fault, of course.' 'Perhaps it is.' 'How do you find time for all this culture?' 'I read quickly, and what I have to do I do rather quickly.' 'Is that why you never seem in a hurry? I think you're the only leisured-looking woman I know in London.' 'I do think I've solved the problem of labour-saving; I've reduced it to a science.' 'How?' 'By not working, I suppose.' 'You're wonderful. And that blue….' 'Do you really think so?' He was beginning to get carried away. He stood up and looked out of the window. The pink and white hyacinths were strongly scented in the warm air. He turned round. She said demurely: 'It will be nice weather for you to go away now, won't it?' 'I don't think so.' He spoke impulsively. 'I shall hate it; I shall be miserable.' 'Really!' in a tone of great surprise. 'You're dying to ask me something,' he said. 'Which am I dying to ask you: where you're going, or why you're going?' She gave her most vivid smile. He sat down with a sigh. People still sigh, sometimes, even nowadays. 'I don't know where I'm going; but I'll tell you why…. I'm seeing too much of you.' She was silent. 'You see, Mrs Ottley, seeing a great deal of you is very entrancing, but it's dangerous.' 'In what way?' 'Well—your society—you see one gets to feel one can't do without it, do you see?' 'But why should you do without it?' He looked at her. 'You mean there's no reason why we shouldn't keep on going to plays with Bruce, dining with Bruce, being always with Bruce?' (Bruce and Aylmer had become so intimate that they called each other by their Christian names.) 'Don't you see, it makes one sometimes feel one wants more and more of you—of your society I mean. One could talk better alone.' 'But you can come and see me sometimes, can't you?' 'Yes; that's the worst of all,' he answered, with emphasis. 'Oh.' Aylmer spoke decidedly: 'I'm not a man who could ever be a tame cat. And also I'm not, I hope, a man who—who would dare to think, or even wish, to spoil—to—' 'And is that really why you're going?' she asked gently. 'You're forcing me to answer you.' 'And shall you soon forget all about it?' He changed his position and sat next to her on the sofa. 'And so you won't miss me a bit,' he said caressingly. 'You wouldn't care if you never saw me again, would you?' 'Yes, I should care. Why, you know we're awfully good friends; I like you immensely.' 'As much as Vincy?' 'Oh! So differently.' 'I'm glad of that, at any rate!' There was an embarrassed pause. 'So this is really the last time I'm to see you for ages, Mrs Ottley?' 'But aren't we all going to the theatre tomorrow? With you, I mean? Bruce said so.' 'Oh yes. I mean the last time alone. Yes, I've got a box for The Moonshine Girl. Bruce said you'd come. Lady Everard and Vincy will be there.' 'That will be fun—I love that sort of show. It takes one right away from life instead of struggling to imitate it badly like most plays.' 'It's always delightful to hear what you say. And anything I see with you I enjoy, and believe to be better than it is,' said Aylmer. 'You know you cast a glamour over anything. But the next day I'm going away for three months at least.' 'A long time.' 'Is it? Will it seem long to you?' 'Why, of course. We shall—I shall miss you very much. I told you so.' 'Really?' he insisted. 'Really,' she smiled. They looked at each other. Edith felt less mistress of the situation than she had expected. She was faced with a choice; she felt it; she knew it. She didn't want him to go. Still, perhaps…. There was a vibration in the air. Suddenly a sharp ring was heard. Overpowered by a sudden impulse, Aylmer seized her impetuously by the shoulders, kissed her roughly and at random before she could stop him, and said incoherently: 'Edith! Good-bye. I love you, Edith,' and then stood up by the mantelpiece. 'Mr Vincy,' announced the servant. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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