EUSTACE, unshorn and unshaven, banged out the last word of his novel, tore the page from the typewriter and flung it to the floor. Then he hit his machine a blow with his fist, rattled the case over it, and swinging about in his chair, scowled at the scattered manuscript. He gave full rein to his temperament when writing a book in the seclusion of his chambers and bore little resemblance to the Eustace Bylant known to his world.
He had begun his novel in Atlantic City, but interruptions had been frequent and interests conflicting; he had confined himself to a rough draft, working only at night and not vitally interested. But he had plunged into it as a beneficent refuge the day after he found himself shut up in this narrow house with Gita; and as art had been his queen-mistress for so many years, she showed but a few days of coyness before remounting her throne. His theme had not only absorbed but exhausted him. A cold shower and he was ready to meet Gita at the table or sit with her in that austere living-room of hers during the evening with nerves that longed only for rest. They rarely met before dinner, for he rose at nine and worked until four, and on what he called his off-days he went to a gymnasium, played golf, or took a long walk in the country. This last week the pace had been terrific and he had barely left his rooms.
He hardly knew whether he loved his book or hated it. He always finished a novel with regret, and this assuredly had been a friend in need! But his nerves were jumping and his violated ego clamored for utterance.
He gathered up the sheets resentfully. Why hadn’t he spun it out? Made it a third longer? Even now he might pad it, dazzling both critics and public with pyrotechnical brilliancy. But he shrugged impatiently. He was an artist and incapable of crime. Perhaps he was more artist than man. He wished to God he were.
He took a hot bath and cold shower, and not daring to trust his unsteady hands, slipped out of the house and went to his barber. An hour later he was sauntering up Fifth Avenue to one of his clubs, cool, aloof, immaculately groomed, the frenetic artist submerged in the man of the world. This club, of which he was a member almost by inheritance, always called him at the end of an intellectual orgy. The reaction from the long strain was apt to be sharp and violent and it was some time before he cared even to lunch at The Sign of the Indian Chief, where the sophisticates foregathered and had created something resembling a salon. A woman novelist once told him that as soon as she finished a book she hastily adjusted her feminine wings and flew to the shops. His reaction was not dissimilar and he moved automatically toward men who hardly knew him as a novelist and were quietly amused by the word temperament.
At half-past seven he met Gita in the Brittany drawing-room and gallantly raised her hand to his lips.
“I feel as if I had just risen from the dead,” he said, smiling, “and had ascended not to earth but to a vision of paradise.”
“Nice to hear your pretty compliments again, dear Eustace, and nicer still to have you back. But you look rather fagged—must have been working frightfully hard.”
“Pegging away like an old cart-horse, but the job’s finished, thank heaven. A week or two of polishing and then nothing more arduous than proofs to correct.”
“I’d love to help you with them.”
“Well, you shall. We’ll be over at the manor then and I’ll really see something of you once more. Have we anything on tonight?”
“Music at the Pleydens’. I hope you’re not too tired to go? I dared not accept for dinner but promised Mrs. Pleyden I’d bring you later if it were humanly possible.”
His sigh of relief was inaudible. He meant to woo her and win her but he was very tired and a part of his brain still reverberated to the echoes of his creative energies. “Nothing would give me more pleasure than an evening of music except to dine alone with you and enjoy a good dinner once more. By the time a tray reaches the third floor things are lukewarm and tasteless. Shall we go in?”
The long narrow dining-room was at the front of the house, rather somber, with its tapestries and Jacobean furniture, but lit with long red candles as slender as reeds. Topper had been left in charge of the manor and they were served by a trim maid. Gita, at the head of the table in a shining yellow gown with a jeweled sunflower (Bylant’s wedding-gift) at her breast, was a grateful and refreshing figure after his incarceration, and he felt as he would toward any beautiful woman who had never stirred his pulses; although they talked of intimate things. Gita purred like a contented house-cat restored to the warmth of the hearthstone, her eyes dwelling affectionately on the bland and hungry gentleman opposite.
“You’ve no idea how I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed as their eyes met and smiled. “But of course you forgot my existence.”
“Ah—well, I must be rude and confess that I did. But I am sure you understand.”
“Of course I do. And I never resented it even when I wanted to talk to you more than anything else in the world.”
“I once told you that you would make a model wife—and, I remember, you retorted that you hated the word, and substituted partner.”
“Oh, I’m used to hearing myself called your wife and don’t mind a bit. Words only mean what you put into them, anyhow. To most foreigners, for instance, all our words mean nothing.”
“Quite true. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Lunching with Polly at some restaurant in Park Avenue or with Elsie at The Sign of the Indian Chief, or with both of them here; going to the opera, matinées, concerts, parties, dinners, walking, shopping—getting summer things—enjoying myself every minute.”
“Not a bit tired of this gay life?”
“Rather not. But I’ll be glad to get back to the manor.”
“I suppose you intend to have house-parties?”
“I should think so! Dozens have promised to come.”
“Wouldn’t you like to be quiet for a while?”
Gita shook her head. “No, and you wouldn’t, either. You never look as much at home as at a party.”
“But it would be a delightful change to have you to myself for a bit—say a month.”
“ ’Fraid we’d get talked out and bore each other, but a week between each party would strike a happy medium. I never intend to give you a chance to tire of me.” And she gave him a dazzling smile.
He made the proper gallant retort, and asked, “What time do we show up at the Pleydens’?”
“Ten-thirty. You’ve just time for a cigar in my ark. I simply long to see you in your chair again. It’s over a fortnight since you paid me a call.”