PART XX

DIFFERENT PERSONS HAVE DIFFERENT OPINIONS

LADY MAISIE'S _Room at Wyvern_. TIME--_Saturday night, about_ 11.30.

_Lady Maisie_ (_to_ PHILLIPSON, _who is brushing her hair_). You are _sure_ mamma isn't expecting me? (_Irresolutely._) Perhaps I had better just run in and say good night.

_Phillipson._ I wouldn't recommend it, really, my lady; her ladyship seems a little upset in her nerves this evening.

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). _Il-y-a de quoi!_ (_Aloud, relieved._) It might only disturb her, certainly.... I hope they are making you comfortable here, Phillipson?

_Phillipson._ Very much so indeed, thank you, my lady. The tone of the room downstairs is _most_ superior.

_Lady Maisie._ _That's_ satisfactory. And I hear you have met an old admirer of yours here--Mr. Spurrell, I mean.

_Phillipson._ We _did_ happen to encounter each other in one of the galleries, my lady, just for a minute; though I shouldn't have expected _him_ to allude to it!

_Lady Maisie._ Indeed! And why not?

_Phillipson._ Mr. James Spurrell appears to have elevated himself to a very different sphere from what he occupied when _I_ used to know him, my lady; though how and why he comes to be where he is, I don't rightly understand myself at present.

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). And no wonder! I feel horribly guilty! (_Aloud._) You mustn't blame poor Mr. Spurrell, Phillipson; _he_ couldn't help it!

_Phillipson_ (_with studied indifference_). I'm not blaming him, my lady. If he prefers the society of his superiors to mine, he's very welcome to do so; there's others only too willing to take his place!

_Lady Maisie._ Surely none who would be as fond of you or make so good a husband, Phillipson!

_Phillipson._ That's as maybe, my lady. There was one young man that travelled down in the same compartment, and sat next me at supper in the room. I could see he took a great fancy to me from the first, and his attentions were really quite pointed. I am sure I couldn't bring myself to repeat his remarks, they were so flattering!

_Lady Maisie._ Don't you think you will be rather a foolish girl if you allow a few idle compliments from a stranger to outweigh such an attachment as Mr. Spurrell seems to have for you?

_Phillipson._ If _he_'s found new friends, my lady, I consider myself free to act similarly.

_Lady Maisie._ Then you don't know? He told us quite frankly this evening that he had only just discovered you were here, and would much prefer to be where you were. He went down to the housekeeper's room on purpose.

_Phillipson_ (_moved_). It's the first I've heard of it, my lady. It must have been after I came up. If I'd only known he'd behave like _that_!

_Lady Maisie_ (_instructively_). You see how loyal he is to _you_. And now, I suppose, he will find he has been supplanted by this new acquaintance--some smooth-tongued, good-for-nothing valet, I dare say?

_Phillipson_ (_injured_). Oh, my lady, indeed he wasn't a _man_! But there was nothing serious between us--at least, on _my_ side--though he certainly did go on in a very sentimental way himself. However, he's left the Court by now, that's _one_ comfort! (_To herself._) I wish now I'd said nothing about him to Jem. If he was to get asking questions downstairs---- He always _was_ given to jealousy--reason or none!

[_A tap is heard at the door._

_Lady Rhoda_ (_outside_). Maisie, may I come in? if you've done your hair, and sent away your maid. (_She enters._) Ah, I see you haven't.

_Lady Maisie._ Don't run away, Rhoda; my maid has just done. You can go now, Phillipson.

_Lady Rhoda_ (_to herself, as she sits down_). Phillipson! So _that's_ the young woman that funny vet man prefers to _us_! H'm, can't say I feel flattered!

_Phillipson_ (_to herself, as she leaves the room_). This must be the Lady Rhoda, who was making up to my Jem! He wouldn't have anything to say to her, though; and, now I see her, I am not surprised at it!

[_She goes. A pause._

_Lady Rhoda_ (_crossing her feet on the fender_). Well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', _can_ we?

_Lady Maisie_ (_taking a hand-screen from the mantelshelf_). Not altogether. Has--anything fresh happened since I left?

_Lady Rhoda._ Nothing particular. Archie apologised to this new man in the billiard-room. For the booby trap. We all told him he'd _got_ to. And Mr. Carrion Bear, or Blundershell, or whatever he calls himself--_you_ know--was so awf'lly gracious and condescendin' that I really thought poor dear old Archie would have wound up his apology by punchin' his head for him. Strikes me, Maisie, that mop-headed minstrel boy is a decided change for the worse. Doesn't it you?

_Lady Maisie_ (_toying with the screen_). How do you _mean_, Rhoda?

