“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’ll try my very, very best to get off early.”
“All right. I’ll fetch you from the salon. Phone me when you look like being free, and I'll come along.”
“Oh, thank you! And—I’m terribly sorry about this evening. But I must fly now!” She glanced at her watch, realized that they must have been talking far longer than Paul would consider reasonable, and hastily rang off before he could engage her in further conversation.
“I’m sorry—” She came back breathlessly into the drawing-room, feeling this was certainly her evening for being apologetic. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather a long time.”
“That’s all right. Who was your loquacious caller?” her guardian wanted to know.
“Philip.”
“Oh?” Paul raised disparaging eyebrows. “What did he want?”
“To take me out for the evening,” retorted Loraine, who thought he deserved that for his way of referring to Philip.
“Well, why didn’t you go?” was the slightly disagreeable inquiry.
“Because I had a previous engagement.”
“Oh, Loraine—” he laughed, and his face cleared, so that he looked almost boyish instead of slightly forbidding. “You’re a sweet child.” He put out a hand and drew her down on to the arm of his chair. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve to have you for a ward.”
“Nothing at all,” she reminded him, though with a quick and mischievous smile. “I should think my father just took a list of the less remote relations and stuck a pin in it.”
“And I was the one who got stabbed,” he said reflectively. “It’s a sobering thought.”
“Shall we go?” She laughed. But she suddenly felt overwhelmingly glad that she had resisted all Philip’s arguments and blandishments. It would have been horrible to make some thin and obvious excuse—and then to go off and leave Paul alone. Rather the sort of thing Elinor might do.
And then she wondered how far he had got—if at all—with straightening out his affairs in that direction. And she decided to ask him, when the right moment arose.
As they drove out of Paris and along the Seine they talked very little. It was enough just to enjoy the soft evening air which blew in through the open window of the car, to delight in the beauty of the scene around them and, if the truth be told, remain content in each other’s company.
That was the remarkable thing, Loraine thought idly once. Nowadays she was so completely relaxed and at ease in her guardian’s presence that it was difficult even to recall how inhibited and unhappy she had once felt.
The place he had chosen was practically on the river bank, and presently they were installed at a table on the terrace, overlooking the broad, smooth stretch of the Seine.
“It’s heavenly, Paul,” she said with a sigh of contentment. “Have you been here often?”
“Often enough to know that I like it on a summer’s evening, after a strenuous day.”
“Did you come here with—Elinor?” she inquired on impulse.
“Once or twice.” He studied the menu with attention.
“And you might do so again, I suppose?”
“One never knows.”
She laughed, a little piqued. For, after all, he knew enough about her private affairs. She was only showing a friendly reciprocal interest.
“I suppose that rather cagey air means that I mustn’t ask any more questions?”
“No. It means that I don’t know the answers yet to the kind of question you probably want to ask me.”
“Oh—I’m sorry.”
She was. Genuinely sorry. For she realized that, however much the breaking of Elinor’s engagement might have raised his hopes, the fact was that he was probably still a long way from re-establishing his own position with her.
“That’s all right.” He looked up and grinned at her across the table. “Shall we talk about something else?”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed quickly. And presently she reverted to the conversation which Philip’s telephone call had interrupted, and began to explain in detail Florian’s plans in connection with the Fete du Roi Soleil.
“So Florian wants you to bring a partner.” He looked reflective. “Who is it going to be?”
“Why, Philip—of course.” Then, because she thought he might find that a bit naive, she hurried on—“He has to go to England for a week or so—they have property there, you know—but fortunately, he will be back in good time.”
“Very fortunate,” agreed Paul, so drily that she felt a momentary flicker of annoyance. But then she reminded herself yet again that it was asking too much that two men who had been rivals over the same girl should think particularly well of each other.
“You don’t—mind my going with Philip, do you?” she asked, a little anxiously.
“I have nothing against him, from a guardian’s point of view, Loraine. But,” Paul smiled wryly, “you mustn’t expect me to go as far as liking him personally.”
“I don’t,” she said earnestly. “And I think it’s extraordinarily good and tolerant of you, in the circumstances, not to oppose my—friendship with him.”
“I haven’t much choice in the matter,” he replied curtly. “You told me you loved him—and I want your happiness.”
“I know you do.” She put out her hand and touched his, lightly and gratefully. But perhaps he thought that was over-doing the emotional side of things somewhat, because he drew his hand away quite decidedly and said: “To study his ward’s happiness is the proper attitude for a guardian, I take it.”
“Well,” she laughed, “for a nice guardian, yes. Anyway, I appreciate the attitude, Paul. And I only hope your own affairs smooth out as completely as mine have done.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Just how far have your affairs smoothed out, Loraine?” he asked suddenly. “You’ve never told me, categorically, you know.”
“But I don’t have to surely?” She opened her eyes. “You know. Better than anyone else. It was you who explained everything to Philip. And now he knows everything—I’m happy.”
“But that surely isn’t the height of your ambition, so far as Philip Otway is concerned?”
