GITA had an old habit of reviewing the day as she prepared herself for the night. She and Elsie parted at nine o’clock, for both rose early, and as Gita kicked off her slippers that evening she recalled her conversation with Eustace on the Boardwalk.
She had been by no means as obtuse as she had appeared, for love and marriage were subjects never broached by him before and her keen ear had detected a personal vibration in his even mellow voice. But he had talked lightly or brilliantly on strictly impersonal topics during the rest of the morning, they had lunched at the Pleydens’, and played tennis all afternoon; she had not given that conversation another thought until she was alone in her room.
She seized her military brushes and excoriated her scalp.
“Now, what on earth was he driving at?” she demanded of her frowning reflection in the mirror. “Does he want to marry me? Sounding me out? Well, I hope he’s satisfied. Eustace! What a bore. . . . Or am I to be the heroine of his next novel? More likely.”
She dropped the brushes and fell to pondering. After all, she might have expected it. He was not in love with her—how could he be, sexless intellect that he so marvelously was?—but he had spent the best part of every day with her, taking an indisputable pleasure in her society (and she knew from Polly that his interest in other women had been casual); no doubt he would like to take her on as a permanent companion. She knew that she had an alert and possibly a brilliant mind, untrained as it was, and as he possessed his full share of male egoism, he must derive a tingling satisfaction in molding it. And it was equally manifest that he was stimulated by her Giterish points of view.
She was comparatively obscure now, but she was quite well aware that after she had taken a more prominent place in her world she would be unable to spend hours of every day in one man’s company—year after year. A man to whom she was not even engaged. She would be “talked about,” “dropped,” even in this lenient age. Or if society outwardly condoned the friendship it would not cease from horrible inferences. As Gita’s lively imagination projected them the blood burned all over her body and crimsoned her face to her hair. That would be only less awful than if some man kidnapped her and subjected her to every indignity.
No, she would give him up first.
But what would she do without him?
She had been sincere in her casual assurance that she loved him. After Millicent’s death she had believed she never could love anyone again. But she had been made over in so many ways! She certainly loved Elsie, in a lesser degree Polly; she could have been fond of her grandmother if she had lived a few years longer and been well and companionable. And Eustace. He was the perfect companion and friend. He never struck a false note, he was kind, sympathetic, and understanding—unique among men, she was convinced. He had flashed the torch of his splendid intelligence into every dark recess of her being, and chased out the bogies.
He could not bore if he made a valiant attempt, and he knew when to talk, to listen, and to ask her opinion on subjects of which even she knew more than himself. He never assumed the detestable superiority of the male, and yet was never unmanly. No man could be less so. He was a virile figure on the links and tennis-court, he could outwalk herself, he was a fine swimmer. In France he had served with distinction and she knew that if the peace of his country were threatened again he would be the first to enlist. Even when lounging in the deepest of her chairs or stretched out at full length in the wood he never suggested weakness or inertia.
And his books—she had now read them all—had power in spite of their refinement of phrasing and vocabulary, their supreme mental distinction. He wrote about sex a lot, to be sure, but in the detached manner of a medical student dissecting the physical anatomy. His personal attitude to his characters no reader could guess. He was primarily an intellect handsomely provided by Nature with a sound healthy body that it might send a stream of pure blood to his brain.
In his relations with her he never suggested sex for a moment. Not even this morning. He had been on the psychological hunt as usual. She had encountered the eyes of too many carnalites. Encountered them still.
If he wanted to marry her in order to keep her for himself without scandal, that was natural enough. He had had two perfect comrades in his life, herself and his mother, and as he had lost one irrevocably it was not likely he would lose the other if he could help it.
Nor could she give him up, not even if she were obliged to marry him to save herself from being the object of loathsome suspicions and innuendoes.
Well, why not? The ceremony would be a mere concession to prejudice, and they could go on as they were forever. She would have his protection and companionship, and he would have the one woman in his life who had meant anything to him since Bladina’s death. And be mightily proud of herself besides. She would cultivate the Carteret grand manner and be one more feather in his already decorated cap. He had given her more than one cause for the profoundest gratitude, and it would be her delight to repay him.
She recalled the day when she had sat on the sands after the tilt with her grandmother and reflected that she had not an illusion; and a horror and hatred of life. Well, she still had no illusions but horror and hatred had fled. And although Polly and Elsie had contributed, to him belonged the credit of completing the cure. She was now not happy at intervals but consistently. And satisfied as she was with the present she looked to the future with an eager indubious eye. Under his expert guidance life in all its multiform phases would unroll, for he devoted only his mornings and but eight months of the year to work; and it was quite evident he enjoyed playing his own part in life as well as being one of its chroniclers. And he had every opportunity to live it to the full.
And she, herself, wanted to live, to see all there was to see, learn all there was to know. A girl alone had small chance of that unless she had a gift that brought the world to her feet. If she abandoned her background she became the natural prey of men. She doubted if any man would dare make love to Eustace Bylant’s wife.
She smiled as she thought of Polly, who nonchalantly assumed that no plan of hers could go wrong. She had thought her fatuous, fortunately placed as she was; and here was herself tearing a leaf out of Polly’s book. Well, why not? Life was fairly shoving her at a book with pleasant rustling leaves and bidding her choose.
She determined to put it squarely to Eustace the next time he angled. Have it over. Senseless to fence when the business of life was up for settlement. She’d get more out of life as a married girl than running round with Polly’s crowd, incidentally enlivened with harmless sophisticates. That would be seeing life through the wrong end of an opera-glass.
“So that’s that.” And she climbed into bed and fell asleep at once.