If any woman in this world could keep him to the mark, she could, continued Mrs. Ferrall. Hes a perfect fool not to see how she cares for him.
Sylvia said: He is indeed.
It would be a sensible match, if she cared to risk it, and if he would only ask her. But he wont.
Perhaps, ventured Sylvia, shell ask him. She strikes me as that sort. I do not mean it unkindlyonly Marion is so tailor-made and cigaretteful
Mrs. Ferrall looked up at her.
Did he propose to you?
YesI think so.
Then its the first time for him. He finds women only too willing to play with him as a rule, and he doesnt have to be definite. I wonder what he meant by being so definite with you?
I suppose he meant marriage, said Sylvia serenely; yet there was the slightest ring in her voice; and it amused Mrs. Ferrall to try her a little further.
Oh, you think he really intended to commit himself?
Why not? retorted Sylvia, turning red. Do you think he found me over-willing, as you say he finds others?
You were probably a new sensation for him, inferred Mrs. Ferrall musingly. You mustnt take him seriously, childa man with his record. Besides, he has the same facility with a girl that he has with everything else he tries; his penyou know how infernally clever he is; and he can make good verse, and write witty jingles, and he can carry home with him any opera and play it decently, too, with the proper harmonies. Anything he finds amusing he is clever withdogs, horses, pen, brush, music, womenthat was too malicious, for Sylvia had flushed up painfully, and Grace Ferrall dropped her gloved hand on the hand of the girl beside her: Child, child, she said, he is not that sort; no decent man ever is unless the girl is too.
Sylvia, sitting up very straight in her furs, said: He found me anything but difficultif thats what you mean.
I dont. Please dont be vexed, dear. I plague everybody when I see an opening. Theres really only one thing that worries me about it all.
What is that? asked Sylvia without interest.
Its that you might be tempted to care a little for him, which, being useless, might be unwise.
I am tempted.
Not seriously!
I dont know. She turned in a sudden nervous impatience foreign to her. Howard Quarrier is too perfectly imperfect for me. Im glad Ive said it. The things he knows about and doesnt know have been a revelation in this last week with him. There is too much surface, too much exterior admirably fashioned. And inside is all clock-work. Ive said it; Im glad I have. He seemed different at Newport; he seemed nice at Lenox. The truth is, hes a horrid disappointmentand Im bored to death at my brilliant prospects.
The low whizzing hum of the motor filled a silence that produced considerable effect upon Grace Ferrall. And, after mastering her wits, she said in a subdued voice:
Of course its my meddling.
Of course it isnt. I asked your opinion, but I knew what I was going to do. Only, I did think him personally possiblewhich made the expediency, the mercenary view of it easier to contemplate.
She was becoming as frankly brutal as she knew how to be, which made the revolt the more ominous.
You dont think you could endure him for an hour or two a day, Sylvia?
It is not that, said the girl almost sullenly.
But
Im afraid of myselfcall it inherited mischief if you like! If I let a man do to me what Mr. Siward did when I was only engaged to Howard, what might I do
You are not that sort! said Mrs. Ferrall bluntly. Dont be exotic, Sylvia.
How do you knowif I dont know? Most girls are kissed; Iwell I didnt expect to be. But I was! I tell you, Grace, I dont know what I am or shall be. Im unsafe; I know that much.
Its moral and honest to realize it, said Mrs. Ferrall suavely; and in doing so you insure your own safety. Sylvia dear, I wish I hadnt meddled; Im meddling some more I suppose when I say to you, dont give Howard his congé for the present. It is a horridly common thing to dwell upon, but Howard is too materially important to be cut adrift on the impulse of the moment.
I know it.
You are too clever not to. Consider the matter wisely, dispassionately, intelligently, dear; then if by April you simply cant stand ittalk the thing over with me again, she ended rather vaguely and wistfully; for it had been her hearts desire to wed Sylvias beauty and Quarriers fortune, and the suitability of the one for the other was apparent enough to make even sterner moralists wobbly in their creed. Quarrier, as a detail of modern human architecture, she supposed might fit in somewhere, and took that for granted in laying the corner stone for her fairy palace which Sylvia was to inhabit. And now!oh, vexation!the neglected but essentially constructive detail of human architecture had buckled, knocking the dream palace and its princess and its splendour about her ears.
Things never happen in real life, she observed plaintively; only romances have plots where things work out. But we people in real life, we just go on and on in a badly constructed, plotless sort of way with no villains, no interesting situations, no climaxes, no ensemble. No, we grow old and irritable and meaner and meaner; we lose our good looks and digestions, and we die in hopeless discord with the unity required in a dollar and a half novel by a master of modern fiction.
But some among us amass fortunes, suggested Sylvia, laughing.
But we dont live happy ever after. Nobody ever had enough money in real life.
Some fall in love, observed Sylvia, musing.
And they are not content, silly!
Why? Because nobody ever had enough love in real life, mocked Sylvia.
You have said it, child. That is the malady of the world, and nobody knows it until some pretty ninny like you babbles the truth. And that is why we care for those immortals in romance, those fortunate lovers who, in fable, are given and give enough of love; those magic shapes in verse and tale whose hearts are satisfied when the mad author of their being inks his last period and goes to dinner.
Sylvia laughed awhile, then, chin on wrist, sat musing there, muffled in her furs.
As for love, I think I should be moderate in the asking, in the giving. A littleto flavour routinewould be sufficient for me I fancy.
You know so much about it, observed Mrs. Ferrall ironically.
I am permitted to speculate, am I not?
Certainly. Only speculate in sound investments, dear.
How can you make a sound investment in love? Isnt it always sheerest speculation?
Yes, that is why simple matrimony is usually a safer speculation than love.
Yes, butlove isnt matrimony.
Match that with its complementary platitude and you have the essence of modern fiction, observed Mrs. Ferrall. Love is a subject talked to death, which explains the present shortage in the market I suppose. Youre not in love and you dont miss it. Why cultivate an artificial taste for it? If it ever comes naturally, youll be astonished at your capacity for it, and the constant deterioration in quantity and quality of the visible supply. Goodness! my epigrams make me yawnor is it age and the ill humour of the aged when the porridge spills over on the family cat?
I am the cat, I suppose, asked Sylvia, laughing.
Yes you areand you go tearing away, back up, fur on end, leaving me by the fire with no porridge and only the aroma of the singeing fur to comfort me.... Still theres one thing to comfort me.
What?
Kitty-cats come back, dear.
Oh, I suppose so.... Do you believe I could induce him to wear his hair any way except pompadour? and, dear, his beard is so dreadfully silky. Isnt there anything he could take for it?
Only a razor Im afraid. Those long, thick, soft, eyelashes of his are ominous. Eyes of that sort ruin a man for my taste. He might just as reasonably wear my hat.
But he cant follow the fashions in eyes, laughed Sylvia. Oh, this is atrocious of usit is simply horrible to sit here and say such things. I am cold-blooded enough as it ismaterial enough, mean, covetous, contemptible
Dear! said Grace Ferrall mildly, you are not choosing a husband; you are choosing a career. To criticise his investments might be bad taste; to be able to extract what amusement you can out of Howard is a direct mercy from Heaven. Otherwise youd go mad, you know.