Mortal Coils | Page 2

a wave of his hand the
flowers in the vases, the sunshine and greenery beyond the windows
"it's good to be back in the country after a stuffy day of business in
town."
Miss Spence, who had sat down, pointed to a chair at her side.

"No, really, I can't sit down," Mr. Hutton protested. "I must get back to
see how poor Emily is. She was rather seedy this morning." He sat
down, nevertheless. "It's these wretched liver chills. She's always
getting them. Women--" He broke off and coughed, so as to hide the
fact that he had uttered. He was about to say that women with weak
digestions ought not to marry; but the remark was too cruel, and he
didn't really believe it. Janet Spence, moreover, was a believer in
eternal flames and spiritual attachments. "She hopes to be well
enough," he added, "to see you at luncheon to-morrow. Can you come?
Do!" He smiled persuasively. "It's my invitation too, you know."
She dropped her eyes, and Mr. Hutton almost thought that he detected a
certain reddening of the cheek. It was a tribute; he stroked his
moustache.
"I should like to come if you think Emily's really well enough to have a
visitor."
"Of course. You'll do her good. You'll do us both good. In married life
three is often better company than two."
"Oh, you're cynical."
Mr. Hutton always had a desire to say "Bow-wow-wow" whenever that
last word was spoken. It irritated him more than any other word in the
language. But instead of barking he made haste to protest.
"No, no. I'm only speaking a melancholy truth. Reality doesn't always
come up to the ideal, you know. But that doesn't make me believe any
the less in the ideal. Indeed, I believe in it passionately the ideal of a
matrimony between two people in perfect accord. I think it's realisable.
I'm sure it is."
He paused significantly and looked at her with an arch expression. A
virgin of thirty-six, but still un-withered; she had her charms. And there
was something really rather enigmatic about her. Miss Spence made no
reply but continued to smile. There were times when Mr. Hutton got
rather bored with the Gioconda. He stood up.

"I must really be going now. Farewell, mysterious Gioconda." The
smile grew intenser, focused itself, as it were, in a narrower snout. Mr.
Hutton made a Cinquecento gesture, and kissed her extended hand. It
was the first time he had done such a thing; the action seemed not to be
resented. "I look forward to to-morrow."
"Do you?"
For answer Mr. Hutton once more kissed her hand, then turned to go.
Miss Spence accompanied him to the porch.
"Where's your car?" she asked.
"I left it at the gate of the drive."
"I'll come and see you off."
"No, no." Mr. Hutton was playful, but determined. "You must do no
such thing. I simply forbid you."
"But I should like to come," Miss Spence protested, throwing a rapid
Gioconda at him.
Mr. Hutton held up his hand. "No," he repeated, and then, with a
gesture that was almost the blowing of a kiss, he started to run down
the drive, lightly on his toes, with long, bounding strides like a boy's.
He was proud of that run; it was quite marvellously youthful. Still, he
was glad the drive was no longer. At the last bend, before passing out
of sight of the house, he halted and turned round. Miss Spence was still
standing on the steps, smiling her smile. He waved his hand, and this
time quite definitely and overtly wafted a kiss in her direction. Then,
breaking once more into his magnificent canter, he rounded the last
dark promontory of trees. Once out of sight of the house he let his high
paces decline to a trot, and finally to a walk. He took out his
handkerchief and began wiping his neck inside his collar. What fools,
what fools! Had there ever been such an ass as poor, dear Janet Spence?
Never, unless it was himself. Decidedly he was the more malignant
fool, since he, at least, was aware of his folly and still persisted in it.

Why did he persist? Ah, the problem that was himself, the problem that
was other people.
He had reached the gate. A large, prosperous-looking motor was
standing at the side of the road.
"Home, M'Nab." The chauffeur touched his cap. "And stop at the
cross-roads on the way, as usual," Mr. Hutton added, as he opened the
door of the car. "Well?" he said, speaking into the obscurity that lurked
within.
"Oh, Teddy Bear, what an age you've been!" It was a fresh and childish
voice that spoke the words. There was the faintest hint of Cockney
impurity about