XXXVI.

THE LAST SUPPER

Thursday was the opening night of the _New Babylon_, Pilling’s new night club. The butler had been announcing arrivals:

“Lord and Lady de Jones.

“The Honourable Raymond and Mrs. Mosquito.

“Mrs. Frank Dickin.”

Then, flinging open the doors, the butler made a last belated appearance: “Mr. Kerr, m’lord.”

“Now this is very, very nice. Come right in, Mr. Kerr!” from Lord Ottercove.

At the long table presided over by Ottercove, Frank found himself seated by the side of his own wife. After the long absence, she seemed beautiful and enchanting, and her presence, new yet familiar, broke the crust of ice in his heart and released rivers of rapture; and outside it was spring, full of desires, and here was she, his lovely mate....

And yet? And yet? Looked at objectively, enquired into dispassionately, was marriage a solution of one’s terrestrial difficulties? Be honest now, he said to himself. One wife was both too much and not enough. Fifty wives, renewable like water in a swimming pool, would be better. He would sit there then, all lust gone, among them, a man of action turned philosopher, and pass his hand dispassionately over this or that wife’s hair, seeking solace in intellectual intercourse with some other man who agreed that life was wanting! “What?” He was roused from his reverie, and, not hearing the question, replied: “Rather!”

Indisputably, Cynthia was enchanting, and even Lord Ottercove singled her out after dinner. “Are you the prettiest girl in London, Cynthia?” He kissed her thoroughly on the mouth.

“No, Rex, no!”

An actress, jealous of Cynthia’s success, flung her champagne over her. Cynthia, shocked beyond words, and followed by all her admirers, retired to another room, where she was presently joined by the actress, who lavished profuse apologies on her: “I am so frightfully sorry, darling!”

“It’s quite all right, darling.”

And all the women who hated each other, called one another thus: “darling.”

It was, to all appearance, a brilliant party. Vernon Sprott was there--Vernon Sprott, the foreman of British fiction, whose novel entitled _The New Babylon Hotel & Restaurant_ had provided the designation of Pilling’s night club, in consideration of which Mr. Sprott received a royalty on the gross profits of the New Babylon Club of 0.0000002 per cent. free of income tax and payable to him after deduction of a commission of ten per cent. by Mr. Sprott’s Literary Agent. And both he and his literary agent (who was there) could not take their eyes off Cynthia, by common consent the special, the most distinctive ornament of the evening. She looked a little pale, dream-like, ravishing, romantic; and as she danced her eyes seemed to say: “Do you remember?” and Frank could scarcely wait for the end of the party to elope with his wife, to carry her away ... away.... She said what Juliet had said before her: that it was too sudden!

Only Christopher de Jones seemed glum. He sat and watched how Eva danced with an intent young man whose cleverness was in his feet; danced confidentially, _giving_ him her pliable young body, every movement of which seemed to say: “I am thine, thine....” For such is the melody of the dance. He could see, it seemed to him, through all the souls of the men and women, guests, musicians, waiters, and divine what the headwaiter, the orchestra men, each individual thought to himself: how each only suffered. Another little while, he thought, and it would all be over....