Red Pottage | Page 8

creature, least of all to his wife.
"Neither will I," he said to himself; "and as for her, I will break with
her from this day forward."
The little pink notes with the dashing, twirly handwriting persisted for a
week or two and then ceased.
* * * * *

Hugh was a man of many social engagements. His first impulse, when
later in the day he remembered them, was to throw them all up and
leave London. But Lord Newhaven would hear of his departure, and
would smile. He decided to remain and to go on as if nothing had
happened. When the evening came he dressed with his usual care,
verified the hour of his engagement, and went out to dine with the
Loftuses.
CHAPTER V
What the Bandar-log think now the jungle will think later. --Maxim of
the Bandar-log, RUDYARD KIPLING.
It was Sybell Loftus's first season in London since her second marriage
with Mr. Doll Loftus. After a very brief sojourn in that city of frivolity
she had the acumen to discover that London society was hopelessly
worldly and mercenary; that people only met to eat and to abuse each
other; that the law of cutlet for cutlet was universal; that young men,
especially those in the Guards, were garrisoned by a full complement of
devils; that London girls lived only for dress and the excitement of
husband-hunting. In short, to use her own expression, she "turned
London society inside out."
London bore the process with equanimity, and presently Sybell
determined to raise the art of dinner-giving from the low estate to
which she avowed it had fallen to a higher level. She was young, she
was pretty, she was well-born, she was rich. All the social doors were
open to her. But one discovery is often only the prelude to another. She
soon made the further one that in order to raise the tone of social
gatherings it is absolutely necessary to infuse into them a leaven of
"clever people." Further light on this interesting subject showed her that
most of the really "clever people" did not belong to her set. The
discovery which all who love adulation quickly make--namely, that the
truly appreciative and sympathetic and gifted are for the greater part to
be found in a class below their own--was duly made and registered by
Sybell. She avowed that class differences were nothing to her with the
enthusiasm of all those who since the world began have preferred to be

first in the society which they gather round them.
Fortunately for Sybell she was not troubled by doubts respecting the
clearness of her own judgment. Eccentricity was in her eyes originality;
a wholesale contradiction of established facts was a new view. She had
not the horrid perception of difference between the real and the
imitation which spoils the lives of many. She was equally delighted
with both, and remained in blissful ignorance of the fact that her "deep"
conversation was felt to be exhaustingly superficial if by chance she
came across the real artist or thinker instead of his counterfeit.
Consequently to her house came the raté in all his most virulent
developments; the "new woman" with stupendous lopsided opinions on
difficult Old Testament subjects; the "lady authoress" with a mission to
show up the vices of a society which she knew only by hearsay. Hither
came, unwittingly, simple-minded Church dignitaries, who, Sybell
hoped, might influence for his good the young agnostic poet who had
written a sonnet on her muff-chain, a very daring sonnet, which Doll,
who did not care for poetry, had not been shown. Hither, by mistake,
thinking it was an ordinary dinner-party, came Hugh, whom Sybell said
she had discovered, and who was not aware that he was in need of
discovery. And hither also on this particular evening came Rachel West,
whom Sybell had pronounced to be very intelligent a few days before,
and who was serenely unconscious that she was present on her
probation, and that if she did not say something striking she would
never be asked again.
Doll Loftus, Sybell's husband, was standing by Rachel when Hugh
came in. He felt drawn towards her because she was not "clever," as far
as her appearance went. At any rate, she had not the touzled,
ill-groomed hair which he had learned to associate with female genius.
"This sort of thing is beyond me," he said, mournfully, to Rachel, his
eyes travelling over the assembly gathered round his wife, whose
remarks were calling forth admiring laughter. "I don't understand half
they say, and when I do I sometimes wish I didn't. But I suppose--"
tentatively--"You go in for all this sort of thing?"

"I?" said Rachel, astonished. "I don't go in for anything. But what sort
of thing do you mean?"