Monday was a perfectly impossible day—I spent all the morning before I returned to Versailles in writing to Maurice, telling him he must find out all about Miss Sharp—Alathea—I felt if I told him her Christian name it would be a clue—and yet even to assist in that, which was, at the moment, my heart's desire, I could not overcome my personal dislike to pronounce it to Maurice!—it seemed as something sacred to me alone—which makes me reflect upon how egotistical we all are—and how we would all rather fail in attaining what is our greatest wish than not to be able to express our own personality—!

Nina had suggested before she left that I should stay in Paris and come to the theatre with her—.

"We could have some delicious old times, Nicholas, now that you are so much better."

Once this would have thrilled me—only last Spring! but now the contrariness in me made me say that it was absolutely necessary that I returned immediately to Versailles. I believe I should have answered like that even if there had been no Miss Sharp,—Alathea—in the case, just because I now knew Nina really wanted me to stay—every man is like that, more or less, if only women knew!—The whole sex relation is one of fence—until the object has been secured—and then emotion dies out altogether, or is revived in one or the other, but very seldom in both. Love—real love—is beyond all this I suppose, and does not depend upon whether or no the other person excites one's desire for conquest. Love must be wonderful—I believe Alathea—(I have actually written it naturally this time!—) could love. I never used to think I could, at the best of moments I have analysed my emotions, and stood aside as it were, and measured just how much things were meaning to me.

But when I think of that scrap of a girl, with her elusive ways, her pride, her refinement, even her little red hands—! I have a longing—a passionate longing to hold her always near me—to know that she is mine—that for the rest of time I should be with her, learning from her high thoughts, comforted by her strength of character—believing in her—respecting her—Yes, that is it—respecting her. How few women one meets with attractions that one really respects.—One respects many elderly ones, of course, and abstract splendid creatures, but bringing it down to concrete facts, how few are the women who have drawn one's admiration or excited one's desire, who at the same time one reverenced!—Love must mean reverence—that is it.

And what is reverence—?

The soul's acknowledgment of the purity of another—and purity in this sense means truth and honor, and lofty aims—not the denial of all passion, or the practice of asceticism.

I utterly reverence Alathea, and yet I am sure with that mouth—if she loved me she would be anything but cold. How on God's earth can I make her love me—?

I went back to Versailles after luncheon, having had to see the specialist about my eye, he thinks the socket is so marvelously healed lately, that I could have the glass one in now much sooner than Christmas. I wonder if some self confidence will return when I can feel people are not revolted when looking at me?—That again is super-sensitiveness. Of course no one is revolted—they feel pity—and that is perhaps worse. When I get my leg too, shall I have the nerve to make love to Alathea and use all the arts which used to be so successful in the old days?

I believe if I were back in 1914—I should still be as nervous as a cat when with her—Is this one of the symptoms of love again?

George Harcourt has many maxims upon the subject of love—One is that a Frenchman thinks most of the methods of love—An Englishman more of the sensations of love—and an Austrian of the emotions of love—. I wonder if this is true? He also says that a woman does not really appreciate a man who reverences her sex in the abstract, and is chivalrous about all women,—she rather thinks him a simpleton—. What she does appreciate is a man who holds cynical views about the female sex in general, and shows reverence and chivalry towards herself in particular!

This I feel is probably the truth—!

I did not expect to hear anything of Alathea on the Monday, she was not due until Tuesday at eleven o'clock, but when I came in from my sunset on the terrace, I found two telegrams, all the first one said was—

"Extremely sorry will be unable to come to-morrow,
brother seriously ill.
A. Sharp—."

And no address!

So I could not send sympathy, or even offer any help—I could have sworn aloud! The storm had wrecked its vengeance on someone, then, and the poor little chap had probably taken cold.

If I could only be of some use to them—Perhaps getting the best Doctor is out of their reach. I was full of turmoil while I tore open the other blue paper—this was from Suzette—.

"I come this evening at eight."

It was nearly seven o'clock now, so I could not put her off—and I am not sure that I wanted to—Suzette is a human being and kindly, and her heart is warm.

