The next morning he was rejoiced by the news that Fr?ulein Lutz was confined to the house by a severe katarrh, and he remained in bed until twelve, meditating upon the position in which he found himself. He had slept well—nothing had ever kept him awake—and he discovered that refreshed by sleep and coffee, to say nothing of the brilliant sunlight streaming over his bed, he hated his friends less than he had supposed the night before. He would be managed by nobody, but women were born matchmakers; it was not an unamiable vice; why should he resent their efforts in his behalf? He had not the least apprehension of being married against his will, and the painful picture of Fr?ulein von Schmidt no longer maddened him. Last night he had felt almost trapped, so communicable had been the excitement of that poor little woman.
He endeavoured to analyze his feeling for Frau von Wass. (He had never called her Hélène even in his thoughts.) Could it be that he was really fond of her? Certainly his soul had risen in arms last night as she poured out her wrongs, passionately dwelt upon her isolation. “With all the world against her.” It was a phrase to affect any man with a rag of feeling in him.
Unconsciously he shook his head. He was not in love with her. On that point at least he was quite clear. But he was uneasily sensible that events might rush too rapidly for his guidance. Were she ostracized on his account, cast out, perhaps, by an infuriated husband, there was no folly that he might not be induced to commit, particularly when his family combined in opposition. Although he had no suspicion of the plot hatching by Frau von Wass, a new light rose in his mind and played about the dangers of inspiring such a woman with a desperate passion. It is true that she had announced her complete recovery, but her eyes had betrayed her last night; moreover, he could not doubt that she had made a deliberate appeal to his pity, his tenderness, his humanity. Could it be that she wanted to elope with him? He broke into a cold perspiration. A moment later he was out of bed and writing her a note protesting that he was too ill to call on her that afternoon; he was really in a pitiable condition and must break all his engagements. Would she forgive him and let him call the instant he was presentable? Perhaps she would honour him at a little dinner he intended to give during the following week at one of the restaurants? Which did she prefer? And would Friday suit her? He would speak to Princess Nachmeister as soon as he could get out.
The Wass disposed of for at least three days, he shoved the memory of her into one of those wonderful water-tight compartments of his brain, and, returning to the pleasant places, met Margarethe Styr. Whether he wanted to know any woman again well he was not sure, but his experience of this isolated creature on the strange night of their meeting gave him hope that she had outlived the vanities and follies of her sex. He wondered that a woman to whom the fiery furnace of life had left no precipitation but mind could retain so much of feminine charm. Or was it but the magnetism of a strong brain, with the sauce piquante of fine manners? It would be worth while to discover. No beauty, so far, had appealed to his senses as odd and complex personalities did to his cool analytical brain. And how delightful even the occasional companionship of such a woman might be! Yes, he would know her if he could.
He did not care to call and run the risk of being turned from her door, but after the deliberate compliment she had paid him he felt at liberty to write and crave admittance. He was very guarded in expressing himself, for he had all a young man’s sensitive fear of being laughed at by a woman so much older in years and in life; the enterprises of blasée women of the world, and mothers with marriageable daughters, while they had augumented a self-confidence as inevitable as his grammar, had not disposed of his natural modesty.
He sent the note by a messenger, but no reply came until the following morning. It was very brief.
“Dear Mr. Ordham: I have hesitated a long time—but it is better not. Friends are not for me. I shall not even go into society again for a long while. Think of me as a stage creature only. And after all, I am nothing else.
“Margarethe Tann.”
This put Ordham into such a villanous humour that he went out and lunched alone.
“Does she think that I want to make love to her?” He addressed the dinner (alas! not luncheon), which was very bad. “Little she knows! And whoever would be the wiser if I called out there occasionally? Or is she merely trying to intriguer me? Is it that inflexible principle of sex which will not let a man go in peace, but must hold him in the toils even while denying him the little he asks? Or does she fear t............