Powder and Patch (17 page)

Cleone was looking. Her little teeth were tightly clenched. “Mr Jettan is a flatterer,” she said.

“Always so abominably French, too. Mistress Ann seems amused. I believe Jettan is a great favourite with the ladies of Paris.”

Suddenly Cleone remembered that duel that Philip had fought ‘over the fair name of some French maid’.

“Yes?” she said carelessly. “Of course, he is very handsome.”

“Do you think so? Oh, here he comes! Evidently the lovely Ann does not satisfy him .... Your

servant, sir!”

Philip smiled and bowed.

“Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of leading you out?” he asked. Above all, she must not show Philip that she cared what he did. “Oh, I have but this instant sat down!” she said, “I protest I am fatigued and very hot!” “I know of a cool withdrawing-room,” said Brenderby at once. “Let me take you to it, fairest!” “It’s very kind, Sir Deryk, but I do not think I will go. If I might have a glass of ratafia?” she added plaintively, looking at Philip.

For once he was backward in responding. Sir Deryk bowed. “At once, dear lady! I go to procure it.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” This was not what Cleone wanted at all. “Well, Mr Jettan, you have not yet fled to Paris?”

Philip sat down beside her.

“No, mademoiselle, not yet. Tonight will decide whether I go or stay.” His voice was rather stern.

“Indeed? How vastly exciting!”

“Is it not! I am going to ask you a plain question, Cleone. Will you marry me?” Cleone gasped in amazement Unreasoning fury shook her. That Philip should dare to come to her straight from the smiles of Ann Nutley! She glanced at him. He was quite solemn. Could it be that he mocked her? She forced herself to speak lightly. “I can hardly suppose that you are serious, sir!”

“I am in earnest, Cleone, never more so. We have played at cross-purposes long enough.” His voice sent a thrill through her. Almost he was the Philip of Little Fittledean. Cleone forced herself to remember that he was not.

“Cross-purposes, sir? I fail to understand you!” “Yes? Have you ever been honest with me, Cleone?” “Have you ever been honest with me, Mr Jettan?” she said sharply. “Yes, Cleone. Before you sent me away I was honest with you. When I came back, no. I wished to see whether you wanted me as I was, or as I pretended to be. You foiled me. Now I am again honest with you. I say that I love you, and I want you to be my wife.” “You say that you love me—” Cleone tapped her fan on her knee. “Perhaps you will continue to be honest with me, sir. Am I the only one you have loved?”

“You are the only one.”

The blue eyes flashed.

“And what of the ladies of the French Court, Mr Jettan? What of a certain duel you fought with a French husband? You can explain that, no doubt?”

Philip was silent for a moment, frowning.

“So the news of that absurd affair reached you, Cleone?” She laughed, clenching her teeth.

“Oh, yes, sir! It reached me. A pity, was it not?” “A great pity, Cleone, if on that gossip you judge me,”

“Ah! There was no truth in the tale?” Suppressed eagerness was in her voice. “I will be frank with you. A certain measure of truth there was. M. de Foli-Martin thought himself injured. It was not so.”

“And why should he think so, sir?”

“Presumably because I paid court to madame, his wife.”

“Yes?” Cleone spoke gently, dangerously. “You paid court to madame. No doubt she was very lovely?”

“Very.” Philip was nettled.

“As lovely, perhaps, as Mademoiselle de Marcherand, of whom I have heard, or as Mistress Ann Nutley yonder? Or as lovely as Jennifer?”

Philip took a false step.

“Cleone, surely you are not jealous of little Jenny?” he cried.

She drew herself up.

“Jealous? What right have I to be jealous? You are nothing to me, Mr Jettan! I confess that once I—liked you. You have changed since then. You cannot deny that you have made love to a score of beautiful women since you left home. I do not blame you for that. You are free to do as you please. What I will not support is that you should come to me with your proposal, having shown me during the time that you have spent in England that I am no more to you than Ann Nutley, or Julie de Marcherand. ‘To the Pearl that Trembles in Her Ear’, was it not? Very pretty, sir. And now I intrigue you for the moment I cannot consider myself flattered, Mr Jettan.”

