Chapter II

Pauline leaned back in her chair with a little murmur of content. Through the drooping branches of the great plane tree was a fascinating little vista of scarlet-clad orchestra, of the terrace with its curving rows of lights, the little groups of people sitting about, the waiters in their quaint liveries. And beyond, the smooth lawn, the picturesque front of the house; up above, the deep blue sky, pierced here and there with an early star. Even the little murmur of conversation seemed to blend with the strains of the music. A breeze rippled in the tree tops. After the heat of London, it was a wonderful respite.

“You are very kind,” she murmured to Gerald, “to bring us here.”

“I was very fortunate to meet you,” he declared. “Don’t you think, after all the discouragement I have received, I was very brave to come and beard your aunt?”

“Not so very,” she answered. “We were two defenceless women, very sad and weary with life.”

“I wish,” Gerald said deliberately, “that you would tell me more about yourselves.”

Pauline glanced across at her aunt, who was leaning back in her chair, also with the appearance of deep content, her eyes closed, her air of isolation complete.

“My aunt does not approve of such questions,” she said quietly.

“We speak in English,” Gerald reminded her, “and your aunt does not understand.”

“My aunt understands English better than you would believe,” Pauline replied. “There is the fact, also, that I have confidence in her. I believe that she knows what is best.”

“The best thing for you,” Gerald said firmly, “is to believe in me.”

She looked at him with a slight smile. Her face, however, remained unsoftened.

“Really? And why should I believe in you? And what is there to believe?”

“That I am deeply interested,” Gerald replied promptly, “in everything that concerns you; that I wish to be your friend; that I wish----”

She stopped him with a little gesture instinctively mandatory.

“Neither my aunt nor I,” she interrupted, “are in a position to accept more than the simplest acts of good will from any one. I have tried to make that clear to you.”

“You have,” Gerald admitted, “but before I accept your decision finally, I shall expect some further explanation.”

“We do not belong to your world,” Pauline said. “We are what you call, I think, adventuresses.”

“Of a unique type, then,” Gerald declared, smiling. “It is not the usual action of such people, having met with a great loss, as you did at Monte Carlo, to sell their jewellery to pay their bills, and leave without owing a penny.”

“You are well informed,” Pauline remarked coldly.

“I saw your pearl necklace in Desfordes’, the jeweller’s.”

“I cannot believe that Desfordes----” Pauline began, in some agitation.

“The man told me nothing,” Gerald interrupted. “I recognised the necklace and I bought it.”

“You bought my necklace?” she repeated incredulously.

“Hoping,” Gerald ventured, “that some day it would be my privilege to return it to you.”

She was distinctly taken aback.

“You are apparently a rich young man, Lord Dombey, as well as an impertinent one,” she said. “Are you often subject to these whims?”

“I am well off,” Gerald replied, “that is to say that I have an income apart from my allowance. For the rest, I have never done anything of the sort before, because I have never felt the same inclination.”

“I thought that you were rather by way of being the support of the ladies of the ballet at Monte Carlo,” she observed. “Did you not entertain them at supper and that sort of thing?”

“I entertained them at supper occasionally,” Gerald admitted, “but that is the extent of my acquaintance with them.”

“Then there was a child whom you and your friend found at a mountain farm--she became your ward, did she not?--a pretty child, with large, affectionate eyes?”

“My family has relieved me of my responsibility in that direction,” Gerald replied. “She is living down at Hinterleys with my people. My father will allow no one else to read to him, my sister is devoted to her, and my friend is in love with her.”

“I still do not understand what made you buy my pearls,” Pauline remarked, after a moment’s thoughtful silence, “or under what possible conditions you contemplated returning them to me.”

“I bought them because I am in love with you,” Gerald declared.

She turned her head and studied him deliberately. She was still lounging in her chair, but she gave him the impression that she was looking down at him.

“That,” she said quietly, “is a style of conversation which you must keep for your dancing ladies or your village maidens.”

“It happens to be the truth,” he insisted doggedly.

Once more she looked at him, still puzzled, but this time a little more leniently. His dark eyes were aglow. He was obviously in earnest.

“You must forgive me if I find your methods a little unusual,” she said. “Do I understand that you are proposing an alliance?”

“I ask you to do me the honour of becoming my wife,” Gerald replied.

Pauline turned to her aunt.

“Aunt,” she said in French, “Lord Dombey desires to marry me. He has just told me so most eloquently.”

Madame de Ponière’s expression was, for her, almost tolerant.

“Never mind, my dear,” she rejoined, “he is a very amiable young man and he has given us an excellent dinner.”

Pauline turned back to Gerald, smiling.

“You see, my aunt is quite reasonable about the matter,” she remarked. “Order some more cigarettes, will you? And some coffee, I think.”

Gerald obeyed promptly. Then he leaned forward.

“Madame de Ponière,” he said, “do I understand that I have your permission to pay my addresses to your niece?”

“You must not be foolish,” she replied soothingly. “We are exceedingly obliged to you for giving us dinner in this charming place. It is really quite a revelation to me. The _suprême de volaille_ reminded me--but that is not of any import.”

“Mademoiselle de Ponière,” Gerald continued, appealing to Pauline, “will you be my wife?”

“Monsieur Lord Dombey,” was the prompt but not unkindly reply, “I will not.”