“Well—no.” She laughed and colored, as she glanced down at the tablecloth and traced the pattern on it with a deliberate forefinger. “It’s naturally as important to me as to you that he broke off his engagement with Elinor. But now, oddly enough, you and I are in rather the same position. We just have to—wait for the next stage. One can’t—hurry these things. I know Philip loves me—”
“How do you know?”
“It's in everything he does and says! The way he looks at me—speaks to me—smiles at me—”
“I see.”
“When you love someone, you don’t need to be told everything in words of one syllable, do you?”
“No, Loraine, I suppose not,” he agreed gently. Then he made an odd little movement of his shoulders and said, “Shall we go now? It’s getting late and a bit chilly.”
She realized then that the soft, mellow charm of the evening had faded, and there was a curious, unseasonable touch of bleakness about the night which had fallen.
“Yes—let’s go,” she agreed quickly. And she was glad that, on the way back, he put up the window and showed little disposition to talk further. So that presently she fell asleep against his shoulder, and woke only when they drew up outside their home.
The next morning, at breakfast, he told her he would be out that evening, which made it easy for her to explain that she also would not be home, as Philip was meeting her from work.
“Very well. Don’t make too late a night of it,” Paul said, in his most guardianly way.
“No, sir,” Loraine promised, dropping a submissive little curtsy—for which she got her ear pinched. But he kissed her too, before she went off, and she felt the day had started on an auspicious note.
To deepen the impression, she found Madame Moisant in an
exceptionally good and indulgent humor and, throughout the day, customers seemed singularly easy to please. Even Lisette was less provocative and tiresome than usual and, feeling that this must be her lucky day, Loraine decided that her meeting with Philip could only be a radiant success.
All the same, she breathed a sigh of relief when she finally came out, to find him standing there beside his car, smoking a cigarette and looking handsome enough to make most women look at him twice.
“If you’re not careful, you’ll be mistaken for a star model yourself and be photographed for one of the glossy magazines, before you know where you are,” she warned him, as she came up.
“Heaven forbid!” he said, in his most British way. “Though now you’re here, no self-respecting photographer would think of taking anyone else. How lovely you’re looking, my sweet child.”
“Part of the Florian treatment,” she assured him lightly.
But he said, “Nothing of the sort. Sheer natural Loraine charm. I should know. I’ve seen it develop from the schoolgirl stage.”
“Oh, Philip,” she laughed reminiscently as she got into the car beside him, “that seems such a long time ago!”
“What does, dear?”
“The day you first found me, sitting on the ground and moping, because it was my eighteenth birthday and no one knew or cared. And you took me home to your mother and gave me a wonderful birthday.”
He laughed too, on a note of pleasant recollection.
“Well, I’m going to do much the same thing now—take you home to my mother. But only for half an hour. She says she hasn’t seen you for ages, and I promised we would call in and have a drink with her before going out on our own.”
“Lovely,” said Loraine. But mostly for the specific reassurance that she and Philip were going to be on their own for most of the evening.
All the same, it was pleasant to see Mrs. Otway and receive fresh praise for her triumph on the opening day of the Collection. She even hardly minded when Mrs. Otway found an excuse for sending Philip off on some errand for her, which gave them ten minutes alone together, though she did feel faintly uncomfortable when her hostess plunged immediately into the delicate subject of the broken engagement.
“I’m so relieved and satisfied to have seen the back of Elinor Roye,” Mrs. Otway stated with brevity and candor. “And quite grateful to you, dear, for the little part you played in bringing Philip to his senses.”
“Well, I don’t know that I did anything very active—” Loraine began.
“No, no,” Mrs. Otway agreed, just a trifle too emphatically. “I wouldn’t want to make you feel you were seriously involved. It was just that, at that exact moment, he needed reminding that there were plenty of other attractive girls around besides the one he had, most mistakenly, chosen. You provided just that reminder, darling, and I’ll always remember you gratefully for that.”
“Th-thank you,” said Loraine uncertainly, for she could not escape the curious impression that she was being relegated, charmingly and affectionately, to the past.
“You and I, who know our Philip so well,” went on Mrs. Otway, smiling, “can afford to be indulgent over the fact that he is a tiny bit too susceptible. But I must say we organized a lucky escape for him that time, didn’t we?”
Mrs. Otway laughed reminiscently. But Loraine did not laugh, either reminiscently or otherwise. She stared at her hostess, in something between astonishment and dismay, unable to decide if she were being given a firm hint, or if Mrs. Otway genuinely did not realize the true position.
It was not less for Loraine to disillusion her at this point. But she thought of Philip saying that he had something very special to tell her, and she almost wished she could give the other woman some sort of hint of what was coming.
“She won’t really like me much more than Elinor, in the role of Philip’s wife,” she thought, with a sudden flash of insight. “She wouldn’t like anyone as Philip’s wife. But perhaps I can win her over gradually.”