Philip had grown pale under his paint.

“Cleone, you wrong me! It is true that I have trifled harmlessly with those ladies. It is the fashion—the fashion you bade me follow. There has never been aught serious betwixt any woman and me. That I swear!”

“You probably swore the same to M. de Foli-Martin?” “When I had given him the satisfaction he craved, yes.” “I suppose he believed you?”

“No.” Philip bit his lip.

“No? Then will you tell me, sir, how it is that you expect me to believe what M. de Foli-Martin—closely concerned—would not believe?”

Philip looked straight into her eyes.

“I can only give you my word, Cleone.” Still she fought on, wishing to be defeated. “So you have never trifled with any of these women, sir? Philip was silent again.

“You bring me”—Cleone’s voice trembled—“a tarnished reputation. I’ve no mind to it, sir. You have made love to a dozen other women. Perhaps you have kissed them. And—and now you offer me—your kisses! I like unspoilt wares, sir.”

Philip rose, very stiff and stern.

“I am sorry that you consider yourself insulted by my offer, Cleone.”

Her hand half flew towards him and fell again. Couldn’t he understand that she wanted him to beat down her resistance? Did he care no more than that? If only he would deny everything and master her!

“I hasten to relieve you of my obnoxious presence. Your servant, mademoiselle.” Philip bowed. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Cleone stricken. Her fan dropped unheeded to the ground. Philip had gone! He had not understood that she wanted to be overruled, overcome. He had gone, and he would never come back. In those few minutes he had been the Philip she loved, not the flippant gallant of the past weeks. Tears came into Cleone’s eyes. Why, why had he been so provoking? And oh, why had she let him go? She knew now beyond question that he was the only man she could ever love, or had ever loved. Now he had left her, and would go back to Paris. Nothing mattered, she did not care what became of her once she had lost Philip.

James Winton, never far away, came to her side and sat down. Cleone greeted him mechanically and proceeded to follow out her own line of dismal thought. Through a haze of misery she heard James’ voice. It sounded rather shy, and very anxious. She had not the faintest idea of what he was saying, but she felt vaguely annoyed by his persistency. Presently these words filtered through to her brain:

“Say yes, Cleone! Say yes! Oh, say yes, Cleone!” How importunate he was! Cleone turned impatiently. “Oh, yes, yes! What is it?”

As James had been blurting out a carefully-worded proposal of marriage, he was not flattered by this answer. He rose, hurt to the bottom of his youthful soul. “It is evident that you have not heard a word of what I said, Cleone!”

“Oh, don’t worry me, James! I’ve said yes. What is it? You are so persistent, and I wish to be

quiet!”

James bowed.

“I will leave you, madam. I offered you my hand and my heart.” With that he walked off, a picture of outraged dignity.

Cleone broke into hysterical laughter. Up came Sir Deryk. “You seem vastly entertained, lady fair. May I share the pleasantry?” Cleone sprang up.

“Take me away from this!” she begged. “I—I am nigh fainting from the heat! I—oh, I must be quiet! The fiddling goes through and through my head. I—oh, take me somewhere cool!” Sir Deryk was surprised, but he did not show it.

“Why, of course, dearest! I know of a small withdrawing-room nearby. Take my arm; it’s stifling in here!” He led her across the room to where a heavy curtain hung, shutting off a small, dimly-lighted apartment

Meanwhile Philip had gone to Lady Malmerstoke’s side. He sat down, frowning gloomily. Her ladyship eyed him speculatively.

“Well?” she demanded.

Philip laughed bitterly.

“Oh, I have been rebuffed! Do I conceal it so admirably?”

“No, you do not,” said her ladyship. “You must have played your cards monstrously badly. Trust a man.”

“Oh, no! ’Tis merely that your niece does not love me.” “Fiddle! Don’t tell me that. D’you think I’m a fool, Philip?” “She objects, madam, to my—tarnished reputation. She was quite final.” “You thought she was quite final. Now, don’t be stately, child! What happened?” “I asked her to marry me—and she flung my wretched Paris affaires in my face.” “Of course, you denied everything?”

“No, I did not. How could I? There was a certain measure of tr—” Lady Malmerstoke leant back disgustedly.