_Lady Rhoda._ I meantersay I call Mr. Spurrell---- Well, he's real, anyway--he's a _man_, don't you know. As for the other, so _feeble_ of him missin' his train like he did, and turnin' up too late for everything! Now, _wasn't_ it?

_Lady Maisie._ Poets _are_ dreamy and unpractical and unpunctual--it's their nature.

_Lady Rhoda._ Then they should stay at home. Just see what a hopeless muddle he's got us all into! I declare I feel as if anybody might turn into somebody else on the smallest provocation after this. I _know_ poor Vivien Spelwane will be worryin' her pillows like rats most of the night, and I rather fancy it will be a close time for poets with your dear mother, Maisie, for some time to come. All this silly little man's fault!

_Lady Maisie._ No, Rhoda. Not his--_ours_. Mine and mamma's. We ought to have felt from the first that there _must_ be some mistake, that poor Mr. Spurrell couldn't _possibly_ be a poet! I don't know, though--people generally _are_ unlike what you'd expect from their books. I believe they do it on purpose! Not that that applies to Mr. Blair; he _is_ one's idea of what a poet should be. If he hadn't arrived when he did, I don't think I could ever have borne to read another line of poetry as long as I lived!

_Lady Rhoda._ I _say_! Do you call him as good-lookin' as all _that_?

_Lady Maisie._ I was not thinking about his looks, Rhoda--it's his _conduct_ that's so splendid.

_Lady Rhoda._ His conduct? Don't see anything splendid in missin' a train. I could do it myself if I tried.

_Lady Maisie._ Well, I wish I could think there were many men capable of acting so nobly and generously as he did.

_Lady Rhoda._ As how?

_Lady Maisie._ You really don't see! Well, then, you _shall_. He arrives late, and finds that somebody else is here already in his character. He makes no fuss; manages to get a private interview with the person who is passing as himself; when, of course, he soon discovers that poor Mr. Spurrell is as much deceived as anybody else. What is he to do? Humiliate the unfortunate man by letting him know the truth? Mortify my uncle and aunt by a public explanation before a whole dinner-party? That is what a stupid or a selfish man might have done, almost without thinking. But not Mr. Blair. He has too much tact, too much imagination, too much chivalry for that. He saw at once that his only course was to spare his host and hostess, and--and all of us a scene, by slipping away quietly and unostentatiously, as he had come.

_Lady Rhoda_ (_yawning_). If he saw all that, why didn't he _do_ it?

_Lady Maisie_ (_indignantly_). Why? How provoking you can be, Rhoda! _Why?_ Because that stupid Tredwell wouldn't let him! Because Archie delayed him by some idiotic practical joke! Because Mr. Spurrell went and blurted it all out!... Oh, don't try to run down a really fine act like that; because you can't--you simply _can't_!

_Lady Rhoda_ (_after a low whistle_). No idea it had gone so far as that--already! _Now_ I begin to see why Gerry Thicknesse has been lookin' as if he'd sat on his best hat, and why he told your aunt he might have to be off to-morrow; which is all stuff, because I happen to know his leave ain't up for two or three days yet. But he sees this Troubadour has put his poor old nose out of joint for him.

_Lady Maisie_ (_flushing_). Now, Rhoda, I won't have you talking as if--as if---- _You_ ought to know, if Gerald Thicknesse doesn't, that it's nothing at all of that sort! It's just---- Oh, I can't _tell_ you how some of his poems moved me, what new ideas, wider views they seemed to teach; and then how _dreadfully_ it hurt to think it was only Mr. Spurrell after all!... But _now_--oh, the _relief_ of finding they're not spoilt; that I can still admire, still look up to the man who wrote them! Not to have to feel that he is quite commonplace--not even a gentleman--in the ordinary sense!

_Lady Rhoda_ (_rising_). Ah well, I prefer a hero who looks as if he had his hair cut, occasionally--but then, I'm not romantic. He may be the paragon you say; but if I was you, my dear, I wouldn't expect too much of that young man--allow a margin for shrinkage, don't you know. And now I think I'll turn into my little crib, for I'm dead tired. Good night; don't sit up late readin' poetry; it's my opinion you've read quite enough as it is!

[_She goes._

_Lady Maisie_ (_alone, as she gazes dreamily into the fire_). She doesn't in the _least_ understand! She actually suspects me of---- As if I could possibly--or as if mamma would ever--even if _he_---- Oh, how _silly_ I am!... I don't care! I _am_ glad I haven't had to give up my ideal. I _should_ like to know him better. What harm is there in that? And if Gerald chooses to go to-morrow, he must--that's all. He isn't nearly so nice as he used to be; and he has even _less_ imagination than ever! I don't think I _could_ care for anybody so absolutely matter-of-fact. And yet, only an hour ago I almost---- But that was _before_!