The Pest 29
She had taken the precaution of telegraphing the hour of return, so
found tea waiting ready for her, and the rooms looking very cozy. There
were a few letters, bills chiefly, which might wait, as she didn’t want
to bother Maddison with them just at once, and the dressmaker’s was for
a considerable sum. Also a note from Geraldstein asking her to dine with
him, curiously enough, this very evening; he would call for her at
half-past seven, if he did not hear to the contrary.
Should she accept? He had asked her once before, but she had refused,
chiefly because he appeared to be so assured that she would accept.
Something in his dogged sensuality appealed to her; of course,
acceptance would be taken by him, and must be meant by her, as the first
sign of capitulation on her part, though she had no intention whatever
of surrendering at once, if at all. The thought of West gave her pause.
Geraldstein would leave and forget her very quickly—variety was the
essence of his pleasures. West, if she secured him, might be a lifelong
friend—but—was not variety growing to be a fascination to her? West
was at Brighton—she would run the risk.
Geraldstein was shown into the drawing room, being told that Mrs. Squire
would not keep him waiting more than a few minutes. An incredulous smile
flitted across his heavy face, as he glanced impatiently at the clock,
which pointed exactly to the half hour.
“It’s lucky,” he thought, as he lit a cigarette, “that we want women for
pleasure, not for business. Time means nothing to them.”
He picked up the bills which Marian had left lying upon the mantelpiece,
and looked at them quizzically. Then he glanced at a photograph of
Maddison, and wondered how long the painter chap would be able to stand
the racket. After a moment’s hesitation, he folded up the dressmaker’s
account, and put it in his pocket. There was nothing else in the room
that had any interest for him, save that he glanced at the music on the
piano, and was surprised to find that it was not music-hall or musical
comedy songs. Most of these women were such coarse brutes; there was
something piquant and appetizing about Marian’s daintiness and culture.
She came quickly in, with a pretty plea for forgiveness.
“You’ve only kept me three minutes, but it seemed like an hour,” said
Geraldstein restraining himself by an effort from giving way to the
strong impulse to take her in his arms. “You’re evidently not an
epicure, or you would know what a crime it is to keep dinner even three
minutes late. However, with luck and a good horse we shall be in good
time. I’ve booked my pet corner table at Goldoni’s, my pet waiter,
ordered my pet dinner and my pet wine—all—in honor of you. Have you
ever been to Goldoni’s?”
“Never; I’ve only heard wonderful tales of it—fairy tales, I always
thought them.”
“Well, come along to fairyland.”
The few who can afford to dine at Goldoni’s seldom care to dine
elsewhere, or rather when they are elsewhere they sigh for Goldoni’s.
Marian was curious to see for herself what manner of place was this
famous restaurant, and was duly grateful to Geraldstein for taking her
there; she had feared that he might choose one of the less reputable
haunts of merriment by night, which in his company might have proved
distasteful.
Everything at Goldoni’s is refined except the company, which has but one
common virtue, money. Outwardly, however, even the most gross conduct
themselves there in seemly fashion. On one occasion only it had not been
so, and the peccant guest had been politely but firmly refused a table
when next he had desired to dine there. The warning had acted
efficaciously and at the same time had vastly enhanced the renown of the
place. With the exception that instead of one large there are many small
tables in the dining room the effect aimed at and achieved is that of a
wealthy private house; in fact, it is a private house in every way;
there is no sign above the ordinary hall door, sedate green with
ponderous brass knocker. Faultless footmen relieve the men of their
coats and hats, and then usher them into the fine reception room where
they wait for the ladies who are being attended by equally faultless
maidservants. The dining room is a long, finely proportioned room,
broken into halves by two graceful pillars; the fireplaces are
exquisitely designed—the whole indeed is an admirable example of Adam’s
best work. Along the top of the cornice, hidden from sight, runs a row
of electric lamps by which, reflected from the ceiling, a cool light is
shed on the apartment. The table appointments are perfectly simple, just
those of any rich and refined household, and the attendance is—silent.
For the cooking and the wines, “they are not perfection,” M. Goldoni
frankly admits, adding: “but we strive after it.”
Though Geraldstein was not personally acquainted with any of the other
diners, he knew many of them by sight and reputation.
