“But why not black shirts for English Fascists?” Rendell demanded.
“Because England creates its own emblems—it does not import them. My private theory is that English Fascists will wear boiled shirts. In fact, I’m certain they will. The Boiled Shirts! A Middle-Class Militant Movement to Crush Bolshevism. Imagine that, my good Rendell. A chance for the bourgeois to die in evening dress. The Boiled Shirt would be a real national symbol. It would signify Middle Class Social Snobbery, the Public School Spirit, Playing the Game, and all the rest of it. Labour members would rush to join. It will be an inspiring spectacle—the Back Bones of England in Boiled Shirts.”
“That’s very amusing, Wrayburn, and now——”
“Before you go,” Wrayburn cut in, startling Rendell by this anticipation of what he had been about to say, “you may have wondered why I gave no sign of recognition when Rosalie Vivian came into your room yesterday.”
“I did think it odd, because I knew you had met her.”
“I guessed she did not want the others to know that she had come to inquire about Trent.”
“But—but——” Rendell began, greatly perplexed.
“It was also obvious that she had called to inquire before—and had made herself known to you. Otherwise the servant would not have announced her as a lady to see you.”
“You’re uncannily quick about some things, Wrayburn.”
“People who live on a tight-rope have to be quick, as you call it. You can explain to her, if you like, though I am completely indifferent as to that.”
Rendell rose.
“You’re going now?”
“Yes,” Rendell replied, “I think I ought to get along.”
Wrayburn hesitated, then asked in a tone of measured precision:
“Do you think you might walk some of the way to Potiphar Street?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought of it. But I’ve no objection. I’d rather like some air.”
“Then I think I’ll come, too.”
“Of course. Why not?”
They put on their overcoats, then went down the gloomy stairs in silence. Directly they reached the street, however, Wrayburn began a long and intricate account of how he was postponing his next bout with the world until the last possible moment.
He walked with Rendell till they were within a short distance of Potiphar Street. Then he said good night and left him.
Rendell had gone perhaps fifty yards when he felt a hand on his arm. As he had not heard anyone behind him, he started violently, then came to a standstill.
It was Wrayburn.
“I only wanted to know whether you’ve been bored. You haven’t? You’re certain? That’s all right then—that’s all right.”
V
It was Rendell’s custom to glance at the envelopes of his letters during breakfast, but not to open them till it was over. Then he would light a cigarette and give them all his attention.
On the morning following his visit to Wrayburn he received more letters than usual. He turned them over, guessing their contents, as most of them had been forwarded either from the club or his office. But there was an exception, and it baffled him.
He studied it minutely, but this scrutiny only convinced him that the handwriting was unknown. Had he seen it before, he would not have forgotten it—of that he was certain. It was a sensitive, nervous hand—the epitome of a personality.
He stood the letter against the sugar-basin, then propped The Times in front of him, intending to read it while he breakfasted. But, more than once, his attention reverted to the envelope till, finally, he left the leading article unfinished and speculated concerning his unknown correspondent. Arriving at no conclusion, he finished the meal abruptly, lit a cigarette, and opened the letter.
It was from Rosalie Vivian.
He found it necessary to read it twice in order to master its brief contents, for the satisfaction created by hearing from her so dominated the first reading that it dulled his understanding.
At last he put the letter down. She wanted to see him, but could not come again to Potiphar Street. Hence she asked him to go to her hotel in Knightsbridge that afternoon. If he did not telephone, she would expect him.
The inner satisfaction created by this request not only surprised Rendell, it also made him realise how persistently Rosalie had haunted his thoughts since their first meeting. Simultaneously, he discovered that the prospect of seeing her had transformed the day. The tentative arrangements he had made shrivelled to insignificance. Also, for the first time for nearly a year, he gave a thought to his clothes.
Nevertheless, these reactions disturbed him. It was true that Rosalie stimulated him, that even the thought of her quickened his imagination, but it was also true that he was slightly afraid of her. She was like a magnificent creature in a cage. He admired her, pitied her—but the thought of sharing her captivity alarmed him.
He began to pace up and down the room, surprised by the nature and intensity of his thoughts. Then, suddenly, he remembered a sentence Wrayburn had said to him the night before.
“Probably you’ll marry again—but it will be a dangerous sort of affair this time.”
Rendell came to a standstill, then stabbed his cigarette to death in an ash-tray.
“I’ll have to take a pull on myself,” he announced angrily. “I’m losing balance. Damn it, I’ll become as queer as the people I’m meeting if I’m not careful.”
He arrived at Rosalie’s hotel soon after three-thirty. He had some difficulty in finding it, as it was off the main thoroughfare and had rather a narrow entrance. He passed through a courtyard, then paused—aware of the presence of the unfamiliar. The quiet of seclusion surrounded him.
“Clever of her to find this,” he said to himself, “I’d never heard of it.”
Directly he gave his name at the bureau, a page was summoned, and he was conducted to a lift, which deposited him on the third floor. Then he went down a broad, thickly-carpeted corridor till the page stopped at a door and knocked.
She rose to greet him as he entered a small round-shaped room, the intimate atmosphere of which surprised him. The means by which she had imposed her individuality on it escaped his masculine intelligence. He was aware only of the result. The curtains were drawn, but concealed lighting softly illuminated the room.
“I have shut out the day, I hope you don’t mind,” then, noticing his interest, she added: “You like the room?”
“You might have been here for years.”
He sat down, then made a number of commonplace remarks, to which she did not reply. Rendell, too, was only dimly aware of their purport, for his essential attention was occupied wholly with her appearance.
Till now, he had seen her only in outdoor clothes, and the absence of hat, fur coat, and gloves seemed to intensify the disturbing element in her beauty. Also, for the first time, Rendell became aware of her figure. It was lithe, perfectly proportioned, and sensitive to a degree so removed from his experience that only an extravagant comparison seemed appropriate. It suggested an instrument fashioned to transmit an unknown music. Her black clothes emphasised the pallor and frailty of her features. But, in repose, no less than in animation, an aura of intensity invested her. The unexpected seemed imminent in her presence.
Rendell’s commonplace chatter flickered out, and he felt—and looked—embarrassed.
“There ought to be more people like you,” she said slowly in her rich deep voice.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“It was imaginative of you to talk about the weather—to say the hotel was quiet—that it was clever of me to find it. It was your way of telling me that, if I wished, this meeting could be formal—unlike those at Potiphar Street.”