When Lushington had run over to Paris the day before the conversation

just recorded, he had entertained a vague notion of going out to

Versailles in the afternoon; for he felt that all had not been said

between himself and Margaret and that their last parting in the street

had not been really final. The fact was that he merely yielded to the

tormenting desire to see her again, if for only a few minutes and in

the presence of Mrs. Rushmore.

But the meeting in the Boulevard Péreire had chilled him like a stream

of cold water poured down his back; than which homely simile there is

none more true. He had fancied her very grave and even a little sad,

going quietly to her rehearsals with a maid, or even with Mrs.

Rushmore, speaking to no one at the theatre and returning at once to

Versailles to reflect on the vicissitudes to which human affections are

subject.

He had come upon her suddenly and unawares, in a very smart frock and a

superlatively becoming hat, smiling gaily, just stepping out of a

magnificent white motor car, resting her hand familiarly on that of the

most successful young financier in Paris, whose conquests among women

of the world were a byword, and chaperoned by a flighty little

Neapolitan teacher of singing. Truly, if some one had deliberately

rubbed the back of his neck with a large lump of ice on that warm

spring day, the chill could not have been more effectual. Morally

speaking, Lushington caught a bad cold, which 'struck in,' as old

people used to say.

He might have explained to himself that as he had insisted upon parting

from Margaret for ever, and against her will, her subsequent doings

were none of his business. But he was half an Englishman by birth and

altogether one by bringing up, and he therefore could not admit that

she should be apparently enjoying herself, while he was gloomily

brooding over the misfortunes that put her beyond his reach. The fable

of the Dog in the Manger must have been composed to describe us

Anglo-Saxons. It is sufficient that we be hindered from getting what we

want, even by our own sense of honour; we are forthwith ready to

sacrifice life and limb to prevent any other man from getting it. The

magnanimity of our renunciation is only to be compared with our

tenacity in asserting our claim to what we have renounced. Even our

charities usually have strings to them on which our hold never relaxes,

in case we should want them back.

Lushington had never trusted Logotheti, but since his instinct and the

force of circumstances had told him that the Greek was making love to

Margaret and that Margaret liked his society, he hated the man in a

most unchristian manner, and few things would have given the usually

peaceable man of letters such unmitigated satisfaction as to see the

shining white motor car blow up and scatter his rival's arms and legs

to the thirty-two points of the compass.




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