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Updated: June 7, 2025
Dulled as he had become to terrible sights, the horror of that silent, grotesque figure began to freeze Dick Durwent's blood. A few minutes before it had been a thing of life. It had loved and hated and laughed; its veins had coursed with the warm blood of youth; and there it sprawled, a ghastly jumble of arms and legs motionless, silent, dead.
A month ago he had read how Captain Fensome, of Lady Durwent's house-party, had been killed trying to rescue his servant in No Man's Land. The sight of Dick Durwent and Johnston Smyth marching away had been only a spur to more intensive writing. Then why should that haltingly worded sentence lie like ice against his heart? A sharp pain shot through his head.
It is one thing to meet people as Lord Durwent's daughter, and quite another as a free-lance ambulance-driver. I've seen what people really are since I've been on my own, and I'm sick of the whole thing. 'You don't mean that, Elise? 'I do. Men are rotten, and women are cats. He smiled quizzically, but she kept her eyes averted from his.
'Then, said his hostess, triumphantly explaining the obvious, 'you must have slept well. Selwyn thought that when he answered Lady Durwent's query a quick look of relief had passed across the face of Elise. It was for her peace of mind he had lied, as into the hours of dawn he had lain awake, trying to unravel the meaning of the nocturnal scene.
You remember Mathews at Roselawn, don't you? You can say' 'Good-mornin', sir, said the unperturbed groom. 'This is a werry pleasant surprise, to be sure. How are you, sir? 'Van, said Selwyn, after shaking hands with them both, 'this is Lord Durwent's son, and the other is his groom, Mathews. I will vouch for them absolutely.
Selwyn sat in almost complete silence, merely acknowledging Lady Durwent's proclamations of a state of war by appropriate acquiescence, but his eyes remained fixed on the table. He could not trust them to look at Elise for fear they should prove traitor and sue for an ignoble peace.
The composer sighed; the artist echoed the sigh. 'Have you seen Shaw's show? 'Awful, isn't it? 'Putrid but the English don't' 'Ah! What a race! 'Just so. I say, are you going to Lady Durwent's on Friday? 'Yes, rather. 'Look here, old fellow don't dress, eh? 'Right. Let's be natural what? Just Bohemians. 'The very thing. By-the-by, you don't know a laundry that gives'
He had an obscure recollection of sitting down next to his hostess; that the table, like Arthur's, was a round one; that Johnston Smyth was seated beside Miss Durwent and was ogling one of Lady Durwent's maids. Then he remembered that he had heard some voice in his ear for several minutes past, and, growing curious, took a surreptitious glance, to find that it belonged to Madame Carlotti.
'Have you a flask? broke in Durwent, his dull eyes lighting greedily. 'I think not, said Smyth, handing the umbrella to Selwyn, and carefully searching all his pockets. 'I am afraid my valet has neglected that essential part of a gentleman's wardrobe. But what do you say, gentlemen, to a short pilgrimage to Archibald's? 'No, Smyth, said the American, putting his hand in Durwent's arm.
Lady Durwent's part in the function was to supervise the coffee, and ask each guest how he or she had slept, expressing regret that the night had not been cooler, warmer, calmer, or fresher, according to the polite customs of social dialogue at breakfast. At nine-fifteen the papers used to arrive from the village, always causing a flutter of excitement.
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