           
“God preserve me from young men! You admitted it?” “No—that is, I was frank with her.”

“Great heavens, Philip! Frank with a woman? God help you, then! And what next? Did you tell Cleone not to be a fool? Did you insist that she should listen to you?” “How could I? She—”

“You didn’t You walked off when you should have mastered her. I’ll wager my best necklet she was waiting for you to assert yourself. And now she’s probably miserable. Serve her right, and you too.”

“But, Lady Malmerstoke—”

“Not but what I don’t sympathise with the child,” continued her ladyship inexorably. “Of course, she is a fool, but so are all girls. A woman of my age don’t inquire too closely into a man’s past—we’ve learned wisdom. Cleone knows that you have trifled with a dozen other women. Bless you, she don’t think the worse of you for that!”

“She does! She said—”

“For goodness’ sake, don’t try to tell me what she said, Philip! What’s that to do with it?” “But you don’t understand! Cleone said—”

“So she may have. That does not mean that she meant it, does it?” asked her ladyship in great scorn.

“Mais—”

“Don’t start talking French at me, child, for I can’t bear it! You should know by now that no woman means what she says when it’s to a man.”

“Oh, stop, stop! Lady Malmerstoke, you don’t understand! Cleone does think the worse of me for those intrigues! She is very angry!”

“Of course she is. What do you expect.”

Philip clasped his head.

“Mais, voyons! Just now you said that she does not think the worse of me for it!” “Who said she did? Can’t one think two things at the same time?” “But surely not two such—such contradictory things! I have never done so in my life!” “You! You’re only a man! You’ve not our gifts! I can tell you!” My lady spread out her fan. “Why, a woman can think of a hundred different things at once, all of them contradictory.” She nodded at him complacently.

“It’s ridiculous! It’s impossible! Are women’s brains so—so incoherent?” “Most of ’em,” answered her ladyship. “They jump, you see.” “Jump?” Philip was thoroughly bewildered.

“Jump. From one thing to another. You’ll arrive at a new thought by degrees, and you’ll know how you got there. Women don’t think like that. Cleone could not tell you why she thinks well and ill of you at once, but she does.”

“But surely if she reasons with herself she’ll see how absurd—” “If she what?”

“Reasons. I mean—

“You’re mad,” said Lady Malmerstoke with conviction. “Women don’t reason. That’s a man’s part. Why, do you suppose that if Cleone thought as you think, and had a brain like a man’s, you’d be in love with her? Of course you’d not. You’d not be able to feel your superiority over her. Don’t tell me!”

“I don’t feel—”

Her ladyship chuckled.

“Oh, don’t you, Philip? You think that Clo is reasonable-minded, and able to care for herself, needing no master?”

“I—no, I don’t.”

“That’s what I say. Goodness me, how blind you are! If you didn’t consider that you had to care for Cleone and guard her from everyone else and herself, you wouldn’t love her. Now don’t be foolish!”

Philip laughed ruefully.

“You’re a fount of wisdom, Lady Sally!”

“Well, I should be at my age. I’ve had experience, you see, and I never was a fool.” “Then—tell me what I am to do?”

Lady Malmerstoke wagged an impressive finger at him.

“Take that girl and shake her. Tell her you’ll not be flouted. Tell her she’s a little fool, and kiss her. And if she protests, go on kissing her. Dear me, what things I do say!” “Yes, but, dear Lady Sally, how am I to kiss her when she’s as cold as ice—and—and so unapproachable?”

“And why is she cold?” said her ladyship. “Tell me that!” “Because she—thinks me naught but an elegant trifler!”

“Not a bit of it. Because you treat her gently and politely, and let her flout you. God bless my soul, women don’t want gentle politeness! Not Cleone, at all events. They like a man to be brutal!”

“Brutal?”

“Well, not exactly. They like to feel he’ll stand no airs and graces. Oh, they want gentleness, never fear! But they want to feel helpless. They want mastering, most of ’em. When you kiss the tips of Clo’s fingers, and treat her as though you thought she was made o’ porcelain, she thinks you’re no man, and don’t care for her.”