When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 12

"You have youth, beauty, personal magnetism, the power to charm, eyes that might wreck a life every day in the year. You need not scheme for love nor demand it. It is yours by natural right. Why is not your life one of wildest exhilaration, conquests, pleasures? Who could deny you anything, Mrs. Roche?"

Eleanor knows well, but is too loyal to say. She would sooner bite out her tongue than answer "Philip!" Yet he would rob her of the companionship of her dearest friend, would deny her intercourse with Carol Quinton, could he hear these low-whispered words of adulation! As she thinks of it, her husband takes the form of some heartless monster, sapping her youth's freedom, fettering her down to his side like a dragon-fly on a pin, she can only flap her wings faintly and gasp in vain.

"Were you sorry to see me to-day?" asks Mr. Quinton, watching the firelight playing on Eleanor's figure.

"No, I was very miserable this afternoon; I had been crying. I like meeting you, it does me good."

As she speaks the electric light is turned up, and a little groan issues from Giddy.

"Just as we were all so comfortable in the gloaming!" pulling her hand from Bertie's with a pout.

"b.u.t.terflies should like light better than darkness," he drawls.

"I want to look round now," cries Eleanor, enthusiastically viewing the beautiful room. "Anyone could see that Giddy had something to do with this."

"Here is a pretty little writing-table behind a screen, with a rose-coloured lamp," says Carol. "When you are a member, Mrs. Roche, will you sometimes write to me?"

"What should I have to say?" she asks innocently, surprised at the suggestion.

"Tell me about yourself, if only in one line: 'I live--I breathe--I have my being.'"

"What an odd letter!"

"I like odd things, I like odd people; I hate conventionality, and scorn the commonplace. I know a girl who always speaks the truth, and everybody hates her. She glories in it."

"How splendid to be hated for such a cause!" declares Eleanor.

"She never will embrace a woman she dislikes, so many people think it is necessary, and the kiss of detestation is more fashionable in Society than that of real affection. For myself, I think a kiss is overrated.

It should be looked on in the light of a hand-shake--harmless and agreeable, a mark of courtesy, endearment or respect."

"Then you would have to explain it," says Eleanor. "'I kiss you because I idolise you;' 'I kiss you because you are estimable;' 'I kiss you because you are rich and entertain me.' No, it would never answer."

She is fingering the delicate, scented writing paper.

"How nice this address is in gold, with a big b.u.t.terfly in the corner. I have some invitations to answer, and I should like to do it here--it looks so well."

Eleanor seats herself, and draws the paper towards her. "Mrs. Roche regrets that, owing to no previous engagement, she is unable to accept Mrs. B's dull invitation for Thursday!"

Carol laughs.

"Have you an 'At home' on Thursday week?"

"Yes, but I shall decline it."

"Don't," he whispers. "Accept--let them expect you--and fail to turn up.

Come and meet me instead."

Eleanor trembles suddenly and grows pale. She feels herself face to face with temptation.

"No," she replies faintly. "But I shall be in, and _if_ you call----"

"'If'! there is no 'if' in the matter. I would come every day if you let me."

"Every day!" Oh! how alluring it sounds.

She twists her wedding ring round and round, looking down on the carpet.

She remembers the pattern that night in her dreams, a red Maltese cross on a blue ground. The blue and red swim before her eyes now like the colours in a kaleidoscope. A solitary tear rises in her left eye and falls on the blotter.

"If only I might do as I like!" she murmurs.

"'Might' is a word you could blot from your vocabulary. Why not?"

"Oh! don't--don't--don't," as he lays his hand on hers, and the touch thrills her with bewildering emotion.

"Where is Giddy? Oh! Giddy, take me home; it is nearly half-past five, and Philip will be back."

Mrs. Mounteagle raises her eyebrows at Eleanor's agitated tones.

"You told me he would be late this evening."

"Did I?" easing on her gloves.

Carol is standing behind with her cloak. His hands linger a moment as they fall on her shoulder, and he turns up the warm fur collar about her ears.

"My mite of a brougham only holds two," says Giddy, "and Bertie is coming with me, so I dare say Mr. Quinton will see you home in a hansom."

The suggestion amazes Eleanor. Really Giddy has the most delightful ideas, and as to Philip's prejudices----well her thoughts on this subject are better not divulged.

One moment she is a panic-stricken girl, afraid as the very word "flirtation", the next, inconsistent, susceptible, a slave to Giddy's whims, easily led, easily beguiled.

She can hear her heart beating, as Carol helps her into the hansom. It is dark already, dark as the unknown future, while they whirl away in the gloom.

"It is cold," says Eleanor.

He wraps her furs closer round her.

"_Cold?_" with a tender glance.

There is a volume in the word.

Philip in the meanwhile is having tea with his cousin, Erminie Henderson.

She is a thoroughly staunch woman, with the warmest of hearts, sociable, bright, reliable, always ready with a helping hand where help is needed, yet human enough to err occasionally. Philip has known her from a child, has seen her weaknesses and excellences. The former overrule the latter.

She is fond of him in a cousinly spirit, and delighted at his visit.

For some time they talk on ordinary subjects, till at last Erminie folds her arms, looks him searchingly up and down, and asks straight out: