The Limit Part 9

Had his name not been announced by the servant, Mrs. Wyburn would certainly not have recognised Harry. He was a pierrot in white satin, with a violet tulle ruffle round his neck and a black velvet mask. One would know him solely by his single eye-gla.s.s, his pleasant voice, and fluent conversation.

Pretending to be a clown he jumped in, bowed low to Mrs. Wyburn, and kissed first Daphne and then Valentia.

With a last-straw expression Mrs. Wyburn drew herself up to her full height.

"Give me my cloak, Romer. I must go. No, don't come to the carriage with me. Suppose the Trott-h.e.l.lyers were to see you--they'd never get over it!"

"Why, it's all right, mother," Romer answered. "I'm all right. I'm a courtier--of the tenth century--you know. I'm all right."

"And you approve of your young sister-in-law going to a public ball dressed up as a man?"

"Rosalind wasn't a man, mother. You forget; you must read the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ again. You've forgotten it."

"I shan't find Rosalind there. But that's not the point. When I came in I found Valentia with that man--the man who writes in purple knickerbockers----"

"No, he doesn't--he never writes in purple knickerbockers."

"Is this meant to be witty?" she asked with a freezing glare.

"What? No, I shouldn't think so."

"I found _your wife_," she said in a low hissing voice, as they pa.s.sed through the hall where there was a large looking-gla.s.s--Romer's attention wandered--"within an inch of that young man's face, putting ear-rings in his ears!"

"Well, she couldn't put them in a mile off," said Romer absently.

He was now frankly turning his back on his mother, and staring at his face in the gla.s.s.

"Hang it all! I don't look so bad, do I?"

"You look a gentleman," she answered coldly; "any son of mine must look a gentleman. Of course, you look ridiculous--and, as far as that goes, you _are_ ridiculous; but that doesn't matter quite so much as long as you look a gentleman."

"Oh, rot!"

Romer was trying to move a patch from one corner of his eye to the other.

"But as to Harry de Freyne?... And shall you allow your wife to dance with him in that costume?"

"Of course--why not? And--_doesn't_ Valentia look--jolly?"

"I think the scarlet with her golden hair is rather too--striking," she answered spitefully.

"Oh, _she's_ all right!"

"I think you're all mad!" she answered as she reached the door.

The servant opened it.

"Oh, we're all right. Good night, mother. You'll be late for the Trott-h.e.l.lyers."

Drawing her cloak over her narrow shoulders, Mrs. Wyburn stepped angrily into the brougham.

Although it was only three doors from her son's house, she would not for the world have walked.

When she arrived there, still in a very bad temper at all she had seen, she nevertheless boasted to her neighbour about how remarkably distinguished and handsome her son and daughter-in-law had looked in costume, and of their success, charm, perfect domestic happiness, and importance and perfection generally.

She succeeded in depressing the fossils on both sides of her, but they smiled at each other, indulgent to the feminine weakness of so amiable and devoted a mother.

CHAPTER IX

A CELEBRITY AT HOME

Miss Lus...o...b.. lived with her mother in a species of tank, or rather in a flat that gave that impression because it was in the bas.e.m.e.nt. It was dark, and such glimpses as they had of people pa.s.sing on the pavement were extremely odd; it seemed a procession of legs and skirts, like something in a pantomime or a cinematograph.

The Lus...o...b..s lived, as it were, beneath the surface; but that did not prevent their being very much _dans le mouvement_, and coming up with great frequency to the surface to breathe. And when one had once walked down the steps and found one's way into the tank, it was an extremely pleasant one, and quite artistic. It seemed original, too. There was something almost freakish in being answered by the parlourmaid (who was suitably like a fish in manner and profile), "Miss Lus...o...b.. is at home, and will you please step downstairs?" when one had rung the bell on the ground floor. And Miss Lus...o...b..'s ringing laugh with its three soprano notes and upward cadence always greeted one charmingly and cordially, and one always liked her; one couldn't help it. Her great fault was that she was never alone. She existed in an atmosphere of teaparties and 'afternoons'; like the Lotus-Eaters, she lived in 'that land where it was always afternoon'.

