ELSIE, after a long and sweeping talk with Polly Pleyden, accepted the invitation. Both agreed that Eustace Bylant was the husband for Gita—eventually. And, as it was out of the question for her to live alone any longer, Elsie was the one to clear his path.
“Not that I’ll say a word to her,” said the young author, whose brows still betrayed perplexity. “I told her once I’d never dare meddle with her sex-stream, and I meant it. But if she can fall in love with Eustace it would be an ideal marriage for her. He’s everything she is not, and yet the differences are not the sort that antagonize, but complement. And he’s just the guide she needs—in every way. An impetuous passionate man would repel her from the start. I’ve seen them together once or twice, and I got the impression of a subtle bond between them, quite aside from books, or master and pupil, although, so far, of course, Gita regards him merely as a walking intelligence.”
“Oh, let him do the job,” said Polly lightly. “You just stick round and play long-distance propriety. But if he says anything to you, tell him to go slow. I want to see first what Gita’s like when she’s racketing round with us. . . . But I don’t fancy he’ll rush her. Knows that patience is his long suit. If he loses his head some moonlight night—well! I’d like to be there to see the explosion. He’d probably find himself sitting on the roof. But I fancy he’ll watch out. Must make himself as indispensable and familiar as the old furniture and Topper. And then sort of propose without actually proposing. Get my idea?”
“Oh, yes, I get it!” Elsie gave a faint sigh of envy. This radiant assured young person had evidently never met defeat in her life. But she was the more ready to assist in the achieving of Miss Pleyden’s latest whim because on the only two occasions she had seen her brother since the dinner he had asked abruptly after Gita. He had frowned as if annoyed with himself, no doubt recalling his characteristic remark after he had handed her over to Topper. Probably those black eyes of Gita’s had been haunting him! She could conceive of no bond between those two and was determined they should not meet again if she could prevent it. No doubt Bylant would succeed in his suit before Gita went to New York for the winter. If she knew anything of men he was the sort whose enforced patience would come to an abrupt end when he had accomplished his purpose, and he would marry her at once. But she sighed again. She had had her day-dreams. . . .
She moved over to the manor next day, and, as her novel was hanging fire, she determined to make an experiment. “I know at least one novelist,” she told Gita, “who writes every new book in a new place. Finds that surroundings dissociated from habit stimulate the imagination. So, if you will give me a quiet corner——”
Gita, delighted, gave her a room off the library that had been used as an office by her grandfather, and the experiment was a success. The social gods were placated, Elsie wrote from six until noon, while Gita either amused herself alone, or rode, walked, talked with Eustace Bylant; who was the most complacent of the trio. He never deluded himself that he had struck a spark from his own steady flame, but she depended on him increasingly, she did not wince, at least, if he touched her hand, or shoulder, as they bent together over a book, and he had the field to himself. He knew Polly’s plans but had no intention of considering them. He still had four months, for the Pleydens did not move to New York until January, and he was determined to marry Gita as soon as he had worn down her defenses.
They were strolling on the Boardwalk one Sunday morning after what was known as the “summer crowd”—drawn from every state in the Union—had taken possession of Atlantic City, and commenting on the lack of feminine beauty in the American masses after the mere prettiness of youth had surrendered to an utterly commonplace maturity.
“No wonder the girls come here in the hope of picking up a husband,” said Bylant. “This has always been a great marriage-mart, even in the days when visitors were practically all of one class. Now the opportunities are more casual, but in the big hotels there is dancing every night, girls are bound to meet men, and the number of engagements that come off every year in Atlantic City makes it the goal of all mothers with young daughters, whose social circle is narrow and mainly composed of women.”
He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Gita, who shrugged indifferently.
“Don’t your fellow mortals interest you in the least?” he asked.
“Rather.”
“But not the question of marriage?”
“Not a bit.”
“But would you like to think that all these pretty girls could never find a mate—and fulfil their destiny?”
“I always hope women will get everything they want, and if they are silly enough to want husbands, let ’em have ’em by all means.”
“But my dear Gita, is it possible you don’t realize that woman’s one chance of authentic happiness lies in love and mating?”
“I know they think it does—because they’ve been fed on traditions and are the slaves of custom. They’d be a long sight better off by themselves. Love is nothing but a cherished superstition.”
“Oh, no, it is not! It’s the deepest and most inalienable of human instincts.”
“Instinct is nothing but memory.”
“Possibly. We’ll call it by another term. Imperative impulse. And the sex-impulse has its birth in the generative cells. It has nothing to do with tradition.”
“I know that well enough. But you were talking of love. What has that to do with sex cells?”
“Well! More than you seem to imagine. Do you really believe that love between men and women can exist independently of sex?”
“Of course. Look at me. I love you even more than I do Elsie or Polly, and you might wear a one-piece dress for all the difference it would make.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Bylant, pardonably exasperated, almost struck a child in the face with his stick. “As it happens I don’t wear petticoats——”
“We don’t either. Bloomers.”
“Oh, you are impossible!” But he was forced to laugh. He made his voice gay and challenging. “Suppose I should fall in love with you?”
“I don’t see you falling in love with anybody.”
“You don’t?”
“I’ve seen too much of men. They’re divided into three classes: beasts, fools, and intellectuals. You belong to the last and have a great gift besides. You’ve got something better to do than being an abject slave of the race—for that is what it amounts to—and your emotions are all in your head.”
“And that represents your considered observation of intellectuals! Or are you the average American whose creed is: ‘Things are what I want them to be, not what they are’?”
“Of course not,” said Gita crossly. “I wouldn’t recognize the beastliness and stupidity of human nature and of life if I were. But you are as cold-blooded as a codfish and I shouldn’t like you if you were not.”
Bylant nearly strangled as he passed over the diagnosis. “Like? You said just now you loved me.”
“Love only means preference raised a degree higher. Stop arguing on such a silly subject, Eustace. What’s come over you? This is the first time we’ve argued that I haven’t learned something.”
“Well, I’ve taught you nothing on one subject, that’s flat. I merely wanted to sound you out on a topic of somewhat general preoccupation. Your ideas always interest me and you’ve been singularly illuminating this morning. Here’s a tearoom. Shall we go in and have a cup? It’s two hours until luncheon.”