When Burton was dressing me I told him of Miss Sharp's telegram.

"The poor young lady!" he said—.

Burton always speaks of her as the "young lady"—he never makes a mistake about class.

Suzette for him is "Mam'zell"—and he speaks of her as a mother might about her boy's noisy, tiresome rackety school friends—necessary evils to be put up with for the boy's sake—The fluffies he announces always by their full titles—"Madame la Comtesse"—etc., etc., with a face of stone. Nina and the one or two other Englishwomen he is politely respectful to, but to Miss Sharp he is absolutely reverential—she might be a Queen!

"I expect the poor little fellow got wet through yesterday," I hazarded—.

"He's that delicate," Burton remarked.

So Burton knows something more about the family than I do after all—!

"How did you know he was delicate, Burton, or even that Miss Sharp had a brother?"

"I don't exactly know, Sir Nicholas—it's come out from one time to another—the young lady don't talk."

"How did you guess, then?"

"I've seen her anxious when I've brought in her tray—sometimes, and once I ventured to say to her—'I beg pardon Miss, but can I do anything for you,' and she took off her glasses sudden like—and thanked me, and said it was her little brother she was worrying about—and you may believe me or not as you like, Sir Nicholas, but her eyes were full of tears."

I wonder if Burton guessed the deep emotion he was causing me—My little darling! with her beautiful blue eyes full of tears, and I impotent to comfort or help her—!

"Yes—yes?" I said—.

"She told me then that he'd been delicate since birth, and she feared the winter in Paris for him—I do believe Sir, it's that she works so hard for, to get him away south."

"Burton—what the devil can we do about it?"

"I don't very well know, Sir Nicholas—Many's the time I've badly wanted to offer her the peaches and grapes and other things, to take back to him—but of course I know my place better than to insult a lady—tisn't like as if she were of another class you see Sir—she'd have grabbed 'em then, but bein' as she is, she'd have been bound to refuse them, and it might have tempted her for him and made things awkward."

Burton not only knows the world but has tact—!

He went on, now once started.

"I saw her outside a wine shop once when I got off the tram at Auteuil—She was looking at the bottles of port—and I made so as to pass, and her not see me, but she turned and said friendly like—'Burton, do you suppose this shop would keep really good port—?' I said as how I would go in and see, and she came with me—They had some fairly decent—though too young, Sir Nicholas, and it was thirty-five francs the bottle—I saw she had not an idea it would be as much as that—her face fell—Do you know, Sir, I could see she hadn't that much with her,—it was the day before she's paid you see—her colour came and went—then she said—'I wonder Burton if you could oblige me with paying the ten extra francs until to-morrow—I must have the best!'—You may believe me, Sir Nicholas, I got out my purse quick enough—and then she thanked me so sweet like—'The Doctor has ordered it for my mother, Burton,' she said—'and of course she couldn't drink any but the best!'"

"Who on earth can she be, Burton? It does worry me—can't you possibly find out? I would so like to help them."

"I feel that, Sir—but here's the way I figure it—When gentry lives in foreign towns and don't seem anxious for you to know their address it don't seem right like to pry into it."

"Burton, you dear old brick!—well supposing we don't try to pry, but just try how we can possibly help her—You could certainly be sympathetic about the brother since she has spoken to you—and surely something can be done—? I saw her at the Duchesse's you know—do you suppose she knows her—?"

"I do, Sir Nicholas—I never meant to speak of it, but one day Her Grace came to see you and you were out and she caught sight of Miss Sharp through the half open door—and she jumped like a cat, Her Grace did, 'Halthee'—she cried out—or some name like that,—and Miss Sharp started up and went down the stairs with her—She seemed to be kind of explaining, and I am not sure that Her Grace was too pleased—."

(Burton thinks all Duchesses should be called "Grace" whether they are French or English.)

"Then we should certainly be able to find out from the Duchesse—."

"Well, I would not be so sure of that Sir Nicholas—You see the Duchesse is a very kind lady, but she is a lady of the world, and she may have her reasons."

