The Pest 29

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.”