Double Harness. Anthony Hope

air. "We should retrench in the grosser pleasures—eating and drinking, display, large houses——"

      "Peculiar dogs!" suggested Blake, chaffing Mrs. Selford.

      "Oh, but they are beautiful!" she cried.

      "Horses!" said Christine, with sharp-pointed emphasis. "You should really be guided by Mr. Selford, John."

      "Every husband should be guided by another husband. That's axiomatic," said Grantley.

      "I'm quite content with my own," smiled Mrs. Selford. "Dick and I always agree."

      "They must be fresh from a row," Tom Courtland whispered surlily to Mrs. Raymore.

      "About money matters the man's voice must in the nature of things be final," Fanshaw insisted. "It's obvious. He knows about it; he makes it——"

      "Quite enough for him to do," Christine interrupted. "At that point we step in—and spend it."

      "Division of labour? Quite right, Mrs. Fanshaw," laughed Blake. "And if any of you can't manage your department, I'm ready to help."

      "They can manage that department right enough," Fanshaw grumbled. "If we could manage them as well as they manage that——" He took a great gulp of champagne, and grew still redder when he heard Christine's scornful little chuckle.

      Raymore turned to Sibylla with a kind fatherly smile.

      "I hope we're not frightening you, Mrs. Imason? Not too much of the seamy side?"

      Blake chimed in on her other hand:

      "I'm here to maintain Mrs. Imason's illusions."

      "If we're talking of departments, I think that's mine, Blake, thank you," called Grantley with a laugh.

      "I'm sure I've been most considerate." This was Lady Harriet's first contribution to the talk. "I haven't said a word!"

      "And you could a tale unfold?" asked Blake.

      She made no answer beyond shrugging her fine shoulders and leaning back in her chair as she glanced across at her husband. A moment's silence fell on the table. It seemed that they recognised a difference between troubles and grievances which could be discussed with more or less good-nature, or quarrelled over with more or less acerbity, and those which were in another category. The moment the Courtlands were in question, a constraint arose. Tom Courtland himself broke the silence, but it was to talk about an important cricket-match. Lady Harriet smiled at him composedly, unconscious of the earnest study of Sibylla's eyes, which were fixed on her and were asking (as Mrs. Raymore would have said) many questions.

      When the ladies had gone, Fanshaw buttonholed Raymore and exhibited to him his financial position and its exigencies with ruthless elaboration and with a persistently implied accusation of Christine's extravagance. Selford victimised young Blake with the story of a picture which he had just picked up; he declared it was by a famous Dutch master, and watched for the effect on Blake, who showed none, never having heard of the Dutch master. Tom Courtland edged up to Grantley's side; they had not met since Grantley's wedding.

      "Well, you look very blooming and happy, and all that," he said.

      "First-rate, old boy. How are you?"

      Tom lowered his voice and spoke with a cautious air.

      "I've done it, Grantley—what I wrote to you. By God, I couldn't stand it any longer! I'd sooner take any risk. Oh, I shall be very careful! I shan't give myself away. But I had to do it."

      Grantley gave a shrug.

      "Oh, well, I'm sorry," he said. "That sort of thing may turn out so awkward."

      "It'd have to be infernally awkward to be worse than what I've gone through. At any rate I get away from it sometimes now, and—and enjoy myself."

      "Find getting away easy?"

      "No; but as we must have shindies, we may as well have them about that. I told Harriet she made the house intolerable, so I should spend my evenings at my clubs."

      "Oh! And—and who is she?"

      He looked round warily before he whispered:

      "Flora Bolton."

      Grantley raised his brows and said one word:

      "Expensive!"

      Tom nodded with a mixture of ruefulness and pride.

      "If you're going to the devil, you may as well go quickly and pleasantly," he said, drumming his fingers on the cloth. "By heaven, if I'd thought of this when I married! I meant to go straight—you know I did?"

      Grantley nodded.

      "I broke off all that sort of thing. I could have gone straight. She's driven me to it—by Jove, she has."

      "Take care, old chap. They'll notice you."

      "I don't care if—— Oh, all right, and thanks, Grantley. I don't want to make an exhibition of myself. And I've told nobody but you, of course."

      Sibylla, never long in coming to conclusions, had made up her mind about the women before the evening was half over. Lady Harriet was strange and terrible when the known facts of the case were compared with her indolent composure. Mrs. Selford was trivial and tiresome, but a good enough little silly soul. Suzette Bligh was entirely negligible; she had not spoken save to flirt very mildly with Blake. Mrs. Raymore elicited a liking, but a rather timid and distant one; she seemed very clear-sighted and judicial. Christine Fanshaw attracted her most, first by her dainty prettiness, also by the perfection of her clothes (a thing Sibylla much admired), most by her friendly air and the piquant suffusion of sarcastic humour that she had. She seemed to treat even her own grievances in this semi-serious way—one of them certainly, if her husband were one. Such a manner and such a way of regarding things are often most attractive to the people who would find it hardest to acquire the like for themselves; they seem to make the difficulties which have loomed so large look smaller—they extenuate, smooth away, and, by the artifice of not asking too much, cause what is given to appear a more liberal instalment of the possible. They are not, however, generally associated with any high or rigid moral ideas, and were not so associated in the person of pretty Christine Fanshaw. But they are entirely compatible with much worldly wisdom, and breed a tolerance of unimpeachable breadth, if not of exalted origin.

      "We'll be friends, won't we?" Christine said to Sibylla, settling herself cosily by her. "I'm rather tired of all these women, except Kate Raymore, and she doesn't much approve of me. But I'm going to like you."

      "Will you? I'm so glad."

      "And I can be very useful to you. I can even improve your frocks—though this one's very nice; and I can tell you all about husbands. I know a great deal—and I'm representative." She laughed gaily. "John and I are quite representative. I like John really, you know; he's a good man—but he's selfish. And John likes me, but I'm selfish. And I like teasing John, and he takes a positive pleasure sometimes in annoying me."

      "And that's representative?" smiled Sibylla.

      "Oh, not by itself, but as an element, sandwiched in with the rest—with our really liking one another and getting on all right, you know. And when we quarrel, it's about something, not about nothing, like the Selfords—though I don't know that that is quite so representative, after all." She paused a moment, and resumed less gaily, with a little wrinkle on her brow: "At least, I think John really likes me. Sometimes I'm not sure, though I know I like him; and when I'm least sure I tease him most."

      "Is that a good remedy?"

      "Remedy? No, it's temper, my dear. You see, there was a time when—when I didn't care whether he liked me or not; when I—when I—well, when I didn't care, as I said. And I think he felt I didn't. And I don't know whether I've ever quite got back."

      Ready with sympathy, Sibylla pressed the little richly beringed hand.

      "Oh, it's all right. We're very lucky. Look at the Courtlands!"