When I got back to the flat, Charles was there in a most awful temper. He had seen Ambrose say good-bye to me at the corner, and he was ramping and tramping up and down like a tiger. His eyebrows were all twisty, and he sort of barked at me and said, “Who was that?” And I wouldn’t tell him at first, not till we got up to the flat, and then he put on a most frightfully severe sort of voice, and lectured me like anything, and reminded me about Mr. Percy Smith, which was mean-only you don’t know about him, and it’s too long to tell-besides I don’t want to-and I promised Margaret. Charles really made me cry, and then he was sorry and said I mustn’t. Madame’s scoldings were pretty fierce, but Charles was worse, only he said he was sorry afterwards, and of course Madame never did that. And he took me out to lunch, and we went to Hindhead in his car and had tea in Guildford, and didn’t get back till after Margaret did. I don’t think Margaret likes Charles to like me so much. She doesn’t say anything. I think she doesn’t like Charles very much really, though she’s known him for simply ages. We’re dining with Mr. Pelham to-morrow. It’s frightfully difficult to call him Freddy. We’re dining at his house, and we’re going on to the theatre-instead of Saturday. Mr. Pelham came round last night and fixed it up. Charles is coming too. I don’t know about Archie.
CHAPTER XXVI
Margaret came home a little earlier than usual. Business had been slack and she had got away punctually-a thing which did not very often happen. Greta came in full of conversation, full of Ambrose Kimberley, full of Charles and their run to Hindhead.
“Where is Charles?” asked Margaret.
“He wouldn’t come in. But he’s coming to-morrow, and he’s going to teach me to drive his car. He did teach me a little bit to-day, only every time I met something I was so frightened I just threw the wheel at him, and he says his nerves won’t stand the strain for more than about a quarter of an hour at a time. I said I didn’t mind going on a bit, and he said it was frightfully brave of me.”
Greta was looking alarmingly pretty. She glowed and shone in the little room. She made Margaret feel dingy and drab and old, with that dreadful sense of age which is only possible when one is under five-and-twenty. Everything had gone by her-home, friends, leisure, looks. She did not say to herself that she had lost Charles Moray; but perhaps this one loss included all the others.
She cleared away supper, made up the fire, and sat down with idle hands. Grey Greta prattled on about Archie, about Charles, about whether Archie was better looking than Charles, or Charles better looking than Archie, or whether Ambrose Kimberley wasn’t better looking than either of them, and did Margaret like blue eyes or grey ones best, or did she prefer brown?
“Yours are brown, so you ought to marry someone with blue eyes, oughtn’t you?”-Greta’s voice was earnest-“or grey ones. Archie has blue eyes-hasn’t he? Of course they show a lot because of his not having very bushy eyelashes. Now Charles-what colour would you say Charles’ eyes were?”
“Grey.”
“I thought they were. I said so in my letter to Stephanie, but afterwards I thought perhaps they weren’t. His eyelashes being so black makes it sort of confusing. You’re sure they’re grey?”
Margaret looked into the fire.
“Quite sure.”
She saw Charles’ eyes looking into hers, looking smilingly, teasingly, earnestly; looking love-all gone-all past-all dead-never to come again.
Greta went on in her soft childish voice.
“I do like dark eyes-in a man. Don’t you? No, you wouldn’t, because yours are dark. Margaret, have you ever been engaged?”
Margaret got up.
“What a lot of questions!”
“It must be such fun,” said Greta. “I should like to be engaged a lot of times before I got married, because you can’t ever go back and get engaged again-can you?”
Margaret’s eyes stung.
“No, you can’t go back.”
“So you might just as well be engaged to plenty of people while you can. Do you think Charles would be nice to be engaged to?”
“Quite,” said Margaret. She was standing with her back to Greta arranging the music in a little stand.
“That’s what I thought. I don’t think I should mind being engaged to Charles. You see, he’s got a car, and he could teach me to drive, and I think that’s rather important-isn’t it?”
“‘Essential,” said Margaret, in an odd dry voice.
“Of course I think he’d be simply terrifying to be married to. Don’t you?”
Margaret lifted the parcel which she had brought from her old home on the night she first met Margot Standing. She held it stiffly at arm’s length. She spoke a little stiffly too:
“Has he asked you to marry him?”
Greta giggled.
“Oh, not yet. Archie hasn’t either. I want to have lots of fun first. Florence, one of the girls at school, says her sister has been engaged fifteen times. She’s a simply frightfully pretty girl called Rose Lefevre, and she says Rose always says it’s a great mistake to let them rush you, because really the most amusing time is just before. Rose says they get uppish almost at once after you’ve said ‘Yes.’ And she says if they’re like that when they’re engaged, what will they be like when you’re married to them? That’s why she doesn’t ever stay engaged very long. She says about three weeks is enough really. But Florence says once it was only three days-only then there was a row, and her father said he wouldn’t have it and Rose was a scandal. But she’s been engaged a lot more times since. Which do you think would be most fun to be engaged to-Archie, or Charles?”
Margaret came over to the table. She put her parcel down on it and began to remove the paper wrapping.
“I shouldn’t get engaged to either until you’re quite sure.”
“Oh, but I want to be engaged! I want to have a ring and write and tell all the girls. I don’t want to wait. You see I could easily be not engaged if I didn’t like it-couldn’t I? You didn’t say if you were ever engaged. I expect you must have been. What sort of ring did you have? I just can’t make up my mind about the ring. Sometimes I think a sapphire, and sometimes I think all diamonds. I don’t think fair girls ought to wear rubies. Do you?”
Margaret folded up the paper which she had taken off the parcel. It crackled a good deal. She put it away in the bottom drawer of an old walnut bureau before she spoke. Then she said,
“Wait till you’ve quite made up your mind.”
“Oh!” said Greta; it was a quick, sudden exclamation. She jumped up, ran to the table, and caught with both hands at the desk which Margaret had just unpacked.
“Margaret! Where did you get it from?”
Margaret turned in astonishment. Greta was flushed and excited.
“Margaret, where did you get it?”
“It’s mine-it was my mother’s.”
“Oh!” said Greta. She looked down at the desk. “It’s- it’s-do you know I thought it was mine-I did really. And it gave me a most frightful start, because I couldn’t think how you’d got it.”
Margaret came up to the table. The desk stood between her and Greta. It was covered in green morocco with a little diagonal pattern stamped on it; the corners were worn shabby; there was a brass handle over a sunk brass plate; and between the plate and the front of the desk were the initials E.M.B. in faded gold.
Greta touched the leather.
“I thought it was mine! It’s-exactly like mine.”
“All these old desks are alike.”
“They don’t all have the same initials on them. Mine-no, how silly of me!-mine has M.E.B. on it-not E.M.B. -but it’s awfully, awfully like this one.” She slid her finger to and fro over the initials. “Is this your mother? What was her name?”