"Then what do you suggest, Burton?"

"Why, I hardly know—perhaps to wait and see, Sir Nicholas."

"Masterly inactivity!"

"It might be that I could do a bit of finding out if I felt sure no harm could come of it."

I was not quite certain what Burton meant by this—What possible harm could come of it?

"Find out all you can and let me know—."

·

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Suzette opened the door and came in just as I finished dressing—Burton left the room.—She was pouting.

"So the book is not completed, Nicholas?—and the English Mees comes three times a week—hein?"

"Yes—does that upset you?"

"I should say!"

"May I not have a secretary?—You will be objecting to my Aunt coming to stay with me, or my dining with my friends—next!"

I was angry—.

"No—mon ami—not that—they are not for me—those—but a secretary—a 'Mees'—tiens?—for why do you want us two?"

"You two! good Lord! Do you think, Suzette—Mon Dieu!"—I now became very angry. "My secretary is here to type my book—. Let us understand one another quite—You have overstepped the mark this time, Suzette, and there must be an end. Name whatever sum you want me to settle on you and then I don't ever wish to see you again."

She burst into frantic weeping. She had meant nothing—she was jealous—she loved me—even going to the sea could do nothing for her! I was her adorÉ—her sun, moon and stars—of what matter a leg or an eye—! I was her life—her Amant!!

"Nonsense, Suzette!—you have told me often it was only because I was very rich—now be sensible—these things have to have an end some day. I shall be going back to England soon, so just let me make you comfortable and happy and let us part friends—."

She still stormed and raged—'There was someone else—it was the "Mees"—I had been different ever since she had come to the flat—She, Suzette, would be revenged—she would kill her—!'

Then I flew into a rage, and dominated her, and when I had her thoroughly frightened I appealed to the best in her—and when she was sobbing quietly Burton came in to say that dinner was ready—his face was eloquent!

"Don't let the waiters see you like that," I said.

Suzette rushed to the glass and looked at herself, and then began opening her gold chain bag to get out her powder and lip grease—I went on into the salon and left her—.

What an irony everything is—! When I was yearning for tenderness and love—, even Suzette's, I was unable to touch her, and now because I am quite indifferent, both she and Nina, in their separate ways, have begun to find me attractive. So there is nothing in it really, it is only as to whether or no you arouse the hunting instinct!

Suzette wore an air of deep pathos during our repast—. She had put some blue round her eyes to heighten the effect of the red of the real tears, and she appeared very pretty and gentle—It had not the slightest effect upon me—I found myself looking on like a third person. The mole with its three black hairs seemed to be the only salient point about her.

Poor little Suzette!—How glad I felt that I had never even pretended a scrap of love for her!

That astonishing sense of the fitness of things which so many of these women possess, showed itself as the evening wore on—. Finding the situation hopeless, Suzette accepted it, curbed the real emotion in herself and played the game—She tried to amuse me—and then we discussed plans for her future. A villa at Monte Carlo she decided at last—A bijou of a place! which she knew of—. And when we parted at about eleven o'clock everything was arranged satisfactorily. Then she said good-bye to me—She would go back to Paris by the last train—.

"Good-bye, Suzette!"—and I bent down and kissed her forehead—"You have been the jolliest little pal possible—and remember that I have appreciated it,—and you will always have a real friend in me!"

She burst into tears once more—real tears—.

"Je t'aime bien!" she whispered—"I shall go to Deauville—Va!"

We wrung hands, and she went to the door, but there she turned, and some of her old fire came back to her—.

"Pah! these English Meeses! thin, stiff, ennuyeuse!—thou wilt yet regret thy Suzette, Nicholas!" and with this she left me.

So that episode in my life is ended—and I shall never repeat the experiment.

But are not women the most amazing creatures!

