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  They were certainly dissipated, those sardines, and, they smelt very oily. Someone begged Chubby to bury them in the flower-pot at his elbow. To Elizabeth’s horror he promptly rose, and tipped them into the pot, where they probably made excellent manure for the azalea.

  Then Sarah came to Elizabeth, with a fair, monocled man at her heels.

  “Elizabeth, I want to introduce Mr. Ramsay. The novelist, you know. Stephen, this is Miss Arden.”

  Stephen Ramsay had grey-blue eyes, and thin cheeks; Elizabeth thought he was interesting, and she admired his teeth, which were very straight and white. She had not read any of his books, which was awkward, but she remembered that she had seen his portrait in the “Bookman.”

  “Shall I be taking anyone’s chair if I sit here?” he asked, placing himself beside Elizabeth.

  “Yes, mine,” said Chubby, coming away from the flower-pot. “I say, thanks awfully for that dance, Miss Arden. What about it, Sarah?”

  “I don’t mind,” Sarah said graciously. “As long as you’re not too energetic.”

  Stephen Ramsay did not seem to want to dance; he watched Chubby take Sarah on to the floor, and then he looked again at Elizabeth. She wondered whether she ought to say something about his books, but that was so difficult. Instead she asked whether he came often to the club.

  “No, I’m a spare man,” he answered. His eyes crinkled attractively at the corners. “Cynthia—my sister—got an S. O. S. message from Lucy Elmsley this afternoon to scratch up a male. So here I am. I’m glad I came now.”

  Because she was very young and nervous Elizabeth said one of those silly things that girls say before they have gained their poise. She asked, why? quite innocently. As soon as the word escaped her she realised that Stephen had paid her a subtle compliment, and she blushed hotly, afraid that he should think she was courting a more direct compliment. To cover her mistake she asked him hurriedly whether he had seen Chubby’s way of getting rid of sardines.

  “Chubby’s quite mad,” he said. “He’s got unmitigated cheek, and never fails to get away with it.”

  “I like him,” Elizabeth said, not in the least understanding what it was that Chubby got away with.

  “Of course. Everyone does. By the way, would you like to dance, or would you rather sit out this one?”

  “I’d like to sit it out.” She glanced up at him, through her shadowy lashes. “I’ve never talked to an author before.”

  His vanity was flattered; he forgave her use of the word “author.”

  “You looked so scared when Sarah introduced me that I guessed at once you hadn’t read my books,” he said, laughing.

  “No, but I’ve heard people talking about them,” she assured him. “Often. You wrote I Celandine, didn’t you?”

  “I did. My first, feeble effort. I’m glad you haven’t read it.”

  “I was told that it was good. Why are you glad?”

  “Because it wasn’t good. The book I’ve just published never is. The masterpiece is always the next book.”

  “At that rate there’ll never be a masterpiece—in your estimation.”

  “I hope not. I’d be rather conceited if I ever thought my own book a masterpiece, wouldn’t I?”

  “I suppose you would. You wouldn’t come to dances any more, because you’d think it beneath your dignity.”

  “Not a bit. I’d come just to show myself, which would be worse. May I introduce you to my sister? She’s coming towards us now. Cynny!”

  Elizabeth saw that his sister was a fair girl in a wispy black frock with a jazz-sash. She was like her brother, only with blue eyes, rather light and hard.

  “Hullo!” she said, and removed her cigarette, in its long black holder, from her mouth.

  “Miss Arden—my sister, Mrs. Ruthven.”

  “How d’you do?” Mrs. Ruthven said. When she spoke she was not like Stephen at all; her words came trenchantly, jerked out. “Don’t let Stephen bore you, Miss Arden. He’s rather inclined to hold forth.”

  A glance passed between her and Stephen. Her eyebrows rose infinitesimally; she sat down opposite Elizabeth, on the other side of the little table and waved a casual hand towards her partner.

  “My husband. Anthony, ask the Stowe girl to dance. She’ll be overcome.”

  “But I thought—” he began to expostulate.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Cynthia curtly.

  He drifted away; he was amiable and rather fat, with kind eyes. Cynthia stayed and talked to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth discovered that she too wrote, not novels, but poems. She asked all sorts of questions about Elizabeth, but not as though she was really interested. Then, most surprisingly, she asked Elizabeth to come to tea one day, at her flat.

  Elizabeth stammered.

  “Thank you very much—I should love to,” which was not true, because Cynthia repelled her.

  “I’ll ring you up,” Cynthia said. “We’ll fix a date.” She rose, smiled, and walked away.

  “Do go and have tea with her!” Stephen said. “She’s rather startling at first, but she’s a very good sort at heart.”

  Elizabeth wondered whether she had been ungracious that he was able to read her thoughts so easily. He was smiling, and she felt more than ever attracted to him.

  “And now shall we dance?” he asked.

  He danced well, in a way that made her unconscious of her own mistakes, and he was protective and brotherly, as if he had known her all her life. He told her to let herself go a little more, and to take a longer step. Elizabeth became intent on her dancing, and, consequently, danced badly.

  “Now I’ve made you nervous!” he said ruefully. “I’m awfully sorry. Don’t pay any attention to me. By the way, have I asked you if you dance here often?”

  She laughed, and when she did this her little nose went into fascinating wrinkles, and her eyes danced.

  “No, but please don’t! How did you know that that was a stock question?”

  “A girl told me so once, when I brought it out to her. I admit it’s fairly feeble, but you don’t know how appallingly difficult it is to think of anything to say to some girls.”

  This point of view had never before occurred to Elizabeth; ingenuously she told him so.

  “No man ought to find any difficulty in talking to you,” he said. “If anyone has, then he was without doubt a fool.”

  She had been looking up at him; now her lashes fell, and a little smile of dawning assurance trembled on her lips. Stephen wanted to kiss her; she was so elusive and fragrant.

  No one had ever talked to Elizabeth like this before, or had smiled down at her in quite such a way. He was as different from the man who would like to squeeze her hand and flirt as he was different from the man who was openly bored. Under the warmth of an admiring gaze the petals of shyness unfurled a little way and allowed, he thought, a glimpse of the flower’s heart.

  “Do you like these shows?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yes, I think so. Sometimes it’s fun. Do you?”

  “Usually they bore me. I find myself thinking that I’d rather be at home. Not to-night.”

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “In Kent, not far from Oanbrook. In an old Tudor house with a garden you’d love.”

  “Should I? Why?”

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t. If you’re a town-bird.”

  Evidently it was not nice to be a town-bird.

  “I don’t think I am. I don’t know much about the country because I’ve always lived in London, that’s all.”

  “Well, my garden is made to blend with the house. There are hollyhocks and pansies, and love-in-the-mist, and all the old-fashioned flowers that people have begun to turn their noses up at. And flagged paths, and a big, old cedar, and a stream at the bottom of the field with irises growing beside it.”

  “It sounds beautiful,” she said. “I’m sure there are primroses too, and violets.”

  “Little wild ones, not the sort one grows in unsightly frames. There’s n
othing rare in my garden; you might be disappointed. One of my neighbours has a garden full of large labels with Latin names on them much bigger than the poor little plant itself. He wins prizes at the Chelsea flower-show.”

  The music stopped; Stephen held Elizabeth a moment longer in his arms, then let her go. They went back to their table, and all at once Elizabeth knew that she was enjoying herself.

  Stephen went away from the dance with Cynthia and with Cynthia’s husband, Anthony, in their two-seater. Anthony drove, and Cynthia was sandwiched tightly between him and Stephen.

  “Well, what was the point of it all?” she asked abruptly. “I saw nothing in her.”

  “Probably you didn’t try,” Stephen answered.

  “Still more probable is it that there’s nothing to see.”

  Stephen was silent; he did not want Cynthia to know how fascinated by Elizabeth he had been; he was fond of Cynthia, she was his pal, but she had a way of being sarcastic when you were not in the mood for sarcasm.

  “Moreover,” said Cynthia, “she’s the last girl in the world I should have expected you to fall for.”

  “Good lord, Cynny, I’m not in love with her!”

  “No, not at present. It’ll surprise me if I find there’s more to her than a pretty face.”

  Anthony’s voice, puzzled and groping, spoke from the other side of Cynthia.

  “What on earth are you two talking about?” he inquired.

  “Not a ‘what’ at all: a ‘she.’ Didn’t you notice, Anthony?”

  “No, but then I never do,” he said apologetically.

  “’Matter of fact I hadn’t any time to notice anything this evening except my stud. The confounded laundry has gone and widened the what-you-may-call-it, and the damn thing keeps coming undone, Cynny.”

  “I’ll speak to them about it,” she promised, becoming maternal. “What we were talking about was Stephen’s latest. Dark girl with eyes.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Anthony. “Pretty kid; I danced with her.”

  “Well, keep off the grass,” Cynthia warned him. “Stephen’s got his thumb on her.”

  Stephen defended himself, laughing.

  “It’s all rot, Anthony. I don’t mind admitting that I was rather attracted. She’s refreshing and unmodern. I’m so tired of the slangy, hail-fellow-well-met girls. They haven’t got any reserves.”

  “Um!” said Cynthia profoundly. “Question is, which is the more satisfactory type to live with?”

  “There’s a lot in that,” Anthony agreed, firmly believing that there was, since Cynthia had said it.

  “As I haven’t got to live with her the question doesn’t arise,” retorted Stephen.

  “And yet,” said Cynthia, “you’ll come up to town—to see me—on the day I have her to tea.”

  “I shall, yes,” Stephen replied frankly. “I’m interested in her. She’s a type.”

  “Copy for the new book,” nodded Anthony. “By the way, how is the new book?”

  “Good in parts. I’ve been hung up over ‘Helen.’ She puzzles me, and until I met Elizabeth Arden to-night I hadn’t been able to find her counterpart.”

  “Oh, that’s what the book’s about, is it?” said Cynthia. “The modest violet. You fool, Stephen.”

  “Cynny, Cynny!” Anthony protested gently. “Don’t be cynical, old girl.”

  “He is a fool, Anthony,” she insisted, smiling.

  “Yes, of course, but you shouldn’t sneer at that girl, darling; she’s a nice kid.”

  “I shan’t be allowed to sneer at anybody soon,” Cynthia remarked, entirely without rancour.

  “’Tisn’t necessary, darling, an’ I hate it.”

  “Go on, Anthony,” Stephen said encouragingly. “You’re the only person I know who can take Cynny down two or three pegs.”

  “Me?” Anthony leaned forward slightly to look across his wife at Stephen. “Why, Cynny’s a lot cleverer’n I am! Queer notions you do get into your head, old man!”

  Chapter Five

  Lawrence was quite excited when he learned that Elizabeth had met Stephen Ramsay at the dance-club. He seemed to think that it was clever of her, and praiseworthy, for he puffed out his chest slightly and patted her shoulder a great many times, saying, Well, well, well! He wanted to know just what Stephen had said, and Miss Arden, also interested, just how he looked. Elizabeth tried to satisfy both her listeners, but she found it difficult, and floundered badly in her description. She had spent nearly half the evening exclusively with Stephen, but in the cold light of the following morning she could not remember exactly what he looked like. She thought his eyes were grey; certainly he wore an eyeglass, but she felt sure that were she to meet him in the street she would pass him by.

  Lawrence was displeased, and remarked in an annoyed tone of voice that Stephen seemed to have made very little impression on Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth racked her brains, and managed to recall some stray fragments of their conversation last night, which quite restored Lawrence to good-humour.

  “A very bright young man, I should say,” he nodded. “I always thought that you might meet some interesting people at the club.” He paused, and looked impressively at Elizabeth. “Never neglect an opportunity of getting to know people,” he said. “I’m very glad I encouraged you to join the club, very glad indeed.”

  “Ye-es,” Elizabeth agreed doubtfully. “Only I thought that you didn’t want me to join it? At first you were so very—”

  “Naturally I had to think it over,” Lawrence said, frowning. It was tactless and stupid of Elizabeth to remind him of his preliminary mistrust of the club, just as he was forgetting about it. “I should be a pretty sort of father if I gave my consent to all your schemes without sleeping on them first. If I remember rightly you had already suggested staying at home when I finally decided that it would be very nice for you to go.”

