CHAPTER IX

WAR-PAINT

All the way up to town again Ted Urquhart drove along the Kentish roads like a madman, not caring if he were stopped, but knowing that this would be unlikely to occur.

For in these days the police did not readily hold up a motor-car that was speeding along apparently upon urgent business, and driven by an officer wearing His Majesty's uniform. And this--the one rather theatrical act of his life--Mr. Ted Urquhart had committed.

He had, after his interview with Eleanor, lingered at Urquhart's Court not long enough to have anything to eat ("_dinner_? Shan't want it," he'd smiled at the enquiring parlour-maid), but sparing himself just the time to get into the khaki and the accoutrements that had come home.

This would save some explanation to Miss Fayre. She'd see that, whether at the eleventh hour or not, he'd volunteered. He needn't tell her that.

He debated what he would tell her; how he'd begin; picking and choosing and altering sentences as he whizzed along with stretches of road, gates, and hedges springing into the focus of his headlight for a flash, then dropping behind. That planning, too, he presently dropped behind him.

He remembered how much of his time since he'd met that girl had been passed in just this profitless occupation of making up his mind that he must say something to her. And then something else had invariably happened to put a stopper on it. There should be no stopper to-night....

That day in France he'd had "something to say" to her--and she'd nipped it in the bud with the curtest little snub he'd ever received.

That afternoon when he'd returned to the Court he'd had "something" to say. He'd arranged just what crows he had to pluck with that golden-haired minx--and then had come the staggering revelation that the girl with whom he'd fallen in love was not the girl he had to marry.

That evening after the Hen-party he'd had "something to say," something crucial--and it had been swept aside by another revelation, causing him to believe that she was engaged to another man.

Even to-day on the Horse Guards Parade he had nearly said "something" else. It was only a Good-bye--but she'd turned her back on it!

And to think that She had never had an idea of all these planned "somethings" of Ted Urquhart! So far as his courtship of Rosamond Fayre--for, looking back on all the mistakes and tangles and misunderstandings, he could only admit that the impulse and mainspring of Courtship was there--So far the courtship had gone on in the depths of his own heart only. It had all taken place, as Pansy would say, "_off_ ... There should be a change to-night....

Then as he sat with his hands on the wheel, his impatient eyes fixed ahead, a thought steadied and sobered him. There remained that unforgetable moment under the lime-trees, the hardest that Ted Urquhart had ever lived through. There remained that sound of a kiss to another man....

The memory of it dashed all the mad rush of hopeful high spirits in which he'd whirled the car down the avenue and out on to the London Road.

It was a very grave-faced young man in khaki, with a heart that seemed sinking into his brown boots and with the look in his eyes of a man who is staking his all upon a single throw, who pulled up at last in the little street off Ebury Street, who jumped out of the car and knocked at that green door with "Madame Cora's" brass plate affixed.

Madame Cora, startled, opened the door with a "now-whatever's-this" look on her astute small face.

"Good-evening!" said the tall and khaki-clad apparition who stood on the whitened step blocking out the view of the dimmed street-lamps. "Could you tell me if this is where Miss Fayre is staying?"

"_Ah!_ ... Yes, it is," said the landlady swiftly.

In a flash she had arrived at one of those conclusions, which right or wrong, women preface with the phrase "Something _told_ me...."

"If this young officer here isn't what it's all about that's making Miss Fayre seem so quiet these days!" thought the landlady with conviction. "Moping up in her room this minute over the Ad-Verts in the _Morning Post_. This must be the meaning of it all, true as I stand here. Fancy."

"Could I see her?" asked the tall visitor, moving so that the light of the hall gas fell upon the resolute and tanned face under the Service cap, upon the light, impatient eyes, upon the firm mouth with the small cropped moustache.

"Smart fellow, I call him; nice couple they'd look," thought the little landlady even while she replied doubtfully, "Well, I don't know. I think Miss Fayre was dressing to go out to a party or something----"

The visitor's face became blankness incarnate at the news.

"Still, I'll run up and see if she'll speak to you a minute before she goes," amended the landlady. "If you'll go in there a minute I'll just pop up."

