“Of course I would not take it,” she said.
Mr. Wainbridge looked white. He helped her to take off her coat.
“You will never do it again,” he said. “Promise—never.”
After they left, Launa went into her father’s work-room.
“I drove to-night,” she said. “Mr. George and Mr. Wainbridge came in the hansom, and I drove it.”
“Yes, I feel very proud, so don’t tell me I ought not to be.”
“You should be ashamed, and I must scold you.”
“Was it a successful party? You like Mrs. Phillips?”
“I like her very much. . . . Do men love women—often?”
Her father looked at her, but it was evidently a problem question, not as it affected herself, but others.
“I suppose so. You have . . . no theories, no experience, I suppose?”
“No, I think a man in love must be rather a bore. Good-night, I am very sleepy.”
Mrs. Phillips was at Marlow with some friends, Mr. Herbert was there also.
Mrs. Phillips had written to Launa telling her the new shirts were becoming and the new punt a success. From this Launa gathered that Mr. Herbert, as well as the punt, was agreeable. Lily had too much experience to give in to his supplications at once, or to agree with him that love was of any avail in life. She said marriage rhymed with carriage very properly, and love with nothing. Besides, she was aware that after a woman has said “I love you” frequently there is nothing left to say.
This particular afternoon she had arrayed herself in a wonderful tea-gown—a combination of Greece and Paris with flashes of audacity thrown in, green and cream and gold—it was loose where it is pretty to be loose, and tight where it showed the curves of her figure.
She was playing to herself—Chopin and Wagner. Her wrists had gained in strength, her tone in volume, and her mind—that, too, had gained in experience and insight. The world was opening to her—undreamt of possibilities intruded sometimes—but Lily’s ideas of taking the goods the gods give to-day while never thinking of to-morrow, were attractive. Yet Launa could not forget Paul; in her heart she believed in the future “Goldene Zeit” which _must_ come.
It was impossible for her to realise that she could not command fate—destiny. She had assumed the command once, that day with Paul, and now she regretted it. She could not write to him; everything was against that, and if he were to come over, as she often hoped he would, how much better would it be? The Indian girl came between them. She knew her father would never consent to any marriage between herself and Paul. Launa had cultivated an ideal of women’s behaviour to other women; they should always support the wronged woman, even when it means losing a hearts desire. Until it meant losing her own heart’s desire she had derived much joy from this theory, now she realised that no one can be happy on a theory.