The dinner given by Cornelius Blunn was the most talked-of function of a very brilliant Riviera season. The writing room on the left of the lounge at the Hotel de Paris had been transformed into a private banqueting apartment, at one end of which a small stage had been erected for artists who came from Nice and even Cannes to entertain the guests, and whose fees were a record in munificence. Despite the slight formality of the opening stages of the gathering, owing to the presence of the Scandinavian monarch, the keynote to the whole party seemed to be set and adequately maintained by Blunn himself,—reckless, brilliant lightheartedness. Gertrude sat on his right, jealously watched from across the table by her husband. Grant, with curious disregard for precedence, was seated at her other side. On Blunn’s left was a lady of royal birth, whose exploits had been the talk of Europe,—a woman still beautiful and witty, who was supposed to be devoting the remainder of her years and a portion of her colossal fortune to the entertainment of the monarch who sat on her left. Lord Yeovil, persuaded to be present with great difficulty, at the last moment, was in the vicinity, with the Princess Lutrecht for a neighbour. Several of the Monte Carlo notables in addition to the originally invited guests were present. There was no one there who did not acknowledge the genius of Blunn as a host. Europe had been sought for gastronomic delicacies. Wines were served which had become little more than a memory. The greatest violinist known lifted them all, for a moment, into the rare atmosphere of the world to which he held the pass-key. The most popular humourist in Paris offered the wittiest creations of his brain. The only person who seldom smiled was Gertrude. She had already been accepted in the little principality as the reigning beauty of the season, but her appearance to-night had created a positive sensation. She had justified to the fullest extent the old contention that beauty is not a permanent and unchanging thing, but an effect of chance, an evanescent quality, possessed one minute and gone the next. This might have been the moment of her life. She seemed to carry with her a nameless and unanalysable perfection of grace, of figure,—all those nameless qualities which come so wonderfully to the aid of features not really perfect in form. The violet of her eyes was distracting. Even the slight fatigue which was sometimes apparent in her languid tones seemed to bring her distinction. Susan, at the first sight of her, and more than once since, had been conscious of a little sinking of the heart. It seemed impossible that any man could look at her without desire.
Grant himself was moved by the unfamiliar side of her beauty,—the beauty which, for this one evening, seemed to have taken to itself a certain appeal, a helplessness, a demand for something which perhaps no one else but he could realise. Once or twice, at a whispered word from her, he had felt his pulses leap as in the old days, had felt, indeed, some touch of the old folly back again,—the folly of which he had deemed himself purged. He had permitted himself to think for one moment of a few nights ago when she had stood on the edge of the quay, looking down to the yacht, looking wistfully at the gangplank, passage across which he had so strenuously forbidden. It had been comparatively easy then. He wondered whether any man in the world would have found it easy now.
“Are you quite at your best to-night, Grant, or is it my fancy?” she asked, during a pause in the conversation.
“If I am not,” he rejoined, “it is because you surpass your best.”
Almost for the first time, she laughed happily. There was real meaning in his tone and it was the sort of speech for which she craved.
“You really think that I am looking well to-night? You see, I never know where I am between the two extremes. Ottilie declared that I was a vision of delight. Otto snarled out some-thins: about the Montmartre.”
“It is a most unfortunate circumstance,” Grant declared, “that every day I am learning to dislike your husband more.”
“You may hate him if you want to,” she replied. “I shall not quarrel with you.”
“Well, I hope he is much kinder to you at home than he appears to be in public. I can’t stand the man who scowls at his wife’s beauty because it naturally attracts admiration and doesn’t himself endeavour to offer her his homage.”
“Otto is thoroughly German,” she replied. “Some Englishmen are the same, they say. They buy their wife with their name or money or simulated affection, and when they have her it is finished. She is their chattel, she is their singing bird or dancing girl, to perform for their pleasure. There are times, nowadays,” she went on, “when such methods fail, and they bring disaster. But even then the man is generally selfish and brutal enough to see that some one else shares that disaster.”
Cornelius Blunn leaned a little forward in his place with uplifted glass.
“Before I forget it—Bon Voyage, Mr. Slattery,” he said. “May your trip across the Atlantic provide you with as much amusement as our recent cruise. And may its result be as satisfactory.”
Grant bowed pleasantly and drank.
“I shall miss you all,” he acknowledged, smiling.