“Then may I become your suitor,” he pleaded, “hoping that you will change your mind when you find that I am very much in earnest?”

“It appears to me,” she answered, “that the office would be a thankless one.”

“I am content to take my chance,” Gerald pronounced. “I can command all the usual resources which might make life more endurable for you. My personal devotion you are already assured of.”

“You had better not tempt us too far,” Pauline warned him, a little bitterly. “The good folk at Monte Carlo were only guessing when they called us adventuresses, but we are down on our luck just now--we might accept your offer.”

“I will take my risk,” Gerald declared eagerly. “You have given me no encouragement. You have no responsibility. As for the rest, we are all adventurers or adventuresses, more or less. I am in quest of happiness, and I have met no one else except you who could give it to me.”

There was a touch of real feeling in her eyes as she glanced towards him, feeling, however, composed of varying elements,--some curiosity, a tinge of scorn, an iota of compassion. She shrugged her shoulders slightly beneath her wrap of black lace.

“How long do you remain in London, Lord Dombey?” she enquired.

“As long as I can be of service to you,” was the quick reply. “I was going down to Hinterleys soon, for want of something better to do. A day’s visit there will suffice. I shall remain at your service.”

“I am in love with another man,” Pauline assured him.

Gerald considered the matter for a moment.

“I do not believe it,” he declared.

Pauline sighed.

“Nevertheless, it is true,” she reiterated. “He is very bad-tempered, and if he knows that I am accepting all these attentions from another man, he will certainly quarrel with you.”

“I will risk it,” Gerald decided.

“How am I to get rid of this persistent young man?” Pauline asked her aunt.

Madame de Ponière had a great deal to say about the subject in a rapid undertone. When she had finished, Pauline turned back to her companion.

“My aunt was very much against a renewal of our acquaintance,” she told him, “but, as she justly remarks, one must live. This evening has turned our heads a little--a return to the fleshpots, you know, and that sort of thing. You shall be my suitor if you will, Lord Dombey, but of one thing you may be very sure--I shall never marry you.”

“There is another thing of which you may be equally sure,” Gerald rejoined. “I shall never leave off trying to persuade you to.”

“Gallant but pig-headed,” Pauline murmured. “You can judge of my aunt’s newly found tolerance when I tell you that she permits us to walk in the rose garden. I want to see whether those delphiniums are really as blue as they seem to be.”

Gerald sprang eagerly to his feet and they moved off together across the lawn. He was obliged continually to half pause, to return the greetings of his many friends. Pauline walked steadily on, looking neither to the right nor to the left, composed and stately, her clothes, although they were not in the very latest style, individual and obviously the creation of an artist. People put their heads together and whispered. The same question must have been asked a score of times before they left the little crowd behind them, but no one knew, no one could even hazard a surmise as to whom Gerald’s companion might be.

The walk in the rose gardens, although Gerald welcomed with intense satisfaction this new phase in his relations with Pauline, was in some ways a disappointment. Pauline looked around her all the time with serene pleasure. She was fond of flowers, she knew them all by name, and paused often to admire some wonderfully fine bloom. She acceded without demur to his suggestion that they should take one of the small boats moored against the bridge and lay back amongst the cushions whilst he lazily sculled round the small stretch of water. On the far side of the island he let the boat drift and laid the oar across his knees.

“Pauline,” he said, leaning a little forward, “you are adorable.”

“I suppose it goes without saying that you should find me so,” she answered composedly. “I suppose, also, that I must permit you the privilege of my Christian name. On the other hand, do not try to get on too quickly, will you? I must warn you that you have reached the extreme limit of my complaisance.”

His eyes flashed for a moment. He was much too spoilt to regard her indifference as anything more than part of the game. It was a duel between the two, the result of which he scarcely doubted, but with his usual impetuosity he resented delay.

“You will accept me some day,” he said. “Why not now? We could spend the honeymoon in Paris and go on to the Italian lakes. Or we could be married at the Embassy in Paris, if you liked. Enthoven, the first secretary, is my cousin, and would see things through for us.”

“You are taking base advantage of this lonely spot,” she murmured, dipping her hand in the water. “I have told you that I am in love with another man.”

“You will forget him in a week,” Gerald assured her. “I am a most companionable person.”

“I have no doubt that you have given many people the opportunity of finding you so,” she replied drily. “However, I am not prepared just yet for such an experiment.”

“Pauline, do you like me a little?” he asked earnestly.

She looked him in the eyes.

“Not very much,” she admitted frankly. “You see, the nicer part of me--the part with which I should care--is numb--numbed with misfortune. The most that I can say is that if you are very kind, I may change--to some extent. Personally, I think it hopeless.”

“You wouldn’t consider, I suppose,” he suggested, “telling me your history now that we are on a slightly different footing?”

“Nothing would induce me to do anything of the sort,” she replied. “I think that we have left my aunt alone quite long enough.”

He took up the scull and dug it into the still, stagnant water. He did not speak again until they reached the landing stage.

“Where is this other man?” he asked, as he handed her out.

She thought for several moments before she answered. Then she turned towards him with the air of one who has arrived at a decision.

“The other man,” she declared, “is my brother. He is in prison, condemned to what you call, I believe, penal servitude.”