Chapter 35: In the Lady’s Chamber

Miss Arnott was restless. She had to entertain her two self-invited guests--Mr Stacey and Mr Gilbert, and she was conscious that while she was entertaining them, each, in his own fashion, was examining her still. It was a curious dinner which they had together, their hostess feeling, rightly or wrongly, that the most dire significance was being read into the most commonplace remarks. If she smiled, she feared they might think her laughter forced; if she was grave, she was convinced that they were of opinion that it was because she had something frightful on her mind. Mr Stacey made occasional attempts to lighten the atmosphere, but, at the best of times, his touch was inclined to be a heavy one; then all his little outbursts of gaiety--or what he meant for gaiety--seemed to be weighted with lead. Mr Gilbert was frankly saturnine. He seemed determined to say as little as he possibly could, and to wing every word he did utter with a shaft of malice or of irony. Especially was he severe on Mr Stacey’s spasmodic efforts at the promotion of geniality.

Miss Arnott arrived at two conclusions; one being that he didn’t like her, and the other that she didn’t like him. How correct she was in the first instance may be judged from some remarks which were exchanged when--after the old fashion--she had left them alone together to enjoy a cigarette over their cups of coffee, the truth being that she felt she must be relieved from the burden of their society for, at anyrate, some minutes.

Mr Stacey commenced by looking at his companion as if he were half-doubtful, half-amused.

“Gilbert, you don’t seem disposed to be talkative.”

The reply was curt and to the point.

“I’m not.”

“Nor, if you will forgive my saying so, do you seem inclined to make yourself peculiarly agreeable to our hostess.”

Mr Gilbert surveyed the ash which was on the tip of his cigar. His words were pregnant with meaning.

“Stacey, I can’t stand women.”

With Mr Stacey amusement was getting the upper hand.

“Does that apply to women in general or to this one in particular?”

“Yes to both your questions. I don’t wish to be rude to your ward or to my hostess, but the girl’s a fool.”

“Gilbert!”

“So she is, like the other representatives of her sex. She’s another illustration of the eternal truth that a woman can’t walk alone; she can’t. In consequence she’s got herself into the infernal muddle she has done. The first male who, so to speak, got within reach of her, took her by the scruff of the neck, and made her keep step with him. He happened to be a scamp, so there’s all this to do. It constantly is like that. Most women are like mirrors--mere surfaces on which to reflect their owners; and when their owners take it into their heads to smash the mirrors, why, they’re smashed. When I think of what an ass this young woman has made of herself and others, merely because she’s a woman, and therefore couldn’t help it, something sticks in my throat. I can’t be civil to her; it’s no use trying. I want to get in touch with something vertebrate: I can’t stand molluscs.”

Under the circumstances it was not strange that matters in the drawing-room were no more lively than they had been at dinner. So Miss Arnott excused herself at what she considered to be the earliest possible moment and went to bed.

At least she went as far as her bedroom. She found Evans awaiting her. A bed was made up close to her own, all arrangements were arranged to keep watch and ward over her through the night.

“Evans,” she announced, “I’ve come to bed.”

“Have you, miss? It’s early--that is, for you.”

“If you’d spent the sort of evening I have you’d have come early to bed. Evans, I want to tell you something.”

“Yes, miss; what might it be?”

“Don’t you ever take it for granted that, because a man’s clever at one thing, he’s clever, or the least bit of good, at anything else.”

“I’m afraid, miss, that I don’t understand.”

“Then I’ll make you understand, before I’ve done with you; you’re not stupid. I feel that before I even try to close my eyes I must talk to some rational being, so I’ll talk to you.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“There’s a Mr Gilbert downstairs.”

“Yes, miss, I’ve heard of him.”

“He’s supposed to be a famous criminal lawyer; perhaps you’ve heard that too. I’m told that he’s the cleverest living, and, I daresay, he’s smart enough in his own line. But out of it--such clumsiness, such stupidity, such conceit, such manners--oh, Evans! I once heard a specialist compared to a dog which is kept chained to its kennel; within the limits of its chain that dog has an amazing knowledge of the world. I suppose Mr Gilbert is a specialist. He knows everything within the limits of his chain. But, though he mayn’t be aware of it--and he isn’t--his chain is there! And now, Evans, having told you what I wished to tell you, I’m going to bed.”