“There—you see that thin little man over there, with the full-blown
wife and half-ripe daughters—that’s Markham, the American millionaire,
who has more money and less digestion than any man in the world. He
never eats anything but peptonized biscuit and drinks warm water.”
“Why does he come here, then?”
“To see and be seen. One of the girls—the least unripe—is engaged to
Lord Kent. That woman at the next table to us is a mystery; nobody seems
to know for certain who she is, whether she’s a Russian spy, or the
natural daughter of a Grand Duke—or both, or neither.”
Geraldstein chatted while Marian quietly but entirely enjoyed herself.
There was a spice in the knowledge that her companion admired her, and
that, boor as he was in many ways, he was sufficiently refined to
appreciate her and to like to see her in a worthy setting. Her costume
became her, was a perfect support to her beauty; the luxury around
pleased her; for the time being she was content, and she did not permit
any doubt of the future to depreciate the sure delights of the present.
The wine Geraldstein had chosen was one of those Bordeaux for which M.
Goldoni’s cellar is far famed; a mellow, tender wine, whose subtle
flavor passes like the vanishing of a dream, an innocent wine to the
taste, but insidious, full of the warmth and languor of the sunshine
that ripened the grapes from which it is crushed. Marian drank it
slowly, fully appreciative; it fired her blood, brought added color to
her cheeks and softness to her eyes. The subdued hum of conversation,
the quiet light, the silent waiters, the delicious flavor of the foods,
the wine—induced a gentle intoxication and a sense of unreality. She
scarcely heard half of what Geraldstein said to her. After a while he
too became almost silent, watching her with ever-increasing delight in
her beauty.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked by and by.
“Very much. Did you think I wasn’t because I didn’t talk? I am enjoying
myself—very much. I’d heard a lot about Goldoni’s, but it’s even better
than they said it was. Everything’s puffect, so are most of the people.
What a lovely woman that is—nearly opposite me—with the black hair and
eyes.”
“That’s the Duchess of Bermondsey and the Duke. They’re a regular young
Darby and Joan, always together and always looking happy.”
“Perhaps they are happy——”
“Why not? There are many varieties of happiness. I was amused looking
over a woman’s confession-book once, to find that no two of her friends
had—or confessed to having—exactly the same idea of happiness. I
wonder what yours is?”
She turned quickly to him, his question jarring on her present mood.
“I’m a woman and change my mind every five minutes.”
“But _now_,” he persisted. “If I could satisfy any wish you had—what
would you wish?”
“I don’t wish for anything—I’m quite content.”
“Quite content? That means you’re miserable. Life wouldn’t be worth
living if there wasn’t something left we want and can’t have. I always
seem to be wanting something. I shall look on it as a sign of old age
when I begin to be content. That’s the one drawback to this place—it’s
perfect. There’s only one perfection I’ve ever found that I wouldn’t
have altered.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
“What an elaborately led-up-to compliment!” Marian said, laughing
consciously. “How often has it done duty? Do you pay it to everyone who
dines with you here?”
“Not—quite everyone,” replied Geraldstein, who behind his exterior
heaviness hid a diplomatic readiness, which was sometimes near akin to
wit. “No, I haven’t used it for a long time. Not since I met you.”
“Not since you met me?”
“No, for you’ve altered my standard of perfection.”
“That’s very nice, but perhaps that’s been said before too?”
“I don’t remember saying it to anyone else. But are you quite fair? If I
didn’t do homage you would think me a fool, and when I do you call me a
frivol. It’s not much of a choice for a fellow, is it? Ah! Happy
interlude! Coffee. Goldoni’s coffee, and Goldoni’s _fine champagne_, I
give you no choice. And a cigarette? It is allowed.”
Marian leaned back in her chair, supremely content; lazily happy, idly
watching the other diners, satisfied with herself, kindly disposed even
to her host.
“I hope you don’t mind my not having asked anyone else,” he said after a
while. “I knew how much more I should enjoy myself this way, and—I’m
nothing if not selfish. Have you enjoyed yourself?”
“Need you ask? Can’t you see?” she replied, looking at him with
half-closed eyes. “It seems like a dream—don’t wake me from it.”
“Don’t let us wake from it till—to-morrow.”
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