Muslin | Page 6

him perchance on his lack of loyalty to his dead friend. He had not
eaten a banana for dinner, though he had intended to eat one. 'Of course,
we shall never find anyone like him,' she said--'not if we were to search
all the corners of the world. That is so, we're both agreed on that point,

but I've been thinking which of all our friends and acquaintances would
least unworthily fill his place in our lives.' 'Violet! Violet!' 'If you
persist in misunderstanding me,' she answered, 'I have no more to say,'
whereupon the Marquis tried to persuade the Marchioness out of the
morose silence that had fallen upon them, and failing to move her he
raised the question that had divided them. 'If you mean, Violet, that our
racing friend would be a poor shift for our dead friend, meaning
thereby that nobody in Dublin is comparable'--'could I have meant
anything else, you old dear?' she replied; and the ice having been
broken, the twain plunged at once into the waters of recollection, and
coming upon a current they were borne onward, swiftly and more
swiftly, till at length a decision had to be come to--they would invite
their racing friend.
It was on the Marquis's lips to say a word or two in disparagement of
the invited guest, but on second thoughts it seemed to him that he had
better refrain; the Marchioness, too, was about to plead, she did not
know exactly what, but she thought she would like to reassure the
Marquis. . . . On second thoughts she decided too that it would be better
(perhaps) to refrain. Well, to escape from the toils of an interesting
story (for I'm no longer a story-teller but a prefacer) I will say that three
nights later Sir Hugh took the Marchioness in to dinner; he sat in his
predecessor's chair, knowing nothing of him, thereby startling his hosts,
who, however, soon recovered their presence of mind. After dinner the
Marquis said, 'Now, Sir Hugh, I hope you will excuse me if I go
upstairs. I am taking the racing calendar with me, you see.'
My forerunner, the author of Muslin, should have written the story
sketched here with a failing hand, his young wit would have allowed
him to tell how the marriage that had wilted sadly after the death of
Uncle Toby now renewed its youth, opening its leaves to the light again,
shaking itself in the gay breezes floating by. He would have been able
in this story to present three exemplars of the domestic virtues, telling
how they went away to the seaside together, and returned together to
their castle among tall trees in October compelling the admiration of
the entire countryside. He would have shown us the Marchioness
entertaining visitors while the two men talked by the fireplace,

delighting in each other's company, and he would not have forgotten to
put them before us in their afternoon walks, sharing between them
Violet's knick-knacks, her wraps, her scarf, her fan, her parasol, her
cushion. His last chapter would probably be in a ball-room, husband
and lover standing by the door watching the Marchioness swinging
round the room on the arm of a young subaltern. 'Other women are
younger than she, Kilcarney, but who is as graceful? Have you ever
seen a woman hold herself like Violet?' One of the daughters (for there
have been children by this second, or shall we say by this third,
marriage) comes up breathless after the dance. 'Darling Uncle Hughie,
won't you take me for an ice?' and he gives her his arm affectionately,
but as they pass away to the buffet Sir Hugh hears Kilcarney speaking
of Lily as his daughter. Sir Hugh's face clouds suddenly, but he
remembers that, after all, Kilcarney is a guardian of his wife's honour.
A very ingenious story, no doubt, and if, as the young man's
ascendant--the critics of 1915 are pleased to speak of me as ascendant
from the author of Muslin--I may be permitted to remark upon it, I
would urge the very grave improbability that three people ever lived
contemporaneously who were wise enough to prefer, and so
consistently, happiness to the conventions.
There are still May Gould and Olive to consider, but this preface has
been prolonged unduly, and it may be well to leave the reader to
imagine a future for these girls, and to decide the interests that will fill
Mrs. Barton's life when Lord Dungory's relations with this world have
ceased.
G.M.

MUSLIN

I
The convent was situated on a hilltop, and through the green garden the
white dresses of the schoolgirls fluttered like the snowy plumage of a

hundred doves. Obeying a sudden impulse, a flock of little ones would
race through a deluge