The Grey Lady Part 22

Fitz paused. The Count had been kind to Eve. Fitz had noticed his manner towards the girl. He liked Cipriani de Lloseta--as many did- -without knowing why.

"Thanks," he said, "I should like to."

The Count's club was a small and a very select one. It was a club with a literary tendency. The porter who took charge of their coats had the air of a person who read the heavier monthly reviews. He looked upon Fitz, as a man of outdoor tastes, with some misgiving.

The Count led the way up to the luxurious silent smoking-room, where a few foreign novels and a host of newspapers littered the tables.

As they entered the room a man looked up from his paper with some interest. He was a peculiar-looking man, with a keen face, streaked by suffering--a face that was always ready to wince. This man was a humorist, but he looked as if his own life had been a tragedy. He continued to look at De Lloseta and Fitz with a quiet scrutiny which was somewhat remarkable. It suggested the scrutiny of a woman who is taking notes of another's dress.

More particularly perhaps he watched the Count, and the keen eyes had a reflective look, as if they were handing that which they saw, back to the brain behind them for purpose of storage.

The Count met his eyes and nodded gravely. With a little nod and a sudden pleasant smile the other returned to the perusal of his evening paper.

Cipriani de Lloseta drew forward a deep chair, and with a courteous gesture invited Fitz to be seated. He took a similar chair himself, and then leant forward, cigar-case in hand.

"You know Mallorca," he said.

Fitz took a cigar.

"Yes," he answered, turning and looking into the Count's face with a certain honest interest. He was thinking of what Eve had said about this man. "Yes--I know Mallorca."

The Count struck a match and lighted his cigar with the air of a connoisseur.

"I am always glad," he said conversationally, "to meet any one who knows Mallorca. It--was my home. Perhaps you knew?"

And through the blue smoke the quick dark eyes flashed a glance.

"I saw your name--on the map," returned Fitz.

The Count gave a little Spanish deprecatory nod and wave of the hand, indicating that it was no fault of his that an historical name should have attached itself to him.

"Do you take whisky--and soda?" inquired the Count.

"Thanks."

De Lloseta called the waiter and gave the order with a slight touch of imperiousness which was one of the few attributes that stamped him as a Spaniard. The feudal taint was still running in his veins.

"Tell me," he went on, turning to Fitz again, "what you know of the island--what parts of it--and what you did there."

In some ways Fitz was rather a simple person.

"Oh!" he answered unconsciously. "I went to D'Erraha mostly. I used to sail across from Ciudadela to Soller--along the coast, you know."

"And from Soller?"

"From Soller I rode by the Valdemosa road, and then across the mountain and through that narrow valley up to the Val d'Erraha."

The Count was smoking thoughtfully.

"And you were happy there?" he said.

Fitz looked pensively into his long tumbler.

"Yes."

"I also," said the Count. Then he seemed to remember his duties as host. "Is that cigar all right?" he asked.

"I think it is the best I have ever smoked," replied Fitz quietly; and the Count smiled.

The two men sat there in a long silence--each thinking his own thoughts. They were just the sort of men to do it. No other but Cipriani de Lloseta would have sat with that perfect composure, wrapt in an impenetrable Spanish silence, providing with grave dignity such a very poor evening's entertainment. And Fitz seemed quite content. He leant back, gravely smoking the good cigar.

There seemed to be some point of complete sympathy between them-- possibly the little sunlit island of the Mediterranean where they had both been happy.

The poem of a man's life is very deeply hidden, and civilisation is the covert. The immediate outcome of civilisation is reserve and-- nous voila. Are we not increasing our educational facilities with a blind insistence day by day? One wonders what three generations of cheap education will do for the world. Already a middle-aged man can note the slackening of the human tie. Railway directors, and other persons whose pockets benefit by the advance of civilisation, talk a vast deal of rubbish about bringing together the peoples of the world. You can connect them, but you cannot bring them together. Moreover, a connection is sometimes a point of divergence. In human affairs it is more often so than otherwise.

True, a generation lay between these two men, but it was not that that tied their tongues. It was partially the fact that Cipriani de Lloseta had moved with the times--had learnt, perhaps, too well, to acquire that reserve which is daily becoming more noticeable among men.

Nevertheless, it was he who spoke first.

"I asked you to come and smoke a cigar with me for a purpose," he said.

Fitz nodded.

"Yes," he answered; "I thought so."

A shadowy smile acknowledged this simple statement of a simple fact.

The Count leant forward on his seat, resting his somewhat hollow cheek on his hand and his elbow on the arm of his chair.

"Some years ago," he said, "before you were born, I pa.s.sed through a--well, a bad time. One of those times, I take it, when a man finds out the difference between a friend and an acquaintance. The circ.u.mstances would not interest you. They are essentially personal. Some men, and many women--I am not cynical, that is the last resource of one who has himself to blame, I am merely stating a fact--many women turned their backs upon me. There was, however, one man--an Englishman--who held to me with that unflinching courage of his own opinion which makes an Englishman what he is. I accepted nothing from him at the time. In fact, he could do nothing for me.

I think he understood. An Englishman and a Spaniard have much in common. He is dead now. It was Challoner."

Fitz nodded. The Count changed his position slightly.

"I want you to use what influence you have with Miss Challoner. She is proud."

Fitz made no attempt to disclaim the implied influence.

"Yes," he said; "I know."

And he looked at the end of his cigar with a deep interest. The man who loves a proud woman loves her pride. He is also a happy man, because her pride will kill her vanity, and it is a woman's vanity that spoils a husband's love.

"It would be a great satisfaction to me," the Count went on, "to pay off in some small degree the debt of grat.i.tude which I never even acknowledged to Challoner. Eve"--he paused, and repeated the name with a certain sense of enjoyment--"Eve is not fully equipped with worldly wisdom. Thank G.o.d, for I hate a worldly-wise woman. She is hardly old enough or--plain enough to fight her own battles."

Fitz gave a sudden, sharp sigh, which made the Count pause for a moment.

"You also have received kindness from Challoner," went on the elder man, after a short silence.

Fitz nodded comprehensively.

"And, like myself," the Count continued, rather quickly, "you are naturally interested in his daughter, and sorry for her in her great change of circ.u.mstances. Now, it has occurred to me that together we might do something towards helping her. You know her better than I do. I only know that she is proud."