In her certainty and her inner happiness, she could afford to feel generous. Though her degree of tolerance was sorely tried when Mrs. Otway went on, still in that smiling, reminiscent sort of way:
“I’ve always thought of you as an affectionate younger sister for Philip, you know, Loraine dear, and I’m afraid I took it very much for granted that you would help me to save him from Elinor. If I was a bit crude about it, I know you will forgive me and understand.”
She paused, and Loraine finally said, “Of course,” because there was really nothing else to say, unless she proposed to enter into some kind of argument—which was unthinkable.
“One of these days, you and I will be able to congratulate ourselves afresh—when Philip really finds the right girl,” the older woman went on pleasantly, “and then we shall feel that all the trouble over Elinor was well worth while. It's a sort of—what shall I say?—family solidarity, isn’t it, darling?”
Fortunately, Loraine was saved from having to give her views on this version of family solidarity for, at this moment, Philip returned—with the headache remedy which his mother had requested.
She now seemed, Loraine could not help observing, singularly bright for anyone with a headache, and she wondered if Philip too knew that he had been sent out of the way for a purpose.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Loraine told herself, almost passionately. “Nothing matters except that Philip and I are to be on our own at last, with no shadow between us. It isn’t as though he doesn’t know the situation. It was lie who told me about her aversion to his marrying at all. But he’s quite capable of managing her, in the few things which matter to him, and we’ll find a way—he and I—to reconcile her to our marriage.”
It was a relief, however, when they did get away on their own. For, whatever excuses one might make for her, Mrs. Otway had really been quite insufferable, and no smiles or endearments could make up for the brutal clarity with which she had tried to brush off Loraine now she had no further need of her.
Loraine had had it in mind to tell Philip—lightly, amusingly—of his mother’s efforts. But when it came to the point, she found she could not, and they talked of other things.
“I’m taking you to the Corbeille des Fleurs,” Philip told her. “Do you know it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But it sounds attractive.”
“I like it. We have to drive some way, but it’s worth it when one gets there,” he assured her. And so happy was she to be driving in his company and talking without the necessity of guarding her words, that she hardly noticed where they were going, and it was some while before the suspicion came to her that they were heading for the place to which Paul had taken her the previous evening.
The discovery disconcerted her beyond measure—as though, in some subtle way, she were being disloyal to her guardian. They had enjoyed themselves so much there, discussed their most intimate affairs, there, and in some curious sense made the place very much their own.
Now, the idea that she was going there with Philip—probably to receive his proposal—made her so uncomfortable that she almost asked him to turn back and drive her somewhere else.
The impossibility of this, however, became immediately plain to her. Probably Philip had arranged this evening in some detail. It was not for her to spoil it by informing him that she already associated his chosen venue with someone also very dear to her—though in an entirely different way, of course.
Her dismay was complete when they were even shown to the same table—Paul’s table—and she simply had to invent some mild complaint about too much breeze, and have another table found for them. And then, just as she began to hope she could keep her strange distress within bounds if she sat with her back to that charming, familiar corner, up came the same waiter who had waited on Paul and her, and, smiling at her in a fatherly way, he observed that it was pleasant to see Mademoiselle back so soon.
“Have you been here before, then?” Philip glanced at her quickly. “I thought
you said you didn’t know it.”
“I didn’t know the name. I—recognized it, of course, when we got here.”
“When did you come before?” he wanted to know, obviously a little disappointed that he was not providing a novelty, after all.
“Last night,” Loraine said reluctantly.
“Last night?” He was plainly both disgusted and put out. “With your guardian?”
“Yes.”
“What an odd place for him to bring you.”
“Oh, why, Philip? It’s such a lovely place that I suppose it’s one of the natural spots to think of if one wants to give pleasure,” she said, in an effort to mollify him.
He laughed shortly. She had never seen him quite so obviously annoyed and disconcerted.
“It’s what I would describe as a romantic spot,” he retorted. “I should have thought a mere guardian would have chosen something much more solid and conventional.”
“There’s nothing solid or conventional about Paul!”
“Are you telling me there’s something romantic about him, then?” was the dry inquiry.
“Why—no,” said Loraine, and immediately knew that was not correct. Her guardian was, in his way, what one meant by romantic, she supposed. Only she could not possibly define just what degree of romanticism was involved to a rather angry Philip. Instead, she said, in a placatory way:
“Philip, you sound quite—cross with me. I don’t know why.”
“I’m sorry.” He laughed and, reaching over, patted her hand. “Only you’re up in arms in a moment if there’s so much as a hint of criticism where your guardian’s concerned.”
“Am I?” She considered that without rancor. “Well, I suppose I’m very fond of him.”
“I suppose you must be,” agreed Philip, a little coolly, and he turned his attention to the menu.
It is always difficult to say what makes or spoils an atmosphere. Still less is it possible to command the magic which comes only from the fusing of thought and feeling between two people. One can make the most elaborate and careful preparations, entertain the highest hopes—and yet, for some inexplicable reason, the incandescence never glows, the spirit never soars.
The Wedding Dress Page 16