The young man went into the room she indicated; a small parlour of which the whole of one side was taken up by a long pier-glass. A round table occupied the centre of the room under the gasolier; it was piled high with Fashion-papers; "Modes Parisiennes," "Delineators," "Chics." A chiffonier at the side held books of patterns (cloth, satin, Japanese silks) and a silver-topped biscuit-box. The mantelpiece and over-mantel were crowded with cheap china; the pictures were an enlarged photograph of the late Mr. Core in Freemason's insignia, a coloured print of "Carnation, Lily, Rose," from the Tate Gallery, and another of a picture called "Reunion." A couple of albums spread among the fashion-papers showed that Madame Cora had, some years ago, collected picture postcards. Also snapshots....

All these, with other details, the visitor was to be allowed ample time to study while he waited, fuming, for the girl he had come to see.

For Mrs. Core, "popping" upstairs to Miss Fayre's room, thought to herself, "I shan't tell her who's come to see her, no fear! Flurrying and hurrying her; and her in that old crêpe blouse when I know for certain she'd want to look specially nice. She shall, too."

With a tap at the door the little woman slipped into the room where Rosamond Fayre sat on the edge of her narrow bed, studying her _Morning Post_ listlessly enough.

"Not busy, are you? Wish you'd do something to please me," said the landlady ingratiatingly. "Will you, Miss Fayre?"

"What is it?" asked Rosamond, looking up with a rather subdued little smile.

"Well, I've never had a sight of that pink lisse of yours, since I sent it home.... Wish you'd just slip it on now to let me have a look, could you? ... In this long drawer is it? ... Ah! ... It'll go over your head.... Tuck this thing here down a bit more ... That's right. There ... I'll do you up."

And her clever, hard-worked fingers busied themselves with the fastenings of that dress that Rosamond Fayre had only worn once--for five minutes. She'd tried it on just that one evening at The Court, and had nearly gone down to dinner in it. Then she'd taken it off again.... Three corolla'd, petal-flounced, rose-pink, it really was, as she'd thought, a flower turned into a frock.

"Looks beautiful on you, Miss Fayre, and no mistake," declared the little dressmaker decidedly, as she put her head on one side to contemplate that shining vision of gold and ivory and rose. "Pity you can't go about all day long in evening dress, with your shoulders and neck! Pity you aren't just off to a dance now, eh? Got any sort of a wrap to wear with this?"

Rosamond murmured something about the black satin cape in the cupboard. She felt, however, that she would never be going off to a dance again as long as she lived. Somehow she had a presentiment that nothing interesting could ever happen to her again; somehow this evening everything seemed over.... Over....

"Throw that coat across your arm then, just to try the effect as if you were off out. Your hair's all right as it is. Lovely. But slip on those little suede slippers o' yours. You can't really tell a dress with the wrong shoes," decreed Madame Cora, for the moment all costumier. "Now look at yourself--Gracious! Can't see much of yourself in this rubbishy little shaving-mirror, can you? Remind me to put you another one in to-morrow. Better pop down now and take a look at yourself in the long glass in my fitting-room--dear."

Shrewd kindliness glinted in the eyes, out of which all illusions had been wiped, as the little woman-toiler hurried downstairs with the Beauty in the pink frock that had been the work of her hands.

"Give her every chance, at all events," was the unspoken thought of Mrs. Core. "If that's the One and Only she'll be thankful for ever that she had on her pink when he came. Supposed to make no difference to the man what a girl's got on! It's her the difference is made to. Shan't forget my poor Harry comin' up to the scratch when I was all anyhow and my head tied up for the Spring-cleaning. Way men spoil things if they can! ... But whatever's happened or going to happen about Miss Fayre and her young gentleman that's in this tearin' hurry to see her she'll be glad she was turned out daintily for the occasion. Him in uniform and all."

Here the little woman opened the door of that small fitting-room. She gave one last touch, that was almost a gentle push, to the back of the pretty pink bodice.

"Some one that you know in there!" she announced. Then, standing outside herself, she closed the door, briskly and decisively, upon the entrance of Rosamond Fayre.