  “Only because you—”

  “Don’t argue with your father, darling,” Miss Arden interposed.

  “And,” Lawrence went on triumphantly, “I advised you to join the club. If I hadn’t done that, in all probability you would have stayed at home. Then you wouldn’t have met Ramsay. I must say I am very pleased about that. I read his two books with great interest and I shall like to meet him.”

  “He lives in the country,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t think he comes to London much.”

  “He’ll come fast enough if there’s an attraction,” answered Lawrence playfully. “I have a shrewd notion that my little girl was a great success last night.”

  Elizabeth tried not to think that her teeth were on edge; she smiled, but shook her head.

  “Ah, well, we shall see!” Lawrence said. “Heaven knows I’m not a lion-hunter. Ramsay can stay away or come to call: it’s all one to me. And whom else did you meet last night?”

  “Oh, lots of people!” Elizabeth said vaguely. “Mr. Ramsay’s sister was there with her husband.”

  “Was she indeed?” Lawrence was becoming more and more complacent. “How did she strike you?”

  Elizabeth hesitated, and then compromised.

  “I thought she seemed very clever.”

  “I daresay,” Lawrence said wisely. “You liked her?”

  “N-no, I don’t think I did. She asked me to go to tea with her one day.”

  “How extremely kind!” he exclaimed. “And pray what is your objection to this lady, Elizabeth?”

  “It’s—it’s hard to explain. She has such an—offhand, curt manner.”

  “My dear Elizabeth, you shouldn’t judge people on their exteriors,” Lawrence said severely. “I don’t like to hear my little girl flatly condemning someone because she has a queer manner. Then again one has to make allowances for people with brains.”

  “Why?” Elizabeth asked.

  This floored Lawrence completely; he took refuge behind a convenient snub.

  “My dear child, if you think a minute you will see how silly that question is. Much—er—much is forgiven a geniu
s.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she’s a genius!” Elizabeth said.

  “Certainly not. I wasn’t suggesting such a thing. Don’t fall into that bad habit of catching people up, I beg of you. It’s most unbecoming. All I meant was that Mrs.—Mrs.—”

  “—Ruthven.”

  “—Mrs. Ruthven—that’s a very distinguished old name —is a clever woman.”

  “She writes poems.”

  “There you are, then. Writers very often have small peculiarities. One has to make allowances for them. It would be a dull world if we were all made alike. I strongly advise you to accept Mrs. Ruthven’s invitation, if she repeats it. From all I can make out she seems to be a very nice woman. A most desirable connaissance.” With that he rose, and went away into his study, taking the Times with him. No one was allowed to look at the paper until he had finished with it, and folded it inside out.

  Rather to Elizabeth’s surprise, Cynthia Ruthven did repeat her invitation. Some days later a letter came from her to Elizabeth, addressed in a very large and bold handwriting. Lawrence inspected it, and announced that Mrs. Ruthven wrote a good fist, and lived in a very nice part of the world.

  “I expect they have to pay a pretty stiff rent for a flat in Hanover Square,” he remarked. “They must be quite well off.”

  Even Aunt Anne thought it an excellent friendship for Elizabeth to make. So Elizabeth wrote to accept the invitation, and wondered secretly whether perhaps Stephen might not be there too. If so it would be really nice, but if not she did not think it would be nice at all.

  The Ruthvens’ flat was furnished very well, but in a modern style that Elizabeth found rather startling. She was conducted across a hall with a Bakst scheme of decoration to a room which she supposed to be the drawing-room.

  Cynthia was lost in the depths of an immense black chair, with her legs crossed and one foot swinging gently in its high-heeled shoe. That, and the blue smoke of her cigarette was all there was to be seen of her. She rose and threw aside the book she had been reading. Elizabeth thought she had never seen anything so marvellous as Cynthia’s gown, which was of primrose chiffon, presumably to match the room.