No Wind of Blame

This was most gratifying, and although Ermyntrude had not previously suspected that she was misunderstood, she began to realise that it was so, and reflected that one of the more attractive attributes of foreign gentlemen was their subtle perception. She gave a faint sigh, and bestowed upon the Prince a very speaking glance. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I seemed to know, right at the start, that you were what I call understanding.’

He pressed her hand. ‘There is a bond of sympathy between us. You too are aware of it, for you are not like the rest of your country-women.’

Ermyntrude believed firmly that England was the best country in the world, and the English immeasurably superior to any other race, but she a

ccepted this remark as a compliment, as indeed it was meant to be, and at once began to enumerate the characteristics that made her different from her compatriots. These were many, and varied from a hatred of tweeds and brogue shoes, to a sensitiveness of soul, which was hidden (as Alexis had so rightly supposed) under a cheerful demeanour, and a tolerance of foreigners rarely to be met with in other Englishwomen.

‘You are a true cosmopolitan,’ the Prince assured her.

Ermyntrude would have been perfectly happy to have continued this conversation indefinitely, but at that moment the Prince’s suitcases were borne into the room, so she rather regretfully withdrew.

She rejoined Wally and Mary in a somewhat exalted mood. Her gait was queenly enough to attract Wally’s attention, and he immediately demanded to be told why she was sailing about like a dying swan. She relaxed sufficiently to inform him pithily that if he wanted to be vulgar he could take his vulgarity to those that liked it; for in spite of having grace, beauty, and a lonely soul, she was also a woman of spirit, and saw no reason for putting up with rudeness from Wally, or from anyone else. But this was only a temporary emergence from the cloud of abstraction in which she had wrapped herself, and she sank into an armchair, with really very creditable grace for a woman of her size, and became so aloof from her surroundings that she failed to notice that the dog, Prince, was lying curled up under her husband’s chair. Her discovery of his unwanted presence coincided rather unfortunately with the human-Prince’s entry into the room, when the spaniel, who was of a friendly disposition, at once rushed forward to accord the stranger an effusive welcome.

Ermyntrude’s air of pensiveness fell from her as soon as she saw the spaniel jumping up at her guest, and she exclaimed with strong indignation: ‘If you haven’t let that Prince come into the house, Wally! I told you the stable was the place for him!’

‘There, I knew what it would be!’ said Wally, not without satisfaction. He observed a slightly startled look upon the other Prince’s face, and added: ‘It’s all right, she doesn’t mean you. Down, Prince. Good old dog, lie down then!’

‘Ah!’ the Prince said, showing his gleaming teeth in a smile of perfect comprehension. ‘There are two of us then, and this fine fellow is a prince also! It is very amusing! But you will not banish him on my account, I beg! I am very fond of dogs, I assure you.’

‘He oughtn’t to be in the drawing-room at all,’ said Ermyntrude. ‘He smells.’

‘Ah, poor fellow!’ said the Prince, sitting down, and stroking the spaniel. ‘Look, Trudinka, what sad eyes he makes at you! But you are a lucky prince, and I shall not pity you, for you are more lucky than I am, do you see, with a fine home of your own, which no Bolsheviki will burn to the ground.’

‘Is that what was done to your house?’ asked Ermyntrude, shocked.

He made a gesture with his hands. ‘Fortune of war, Trudinka. I am lucky that I have not also lost my life.’

‘How dreadful for you!’ said Mary, feeling that some remark was expected of her. ‘I didn’t know the Bolsheviks were as bad in Georgia.’

‘Did you lose everything?’ said Ermyntrude.

‘Everything!’ replied the Prince.

So comprehensive a statement, with the picture it conjured up of unspeakable privation, smote his audience into silence. Mary felt that it was prosaic to reflect that the Prince had exempted, in the largeness of his mind, his signet ring, and his gold cigarette-case, and perhaps some other trifles of the same nature.

Ermyntrude, easing the constraint of the moment, began to wonder, audibly, where Vicky could be. The Prince responded, with the effect of shaking off the dark thoughts his own words had evoked in his brain.

Vicky came in some little time after the tea-table had been spread before Ermyntrude. Mary had little patience with poses, but had too much humour not to appreciate the manner of this entrance.

The Sports Girl had vanished. Vicky was sinuous in a tea-gown that swathed her limbs in folds of chiffon, and trailed behind her over the floor. She came in with her hand resting lightly on the neck of the Borzoi, and paused for a moment, looking round with tragic vagueness. The Borzoi, lacking histrionic talent, escaped from the imperceptible restraint of her hand to investigate the Prince.

Ermyntrude found nothing to laugh at in the tea-gown, or the exotic air that hung about her daughter. Mentally she applauded a good entrance, and thought that Vicky looked lovely. She called her attention to the Prince, who had sprung to his feet.

Wally, in whom the sight of his stepdaughter outplaying his guest had engendered emotions that threatened to overcome him, very soon finished his tea, and withdrew, taking the dog – Prince – with him. Mary stayed on, a rather silent but interested spectator of the comedy being enacted before her. She had early written the Prince down as a fortune-hunter, and had wondered a little that he should waste his time on the married Ermyntrude. She now began to suspect that his designs were set on Vicky, for he devoted himself to her with the utmost gallantry, including Ermyntrude in the conversation merely to corroborate his various estimates of Vicky’s unplumbed soul.

After a time, Mary grew tired of listening to absurdities, and went away. She did not see the Prince again until dinner-time, but went to Vicky’s room, to remonstrate with her, as soon as she herself had changed her dress.

Vicky was engaged in rolling her fair locks into sophisticated curls upon the top of her head. She smiled happily at Mary, and said with disarming frankness: ‘I say, isn’t this grown-up, and rather repulsive? I feel frightfully femme fatale.’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t pose so much!’ said Mary. ‘Really, you’re making a complete ass of yourself. You can’t look like a femme fatale at nineteen.’

‘With eye-black, I can,’ replied Vicky optimistically.

‘Well, don’t. And if it’s for the Prince’s benefit, I think he’s phoney.’

‘Oh yes, so do I!’ Vicky assented.

‘Then why on earth bother to put on this sickening act?’