The season, as Mrs. Romayne had told Dennis Falconer, was to be a short one, and its proceedings were apparently to be regulated on the old principle of a short life and a merry one. Gaieties overtook one another in too rapid succession, and an unusually sunny and breezy May and June, with the inevitable action of such weather on human beings, even under the most artificial conditions, rendered these gaieties a shade more really gay than usual. The atmosphere was not, again, so close as it had been on the afternoon when Dennis Falconer called on Mrs. Romayne, and it is presumable that the weather must have been responsible for her general unusualness of mood on the evening of that day; for if she was not quite herself on the following morning, Certainly if constant stir and movement are conducive to good spirits, there was nothing wonderful in Mrs. Romayne’s satisfaction with life. For she had not, as she complained laughingly, a single moment to herself. “It’s a regular treadmill!” she exclaimed gaily one day to Lord Garstin. “I had really forgotten what a terrible thing a London season was!” “It seems to agree with you,” was the answer. “There is one lady of my acquaintance, and only one, who seems to grow younger every day!” “You can’t mean me,” she laughed. “I assure you, I am growing grey with incessantly running after that boy of mine! He is as difficult to catch as any lion of the season. I never see him except at parties!” Julian’s intimacy with Marston Loring had grown apace, and it had led to sundry social consequences which were, his mother said, “so good for him.” Little dinners at It was furthermore a season of very pretty dÉbutantes, a large majority of whom elected to look upon Mr. Romayne as “such a nice boy,” and to exact—or permit—any amount of slavery from him in the matters of fetching Miss Newton had gone home on the day following the meeting at the theatre. Falconer was to be seen about throughout the season, making his grave concession to the weaknesses of society. Mrs. Romayne and Julian met him constantly, and he was asked to, and attended, the most formal of the dinners given at Queen Anne Street. But the intercourse between him and his “connection,” as Mrs. Romayne called herself, was of the most distant and non-progressive type. Julian did not take to him at all. “He is such a solemn fellow, mother!” he said. “He seems to think that I’m doing something wrong all the time.” An observation to which Mrs. The last event of the season, as it became evident as the weeks ran on, would be the bazaar in aid of Mrs. Halse’s discovery among charities. It was, perhaps, as well that the institution in question was by no means in such urgent need of patronage as might have been argued from Mrs. Halse’s demeanour towards it earlier in the proceedings; for that lady’s enthusiasm on the subject had suffered severely in the contest with the numerous other enthusiasms which had succeeded it, and the affairs of the bazaar had been pursued by all its supporters with energy which is most charitably to be described as intermittent. Three separate dates had been fixed for the opening day; and, after a great deal of money had been spent in printing and advertising, each of these in succession had had to be abandoned owing to the singular incompleteness of every fundamental arrangement—though, as Mrs. Halse observed impatiently, after the third postponement, there were “heaps and heaps of Chinese lanterns.” Finally it was announced for the fifth and It was late in the evening of that eventful day, and in various fashionable drawing-rooms exhausted ladies stretched on sofas were recruiting their forces after their severe labours. It had been the fashion for the last week or more among the prospective stall-holders to allude to the fatigue before them with resigned and heroic sighs of awful import; consequently they were now convinced to a woman that they were in the last stages of exhaustion. As a matter of fact it is doubtful whether out of the sensations of all the “smart” helpers concerned—with the exception of the devoted half-dozen before mentioned, who had retired to various clubs in a state of collapse—a decent state of fatigue In the drawing-room at Chelsea, very cool and pretty with its open windows and its plentiful supply of flowers and ferns, Mrs. Romayne was lying on the sofa, as the exigencies of the moment, socially speaking, demanded of her, in an attitude of graceful weariness; an attitude which was rather belied by the alert expression of her contented face. “What an immense time it is since we have had such a domesticated hour!” Mrs. Romayne had laid down her literature some moments before, and had been lying looking at Julian with that curious “It is an age, isn’t it?” he said. During the final agony of preparation for the bazaar, Julian had been in immense request. Not that he was one of the devoted half-dozen, or that he did much definite work; but he was always ready to discuss any lady’s private fad with her for any length of time, and to rush all over London about nothing. His exertions, and the exhaustion engendered thereby, had rendered necessary a great deal of recreation at the club. He had repaired thither very frequently of late, instead of escorting his mother home on the conclusion of their tale of parties for the night. “It is a comfort to think that it is so nearly over!” observed Mrs. Romayne carelessly. It is never worth while, in the world in which Mrs. Romayne moved, to express “It has been awfully jolly!” said Julian, leaning back in his chair and resting his head against his loosely locked hands. “I had no idea that life was such a first-rate business!” His mother smiled, and there was a strange touch of triumph in her smile. “It is a first-rate business,” she assented, “if one lives it among the right people and in the right position. I imagine you see by this time that it isn’t much use otherwise!” He laughed as though his appreciation of her words rendered them almost a truism to him, and there was a moment’s silence. It was broken by Julian. “It costs a lot of money,” he said, in a “Well, it isn’t cheap, certainly,” was the laughing answer: “but I think we shall manage.” Then noticing something a little deprecating about his pose and expression, Mrs. Romayne added, with mock reprehension, “You’re not going to ask me to raise your allowance, you extravagant boy?” Julian moved, and leaning forward, clasped his hands round one knee as if the uncomfortable and transitory pose assisted explanation. He laughed back at her, but he was looking nevertheless somewhat ashamed of himself. “No, it’s not that—exactly,” he began rather lamely. “It’s a splendid allowance, mother dear, and I’m no end grateful; but the fact is, there has been a good deal of card-playing lately at the club. I don’t care for cards, you know, but one must play a bit, and I have been rather a fool. Look here, dear, I suppose—I suppose you couldn’t let me have two hundred, could you—before we go away, you know?” “Two hundred, Julian! My dear boy!” There was a strong tone of surprise and remonstrance in Mrs. Romayne’s voice, and there was also a very distinct note of annoyance; but all these sentiments seemed rather to apply to the demand, which was apparently unseasonable, than to the desirability of the transaction. She was neither startled nor distressed. “It is young Fordyce, mother,” continued her son deprecatingly. “It was awfully foolish to play with him, he’s so beastly lucky. And you see I must settle it before I go away.” “And have you none of your own?” demanded his mother, with some asperity in her tone. Julian’s creditor was a young man who had the reputation of being a “very good sort of fellow,” who would never “do” in society. “I’m awfully sorry to say I haven’t!” returned Julian meekly. There was a moment’s pause, and Mrs. Romayne tapped impatiently on the papers lying by her. “It is such an inconvenient moment,” she said at last. “I have just made all my “Falconer could arrange it for you,” suggested Julian, alluding to Falconer in his capacity of trustee for the first time, as it happened. Mrs. Romayne started violently, and a sharp exclamation of dissent rose to her lips. She stopped it half uttered, and paused a moment, controlling herself with difficulty. “No,” she said at last, in rather a hard tone. “I would rather not do that. I will think it over and see what can be done. We must raise your allowance, sir. I can’t have mines sprung on me like this!” She had risen as she spoke, and as he followed her example she lifted her face towards him for the good-night kiss which always passed between them. “I will sleep upon it,” she said. “Good night, extravagant boy.” |