Grant saw the white shoulder, so close to him, quiver for a moment,—a queer little habit of hers in times of emotion. She remained silent, however, for some time. Perhaps she knew that her husband’s eyes were upon her, as well as Blunn’s. Under cover of a great chorus of laughter, evoked by one of the latter’s stories, she turned at last to Grant.
“That is just one of the sweet little stabs,” she confided, “which I have learnt to expect. Cornelius has been saving that up for me. I think that you might have spared me the shock.”
“I only made up my mind twelve hours ago,” he assured her. “I can’t imagine how he knew.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I think that I should have been the first to be told.”
“You probably would. Next to the Yeovils, of course.”
“Lord Yeovil or Lady Susan?”
“They are equally my friends,” he replied.
“Are you in love with Lady Susan, Grant?”
He was a little startled, both by the question and the thrill which it brought.
“I happen to be thirty-one years old,” he reminded her. “Lady Susan is nineteen.”
“That is rather a recognised standard,” she remarked, “according to present ideas. The older a man gets the more he leans towards the kindergarten. In any case it doesn’t answer my question.”
“I have no time to be in love with any one just at present,” he said. “I have work to do.”
“You men and your work!” she exclaimed bitterly. “You drag it around with you like a closet of refuge, into which you can step whenever you are hard pressed. Honestly I can’t imagine why there are any good women in the world. There certainly is no encouragement for them. When do you sail. Grant?”
“To-morrow or Thursday.”
“Are you going straight to New York?”
“I may stay at Gibraltar to coal,” he replied. “I shall probably have to.”
She turned a little towards him. She had a trick of dropping her voice almost to a whisper. Her little question barely reached his ears.
“Are you taking me with you?”
“I can’t do that, Gertrude,” he said firmly, “neither would you come. And it isn’t a fair question to ask me when you know that you are looking more adorable than you ever looked in your life.”
“I tried to make myself look nice to-night because I wanted to ask you that question, or something like it. Isn’t it terrible, this gift of frankness I have developed? I think out a course of complete dissimulation and I find myself suddenly the very personification of candour. Why won’t you take me. Grant? Are you afraid of Otto? He is a very small man and not very strong. And duels have gone out even amongst us now.”
“I thought,” he remarked with a smile, thankful for the note of banter in her tone, “that your beloved young Prince was trying to bring them in again.”
“They say so,” she admitted. “That is because he got them reinstated when he was at the University, and, amongst his young friends, he is President of what they call their ‘Court of Honour.’ But I do not think you would be afraid to fight with any man. Grant, for anything you cared for. The great question is, or would be, whether you cared enough.”
“It isn’t entirely a question of caring,” Grant declared. “There are two contemptible roles in the world. One of them is the role of Joseph. I tell you frankly, Gertrude, that that is a part I never intend to play. Therefore if I am placed in the position of that unfortunate young man—which I trust I never shall be—I shall probably fall gracefully.”
“Thank heavens,” she murmured. “I may remind you of that some day.”
“The other,” he went on, “is the man who takes away another man’s wife. Frankly, I hate that a great deal worse. I suppose, during my thirty-one years, I have behaved neither worse nor better than other men. But I have never poached. I don’t understand the morality of it exactly, but it happens to be how I feel.”
“I suppose you will admit,” she said, “that circumstances alter cases. What do you think, for instance, of Otto persuading me to run away with him the day before we were to be married, by telling me something about you when you were in Berlin which I afterwards found to be an utter falsehood?”
“That was a contemptible action,” he acknowledged, “but—”
He paused significantly. She half closed her eyes.
“Yes, I know,” she confessed drearily. “I was just as much to blame. More so, perhaps—but how I have suffered for it!”
He lowered his voice.
“Your husband,” he warned her, “seldom takes his eyes from us. Blunn, too, watches. We must speak of other things.”
“It is always like that,” she muttered under her breath. “Eyes seem to follow me everywhere. Ears are listening. Life is like that in Berlin. Everybody seems to have espionage on the brain.”
Suddenly they all had a surprise. Blunn rose to his feet. His action was so unexpected that they all stared at him. He beamed around at their expectant faces. He had the trick of smiling at a score of people so that each one thought the smile specially intended for him.
“My dear friends,” he began, “have no fear. This is not a speech. This is merely the expression of a quaint desire which has just come into my mind to express my joy and pride that, to-night, amongst all of you dear people who have come at my bidding, there has come one who, I think, within the next few days or weeks, will be acknowledged the greatest benefactor, the most far-seeing diplomatist, the most beneficent statesman of this generation. I am referring, of course, to Lord Yeovil.”
