Tenterhooks | Page 6

'It was just a little--well--perhaps just a tiny bit ghastly,
I thought; but don't tell Bruce. That evening I thought the people
weren't quite young enough, and when they played 'Oranges and
Lemons, and the Bells of St Clements,' and so on--their bones seemed
to--well, sort of rattle, if you know what I mean. But still perhaps it was
only my fancy. Mitchell has such very high spirits, you see, and is
determined to make everything go. He won't have conventional parties,
and insists on plenty of verve; so, of course, one's forced to have it.' He
sighed. 'They haven't any children, and they make a kind of hobby of
entertaining in an unconventional way.'
'It sounds rather fun. Perhaps you will be asked next Thursday. Try.'
'I'll try. I'll call, and remind her of me. I daresay she'll ask me. She's
very good-natured. She believes in spiritualism, too.'
'I wonder who'll be there?'
'Anyone might be there, or anyone else. As they say of marriage, it's a
lottery. They might have roulette, or a spiritual séance, or Kubelik, or
fancy dress heads.'
'Fancy dress heads!'
'Yes. Or a cotillion, or just bridge. You never know. The house is rather
like a country house, and they behave accordingly. Even hide-and-seek,
I believe, sometimes. And Mitchell adores unpractical jokes, too.'
'I see. It's rather exciting that I'm going to the Mitchells at last.'
'Yes, perhaps it will be the turning-point of your life,' said Vincy. 'Ah!
here's Bruce.'

'I don't think much of that opera glass your mother gave you,' Bruce
remarked to his wife, soon after the curtain rose.
'It's the fashion,' said Edith. 'It's jade--the latest thing.'
'I don't care if it is the fashion. It's no use. Here, try it, Vincy.'
He handed it to Vincy, who gave Bruce a quick look, and then tried it.
'Rather quaint and pretty, I think. I like the effect,' he said, handing it
back to Bruce.
'It may be quaint and pretty, and it may be the latest thing, and it may
be jade,' said Bruce rather sarcastically, 'but I'm not a slave to fashion. I
never was. And I don't see any use whatever in an opera glass that
makes everything look smaller instead of larger, and at a greater
distance instead of nearer. I call it rot. I always say what I think. And
you can tell your mother what I said if you like.'
'You're looking through it the wrong side, dear,' said Edith.
CHAPTER III
The Golden Quoribus
Edith had been very pretty at twenty, but at twenty-eight her prettiness
had immensely increased; she had really become a beauty of a
particularly troubling type. She had long, deep blue eyes, clearly-cut
features, hair of that soft, fine light brown just tinged with red called by
the French châtain clair; and a flower-like complexion. She was slim,
but not angular, and had a reposeful grace and a decided attraction for
both men and women. They generally tried to express this fascination
by discovering resemblances in her to various well-known pictures of
celebrated artists. She had been compared to almost every type of all
the great painters: Botticelli, Sir Peter Lely, Gainsborough,
Burne-Jones. Some people said she was like a Sargent, others called her
a post-impressionist type; there was no end to the old and new masters
of whom she seemed to remind people; and she certainly had the rather

insidious charm of somehow recalling the past while suggesting
something undiscovered in the future. There was a good deal that was
enigmatic about her. It was natural, not assumed as a pose of
mysteriousness. She was not all on the surface: not obvious. One
wondered. Was she capable of any depth of feeling? Was she always
just sweet and tactful and clever, or could there be another side to her
character? Had she (for instance) a temperament? This question was
considered one of interest,--so Edith had a great many admirers. Some
were new and fickle, others were old and faithful. She had never yet
shown more than a conversational interest in any of them, but always
seemed to be laughing with a soft mockery at her own success.
Edith was not a vain woman, not even much interested in dress, though
she had a quick eye and a sure impressionistic gift for it. She was
always an immense favourite with women, who felt subconsciously
grateful to her for her wonderful forbearance. To have the power and
not to use it! To be so pretty, yet never to take anyone away!--not even
coldly display her conquests. But this liking she did not, as a rule,
return in any decided fashion. She had dreadfully little to say to the
average woman, except to a few intimate friends, and frankly preferred
the society of