For an obscure person she led a singularly public life. In her existence there seemed no secrets, no shadows, no contrasts, and no domesticity.

One could never imagine her except in what she regarded as full dress, nor without, by her side, a perpetual bamboo table with three little shelves in it, in which were distributed small cut pieces of very yellow cake with very black currants, sandwiches, made of rather warm thin bread and b.u.t.ter, pink and white cocoanut biscuits, and constant relays of strong dark tea made in a drab china teapot. On crowded afternoons--in fact, every other Thursday--little coffee cups containing lumpy iced coffee were also handed round. When they had music there were lemonade, mustard and cress sandwiches, and a buffet.

Even when Miss Lus...o...b.. was entirely alone she did not seem so. She had got into the habit of talking always as if she were surrounded by crowds, and said so much about the celebrities who ought to have turned up that one felt almost as depressed as if they had really been there.

Sometimes they came, for there was no one like Miss Lus...o...b.. for firmness. Also, she was never offended and was hospitality itself, and she had a way of greeting one that was a reward for all one's trouble--it seemed much more trouble than it really was, somehow, just to step down into the tank. And she was so charming no one could help being flattered till the next visitor arrived, when she was even more charming.

After the Fancy Ball she had got hold of Valentia, who came to see her on one of those Thursdays that she had pointed out as peculiarly her own--one of _my_ Thursdays. She really believed that for any one else to receive on that day was a kind of infringement of copyright.

Miss Lus...o...b.. was wearing on this occasion a drab taffeta silk dress with transparent sleeves and a low neck. She wore a rose in her hair, a necklace, and long gloves, because she said she wouldn't have time to dress again before going out to dinner.

About a dozen people were there--vague shamefaced young men with nothing to say, and confident, satirical, fluent young men with a great deal to laugh at. Most of the older women seemed a shade patronising in tone, and looked as if they had never been there before. On the faces of the young women and the girls could be read the resolution never to go there again.

Mrs. Lus...o...b.., the mother, was so refined that there was scarcely anything of her; her presence was barely perceptible. She had learnt the art of self-effacement to the point of showing no trace of being there at all. To add to the effect of not being noticeable, she wore a dress exactly the same colour as the sofa on which she sat--like those insects who, when hiding from their foes, become the colour of the leaves on which they live. She was practically invisible.

On the other hand, Miss Lus...o...b.. herself was very much there--very much _en evidence_. Smiling, greeting, archly laughing, sweetly pouting; coquetting, eating, playing, singing, acting--almost dancing--an ideal and delightful hostess.

She said to every one as they arrived how sweet it was of them to come so early, or how naughty it was of them to come so late, or how horrid it was of them not to come last time, or how dear it would be of them if they came next. She always introduced people to each other who were not on speaking terms, and had intentionally cut each other for years. She had a real genius for making people accidentally meet who had just broken off their engagement, or had some other awkward reason for not wishing to see each other--and then pushing them together so that they could not get away. At heart she was intensely a peacemaker, but people who had met there rarely made up their quarrels.

When the favourite actor arrived she introduced him to every one till he was ready to drop, and when the great singer telegraphed he couldn't come, she showed the wire to everybody. Most of the guests preferred his not coming. Very few could have endured her triumph had he really arrived. On the other hand, they would themselves have far preferred to receive a telegram of refusal rather than not to hear from him at all.

When these entertainments were over and the mother and daughter were left alone, the daughter became far more thoroughly artificial than she was when surrounded by her friends. There was no throwing off the mask; on the contrary, it was fixed more firmly on, and Miss Lus...o...b.. gave free vent to her sham pa.s.sion for imitation comedy.

On this particular Thursday, as soon as Flora Lus...o...b.. had laughed her last visitor archly to the door, she knelt by her mother's side, put her arms round her, and said--

"Dear, dear Mummy, how sweet it is to be alone!"

Mrs. Lus...o...b.. shrank back a little. This pet name, only too appropriate, always got a little on her nerves, but she felt bound to play up in an amateurish sort of way to a certain extent.

"Hadn't you better go and take off that beautiful dress?" she said.