You adore them and give them abject devotion and they treat you as dirt—nothing can be so cruel as the tenderest hearted woman is to a male slave—! Another woman appears upon the scene—then the first one begins to treat you with some respect. You grow masterful—love is aroused in her. You become indifferent—and very often it is she who then turns into the slave!—The worst of it is that when you really care you are incapable of playing a game successfully. The woman's subconscious mind knows that it is merely pretense—and so she remains a tyrant.—It is only when she herself has ceased to put forth sufficient attraction to keep you and you are growing numb that you can win out and find your self-respect again.

There was a moment when I was very angry with Suzette and almost shaking her, when I saw in her eyes the first look of real passionate affection—!

Are there any women in the world who could be mates?—who would be able to love one, and hold one at the same time—satisfying one's mind and one's spirit and one's body—?—Could Alathea—?—I do not know.

I had got this far in my speculations when a note was brought to me by a smart French maid—it was now past eleven at night—.

It was from Coralie—.

"I am here, cher Ami—I am rather in a difficulty—Can I come to your sitting-room?"

I scribbled "of course"—and in a moment she came—seductive and distressful. Duquesnois had been recalled to the front suddenly—her husband would be back on the morrow—. Might she stay and have some St. Galmier water with me—could we ring the bell and order it, so that the waiter might see her there?—because if the husband asked anything—he could be sure it was only the much wounded Englishman, and he would not mind—!!

I was sympathetic!—the St. Galmier came.

Coralie did not seem in a hurry to drink it, she sat by the fire and talked, and looked at me with her rather small expressive eyes—and suddenly I realized that it was not to save any situation that even a complacent and much-tried war-husband might object to, but just to talk to me alone—!!

She put forth every charm she possessed for half an hour—I led her on—watching each move with interest and playing right cards in return. Coralie is very well born and never could be vulgar or blatant, so it was all entertaining for me. This is the first time she has had the chance of being quite alone. We fenced—I showed enough empressement not to discourage her too soon—and then I allowed myself to be natural, which was being completely indifferent—and it worked its usual charm!

Coralie grew restless—she got up from the sofa she stood by the fire—she came at last quite close up to my chair—.

"What is there about you, Nicholas," she cooed, "which makes one forget that you are wounded—. When I saw you even in the parc—with that demoiselle I felt—that—"—She looked down with a sigh—.

"How hard upon Duquesnois, Coralie! a good-looking, whole man!"

"I have tired of him, Mon ami—he loves me too much—the affair has become tame—."

"And I am wild, is that it?"

"A savage—yes—One feels that you would break one's bones if you were angry—and would mock most of the time,—but if you loved. Mon Dieu!—it would be worth while!"

"You have had immense experience of love Coralie, haven't you?"

She shrugged her shoulders—.

"I am not sure that it has been love—."

"Neither am I."

"They say that you have given millions to the little demi-mondaine Suzette la Blonde——and that you are crazy about her, Nicholas—Did I see her on the stairs just now?"—

I frowned—. She saw in a moment it was not the right line—. "For that! it is nothing, Nicholas—they are very attractive, those ladies—one understands—but—your book and your secretary?—hein?—"

I lit a cigarette with supreme calm, and did not answer, so that she was obliged to go on—.

"Her face is pretty in spite of those glasses, Nicholas—and one saw that she walked well as she went on."

"May not a secretary have a decent appearance then?"

"When they have they do not remain secretaries long."

"You had better ask Miss Sharp if she means to stay when next you chance upon her then—I don't exchange much conversation with her myself."

There is no exact English word which would describe Coralie's face—She was longing to believe me—but felt she could not—quite—! She knew it was foolish to bait me, and yet the female in her was too strong for any common sense to win—Her personality had to express herself just as strongly about her jealousy of my secretary, as mine had to express itself about not telling Maurice, Alathea's name,—in both cases we cut off our noses to spite our faces. I was aware of my folly, I do not know if Coralie was aware of hers. Her exasperation so increased in a few moments that she could not control herself—and she spoke right out—.

"When we have all been so kind to you, Nicholas, it is too bad for you to waste your time upon that—!"

I became stern, then, as I had earlier become with Suzette, and made Coralie understand that I would have no interference from anyone. I frightened her—and presently she left me more attracted than she has ever been—. As I said before, women are amazing creatures.

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