The Essential Elinor Glyn Collection. Glyn Elinor
she had ever been to in her life, she said, ingenuously.
And Lady Anningford looked at her and each moment fell more under her charm.
"The ball at Harrowfield House, I expect, to meet the King of Guatemala," she said, knowing Lady Harrowfield was Florence Devlyn's cousin.
"That is it," said Theodora.
"Then you must dance with Hector--my brother," she said.
She launched his name suddenly; she wanted to see what effect it would have on Theodora. "He is sure to be there, and he dances divinely."
She was rewarded for her thrust: just the faintest pink came into the white velvet cheeks, and the blue eyes melted softly. To dance with Hector! Ah! Then the radiance was replaced by a look of sadness, and she said, quietly:
"Oh, I do not think I shall dance at all. My husband is rather an invalid, and we shall only go in for a little while."
No, she must not dance with Hector. Those joys were not for her--she must not even think of it.
"How extraordinarily beautiful she is!" Anne thought, when presently, the visit ended, she found herself rolling along in her electric brougham towards the park. "And I feel I shall love her. I wonder what her Christian name is?"
Theodora had promised they would lunch in Charles Street with her the next day if her husband should be well enough after the ball. And Anne decided to collect as many nice people to meet them as she could in the time.
At the corner of Grosvenor Square she met an old friend, one Colonel Lowerby, commonly called the Crow, and stopped to pick him up and take him on with her.
He was the one person she wanted to talk to at this juncture. She had known him all her life, and was accustomed to prattle to him on all subjects. He was always safe, and gruff, and honest.
"I have just done something so interesting, Crow," she told him, as they went along towards Regent's Park, to which sylvan spot she had directed her chauffeur, to be more free to talk in peace to her companion. Some of her friends were capable of making scandals, even about the dear old Crow, she knew.
"And what have you done?" he asked.
"Of course you have heard the tale from Uncle Evermond, of Hector and the lady at Monte Carlo?"
He nodded.
"Well, there is not a word of truth in it; he is in love, though, with the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life--and I have just been to call upon her. And to-morrow you have got to come to lunch to meet her--and tell me what you think."
"Very well," said the Crow. "I was feeding elsewhere, but I always obey you. Continue your narrative."
"I want you to tell me what to do, and how I can help them."
"My dear child," said the Crow, sententiously, as was his habit, "help them to what? She is married, of course, or Hector would not be in love with her. Do you want to help them to part or to meet? or to go to heaven or to hell? or to spend what Monica Ellerwood calls 'a Saturday to Monday amid rural scenery,' which means both of those things one after the other!"
"Crow, dear, you are disagreeable," said Lady Anningford, "and I have a cold in my head and cannot compete with you in words to-day."
"Then say what you want, and I'll listen."
"Hector met them in Paris, it seems, and must have fallen wildly in love, because I have never seen him as he is now."
"How is he?--and who is 'them'?"
"Why, she and the husband, of course, and Hector is looking sad and distrait--and has really begun to feel at last."
"Serve him right!"
"Crow, you are insupportable! Can you not see I am serious and want your help?"
"Fire away, then, my good child, and explain matters. You are too vague!"
So she told him all she knew--which was little enough; but she was eloquent upon Theodora's beauty.
"She has the face of an angel," she ended her description with.
"Always mistrust 'em," interjected the Crow.
"Such a figure and the nicest manner, and she is in love with Hector, too, of course--because she could not possibly help herself--could she?--if he is being lovely to her."
"I have not your prejudiced eyes for him--though Hector certainly is a decent fellow enough to look at," allowed Colonel Lowerby. "But all this does not get to what you want to do for them."
"I want them to be happy."
"Permanently, or for the moment?"
"Both."
"An impossible combination, with these abominably inconsiderate marriage laws we suffer under in this country, my child."
"Then what ought I to do?"
"You can do nothing but accelerate or hinder matters for a little. If Hector is really in love, and the woman, too, they are bound to dree their weird, one way or the other, themselves. You will be doing the greatest kindness if you can keep them apart, and avoid a scandal if possible."
"My dear Crow, I have never heard of your being so thoroughly unsympathetic before."
"And I have never heard of Hector being really in love before, and with an angel, too--deuced dangerous folk at the best of times!"
"Then there are mother and Morella Winmarleigh to be counted with."
"Neither of them can see beyond their noses. Miss Winmarleigh is sure of him, she thinks--and your mother, too."
"No; mother has her doubts."
"They will both be anti?"
"Extremely anti."
"To get back to facts, then, your plan is to assist your brother to see this 'angel,' and smooth the path to the final catastrophe."
"You worry me, Crow. Why should there be a catastrophe?"
"Is she a young woman?"
"A mere baby. Certainly not more than twenty or so."
"Then it is inevitable, if the husband don't count. You have not described him yet."
"Because I have never seen him," said Lady Anningford. "Hector did say last night, though, that he was an impossible Australian millionaire."
"These people have a strong sense of personal rights--they are even blood-thirsty sometimes, and expect virtue in their women. If he had been just an English snob, the social bauble might have proved an immense eye-duster; but when you say Australian it gives me hope. He'll take her away, or break Hector's head, before things become too embarrassing."
"Crow, you are brutal."
"And a good thing, too. That is what we all want, a little more brutality. The whole of the blessed show here is being ruined with this sickly sentimentality. Flogging done away with; every silly nerve pandered to. By Jove! the next time we have to fight any country we shall have an ansthetic served round with the rations to keep Tommy Atkins's delicate nerves from suffering from the consciousness of the slaughter he inflicts upon the enemy."
"Crow, you are violent."
"Yes, I am. I am sick of the whole thing. I would reintroduce prize-fighting and bear-baiting and gladiatorial shows to brace the nation up a bit. We'll get jammed full of rotten vices like those beastly foreigners soon."
"I did not bring you into Regent's Park to hear