The Reflections of Ambrosine Part 25

Again, as on a former occasion, the admirable _sang-froid_ of my kinsman carried things smoothly along. I felt quite calmed when I looked up at him.

"We won't try sitting on that sofa to-night," I laughed. "This is a fairly comfortable arm-chair. You are an invalid. You must sit in it. See, I shall sit here," and I drew a low seat of a dreadfully distorted Louis XV. and early Victorian mixed style that the upholsterer, when bringing the things, had described to me as a "sweet, pretty lady's-chair."

Antony sat down. The light from the lily electric branches made the gray in his hair shine silver. He looked tired and not so mocking as usual.

"I have settled with your husband when you are to come to Dane Mount.

He says the 4th of November will suit him."

"We shall drive over, I suppose?"

"Yes."

After that we neither of us spoke for a few moments.

"Did you read La Rochefoucauld last night?" I asked, presently.

"No."

"Well, why did you ask for it, then?"

"I had a very good reason."

One could never describe the expression of Antony's face. If one goes on saying "mocking," or "cynical," or "ironical," or "quizzical," it gives no impression of what it is. It is a mixture of all four, and yet laughing, and--and--tender, and _insouciant_, and gay. He is himself, and there could never be any one like him. One feels as if all common things must vanish and shrivel up before his style of wit.

One could think of him as finishing his game of chess calmly while the officers of the Terror waited to conduct him to the guillotine. He is exactly--oh, but exactly!--grandmamma's idea of a gentleman. I wish she had seen more of him.

There is nothing _poseur_ or dramatic about him. He is quite simple, although he laughs at things all the time. I seem to have learned more of the world, and the tone of everything, just talking to him, than from all the books I have read lately. What would it be like if he were interested in anything intensely, if something moved him deeply, if he really cared?

As I sat there I thought of many things. An atmosphere of home had suddenly come into the room. I could almost believe I could hear grandmamma's voice.

"What are you thinking of so seriously, Comtesse?" he asked, lazily.

"I was wondering--"

"Well?"

"I was wondering if anything really mattered in life; if one could grow old and remain numb all the time; if things are real; if--oh, does anything matter? Tell me, you who know."

"Not many things. Later, you will regret some things you have not done--very few you have."

"I have been reading metaphysics lately, and, it seems, one could reason one's self into believing nothing is real. One of my books said the ancient Cynic philosophers doubted for the sake of investigation and the moderns investigate for the sake of doubting. What does it all mean?"

He began stroking Roy's ears. He had put his dear black-and-tan head on Antony's knee.

"It means a great many words. Do not trouble your wise head about it.

The world is a pleasant enough place if you can pay your bills and have a fair digestion--eh, Roy? Bones are good things, aren't they, old fellow?"

"You, at all events, are never serious," and I laughed.

"I will tell you about that when you come to Dane Mount."

"I wish you could have got Lady Tilchester to go, then. I do like her so much. She has been very kind to me. It would give me pleasure to see her."

"She is a delightful woman."

"She told me how long she had known you--since her wedding-day, I think she said--and, oh, lots of things about you. She seemed--"

He moved his arm suddenly.

"I don't think you tied this handkerchief tight enough, Comtesse," he said, again turning up his cuff.

I rose and looked at the bandage.

"Why, yes. It is just the same as it was. But I will do it again if you wish."

This time it did not take me so long, but that ridiculous beating began again in my heart.

"It must have a double knot to keep it right," said Antony.

My fingers seemed clumsy. We were standing so close together there was a something--an electricity--which made my hands tremble. Oh, this was folly! I _must_ not let myself feel so. I finished the knot at last, and then said, stupidly:

"I have an idea I should return to my worthy guests down-stairs,'"

Antony smiled.

"They are quite happy without you," he said, "Vain little Comtesse, to think your presence is necessary to every one!"

"I dare say. But--I must go to them."

"No, you must not. Sit down in your low chair and forget all about them. No good hostess fusses after her guests. People like to be left to themselves."

I sat down meekly.

"I never can understand," said Antony, presently, "why your grandmother did not let me know when first you came to the cottage.

She was fully aware of the relationship between us, even if I was not."

"Grandmamma was a very proud woman. We were so very poor. And then, there was grandpapa's _betise_, which, I fancy, had quite separated them from his family."

"What made her come to Ledstone at all, I wonder?"

I felt my cheeks getting pink, and bent down to look into the fire.

"She wanted to live in England, so that I might become English by growing up there, and--and it was cheap. We had been in London before that, and back in Paris, and down at Brighton, and a lot of dull places. I remember she saw the advertis.e.m.e.nt in the paper one morning and took the cottage immediately."

"You had heard that we were relations?" he asked.

"Yes, vaguely. But I did not know how many of you there were, only that the present holder of the t.i.tle was a Sir Antony."