Everyone smiled. The idea, even the words, were still, from an ordinary point of view, curiously out of place. Yet, spoken by Blunn, just as he spoke them, they seemed natural and reasonable.
“I will tell you what Lord Yeovil has done,” he went on. “He has had the courage of a great man. He has braved possible opposition,—and opposition to the Chairman of the Pact of Nations can only mean one thing, where the personal dignity of that functionary is concerned. He has, I say, braved opposition, and he has pointed out to all of us the weak link in the chain of our hope for eternal peace. I mean the standing out of your great country, sir,” he added, bowing to Slattery, “the United States of America, from the Pact of Nations. Some of us have felt that by her repeated refusals she did not deserve any further invitations. Some of us have selfishly felt that we, ourselves, are in a better position for her being outside of it. Lord Yeovil swept aside all these pettinesses. He spoke to us as only a great man speaks. He saw the truth, and he made us see it. We ratified that invitation. I ask you to drink the health of Lord Yeovil with me. There is no other statesman living to-day who could have done this great thing. I am a proud man that he sits at this table. I only ask you to forgive the unassailable impulse which has prompted me to make this public apologia. For, behind my words, you will guess the truth,—that I was one of those who hesitated. That is finished. I am a man convinced. I do homage to a greater brain. My dear friends—I don’t say ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’—let us drink to Lord Yeovil.”
“Amazing!” Grant murmured, with genuine admiration in his tone.
Lord Yeovil, whose face was as still as the face of a graven image, raised his glass. He took the only means possible of showing his opinion of his host’s action. He remained seated.
“My friends,” he said, “any reply of mine to our host’s kindly words would give undue significance to his friendly outpourings, and would invest a few remarks, spoken at a private dinner, with a semi-official significance, I think that what we have all done together is a great and a good thing. I should have liked every representative who was present at Nice to have thought the same. Those three anonymous dissentients, whose votes were recorded against me, still rankle just a little. However, the thing is accomplished. I thank you, Mr. Blunn, for your appreciation, and I thank you more especially still for the most wonderful entertainment at which I have ever been privileged to assist. There is one thing, however, which, at the present moment, seems of more vital importance to me, and I am sure, to all of us, than any unexpected and unofficial discussion of a political matter. We should all be made supremely happy if Mademoiselle Lebrun would sing to us once more.”
There was a gleam of admiration for a moment in Blunn’s eyes. He was just the man to appreciate the aptness which had minimised as far as possible the importance of his pronouncement. He despatched an emissary at once for the famous soprano.
“When Mademoiselle has sung,” he announced, “His Majesty has asked permission to retire to the Rooms.”
The King smiled.
“This is an amazing place, with an amazing atmosphere,” he declared. “Even when one entertains like an ambassador—as no ambassador of to-day could—always in the background there is that little god calling. We leave our seats at the opera to tempt chance. We forget sometimes, watching the spinning of that wheel, that the most beautiful woman of our desire is waiting for us. How is it with you, Mr. Blunn? They tell me that you are one of the richest men in the world, but I have seen you standing watching that table as though nothing but an earthquake could move you until the little ball had found its place.”
“I feel it,” Blunn acknowledged. “I have even gone so far, following out the trend of your thoughts, as to try to appreciate the psychological side of it. It isn’t always the money that counts. Your Majesty has, if I might be permitted to say so, exaggerated when he speaks of my wealth, but still it is not the money at all which one thinks of. There is a personal sense of triumph when your number turns up. You feel that you have backed yourself against a mighty organisation and won. You are supremely indifferent to the fact that chance has aided you. You have an absolute conviction that it is your own cleverness. That is the secret of the thrill when your number turns up and the croupiers fill your pockets.”
Mademoiselle Lebrun sang, and afterwards there was a little movement of departure.
“Will you please escort me up to the Club?” Gertrude whispered to her neighbour.
Grant bowed.
“With pleasure,” he assented.
There were other influences at work, however. Blunn turned to her good-humouredly, with the air of one making a pleasing announcement. The Prince was laughing a little in the background.
“His Majesty asks for the pleasure of conducting you to the Rooms, Princess.”
“If you will do me that honour,” the King murmured, bowing.
“I shall bring you bad luck,” Gertrude warned him, her voice trembling a little.
“You will give me, even in that event, what counts, perhaps, for more—very charming company,” was the gallant rejoinder.