glided up to the hotel. The chauffeur sprang
down, and I recognized him as the man who had driven Mrs. Glenn when we had
been together at Les Calanques. I was therefore not surprised to see Mrs.
Brown, golden-haired and slim, descending under his unfurled umbrella. She held
a note in her hand, and looked at me with a start of surprise. “What luck! I was going to try to find out when you were likely to
be in—and here you are! Concierges are always so secretive that I’d written as well.” She held the envelope up
with her brilliant smile. “Am I butting in? Or may I come and have a talk?”
I
led her to the reading-room which Mrs. Glenn had so lately left, and suggested
the cup of tea which I had forgotten to offer to her predecessor.
She
made a gay grimace. “Tea? Oh, no—thanks. Perhaps we
might go round presently to the Nouveau Luxe grill for a cock-tail. But it’s
rather early yet; there’s nobody there at this hour. And I want to talk to you
about Stevie.”
She
settled herself in Mrs. Glenn’s corner, and as she sat there, slender and alert
in her perfectly-cut dark coat and skirt, with her silver fox slung at the
exact fashion-plate angle, I felt the irony of these two women succeeding each
other in the same seat to talk to me on the same subject. Mrs. Brown groped in
her bag for a jade cigarette-case, and lifted her smiling eyes to mine.
“Catherine’s just been here, hasn’t she? I passed her in a taxi at the corner,”
she remarked lightly.
“She’s
been here; yes. I scolded her for not being in her own motor,” I rejoined, with
an attempt at the same tone.
Mrs.
Brown laughed. “I knew you would! But I’d taken the motor on purpose to prevent
her going out. She has a very bad cold, as I told you; and the doctor has
absolutely forbidden—”
“Then
why didn’t you let me go to see her?”
“Because the doctor forbids her to see visitors. I told you
that too. Didn’t you notice how hoarse she is?”
I
felt my anger rising. “I noticed how unhappy she is,” I said bluntly.
“Oh,
unhappy—why is she unhappy? If I were in her place I should just lie back and enjoy life,” said Mrs. Brown, with a sort of
cold impatience.
“She’s
unhappy about Stephen.”
Mrs.
Brown looked at me quickly. “She came here to tell you so, I suppose? Well—he has behaved badly.”
“Why
did you let him?”
She
laughed again, this time ironically. “Let him? Ah, you believe in that legend?
The legend that I do what I like with Stephen.” She bent her head to light
another cigarette. “He’s behaved just as badly to me, my good man—and to Boy.
And we don’t go about complaining!”
“Why
should you, when you see him every day?”
At
this she bridled, with a flitting smile. “Can I help it—if it’s me he wants?”
“Yes,
I believe you can,” I said resolutely.
“Oh,
thanks! I suppose I ought to take that as a compliment.”
“Take
it as you like. Why don’t you make Stephen see his mother?”
“Dear
Mr. Norcutt, if I had any influence over Stephen, do you suppose I’d let him
quarrel with his bread-and-butter? To put it on utilitarian grounds, why should
I?” She lifted her clear shallow eyes and looked straight into mine—and I found
no answer. There was something impenetrable to me beneath that shallowness.
“But
why did Stephen leave his mother?” I persisted.
She
shrugged, and looked down at her rings, among which I fancied I saw a new one,
a dark luminous stone in claws
down, and I recognized him as the man who had driven Mrs. Glenn when we had
been together at Les Calanques. I was therefore not surprised to see Mrs.
Brown, golden-haired and slim, descending under his unfurled umbrella. She held
a note in her hand, and looked at me with a start of surprise. “What luck! I was going to try to find out when you were likely to
be in—and here you are! Concierges are always so secretive that I’d written as well.” She held the envelope up
with her brilliant smile. “Am I butting in? Or may I come and have a talk?”
I
led her to the reading-room which Mrs. Glenn had so lately left, and suggested
the cup of tea which I had forgotten to offer to her predecessor.
She
made a gay grimace. “Tea? Oh, no—thanks. Perhaps we
might go round presently to the Nouveau Luxe grill for a cock-tail. But it’s
rather early yet; there’s nobody there at this hour. And I want to talk to you
about Stevie.”
She
settled herself in Mrs. Glenn’s corner, and as she sat there, slender and alert
in her perfectly-cut dark coat and skirt, with her silver fox slung at the
exact fashion-plate angle, I felt the irony of these two women succeeding each
other in the same seat to talk to me on the same subject. Mrs. Brown groped in
her bag for a jade cigarette-case, and lifted her smiling eyes to mine.
“Catherine’s just been here, hasn’t she? I passed her in a taxi at the corner,”
she remarked lightly.
“She’s
been here; yes. I scolded her for not being in her own motor,” I rejoined, with
an attempt at the same tone.
Mrs.
Brown laughed. “I knew you would! But I’d taken the motor on purpose to prevent
her going out. She has a very bad cold, as I told you; and the doctor has
absolutely forbidden—”
“Then
why didn’t you let me go to see her?”
“Because the doctor forbids her to see visitors. I told you
that too. Didn’t you notice how hoarse she is?”
I
felt my anger rising. “I noticed how unhappy she is,” I said bluntly.
“Oh,
unhappy—why is she unhappy? If I were in her place I should just lie back and enjoy life,” said Mrs. Brown, with a sort of
cold impatience.
“She’s
unhappy about Stephen.”
Mrs.
Brown looked at me quickly. “She came here to tell you so, I suppose? Well—he has behaved badly.”
“Why
did you let him?”
She
laughed again, this time ironically. “Let him? Ah, you believe in that legend?
The legend that I do what I like with Stephen.” She bent her head to light
another cigarette. “He’s behaved just as badly to me, my good man—and to Boy.
And we don’t go about complaining!”
“Why
should you, when you see him every day?”
At
this she bridled, with a flitting smile. “Can I help it—if it’s me he wants?”
“Yes,
I believe you can,” I said resolutely.
“Oh,
thanks! I suppose I ought to take that as a compliment.”
“Take
it as you like. Why don’t you make Stephen see his mother?”
“Dear
Mr. Norcutt, if I had any influence over Stephen, do you suppose I’d let him
quarrel with his bread-and-butter? To put it on utilitarian grounds, why should
I?” She lifted her clear shallow eyes and looked straight into mine—and I found
no answer. There was something impenetrable to me beneath that shallowness.
“But
why did Stephen leave his mother?” I persisted.
She
shrugged, and looked down at her rings, among which I fancied I saw a new one,
a dark luminous stone in claws
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