Paths of Glory

“Did you defeat my father at billiards, by any chance, Mr. Mallory?” she eventually offered.

“Yes, I did, Miss Turner,” said George as Atkins placed a cup of coffee by her side.

“That would explain why he was so argumentative during dinner.” She took a sip of her coffee before adding, “Should he invite you again, Mr. Mallory, perhaps it might be more diplomatic to let him win.”

“I’m afraid I could never agree to that, Miss Turner.”

“But why not, Mr. Mallory?”

“Because it would reveal a weakness in my character that she might find out about.”

“She?” repeated Ruth, genuinely puzzled.

“Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.”

“But my father told me that it was Everest that you were hoping to conquer.”

“‘Everest’ is the name the English have labeled her with, but it’s not the one she answers to.”

“Your coffee will be getting cold, Mr. Mallory,” said Ruth as she glanced across the room.

“Thank you, Miss Turner,” he said, taking a sip.

“And are you hoping to become better acquainted with this goddess?” she inquired.

“In time, perhaps, Miss Turner. But not before one or two other ladies have fallen under my spell.”

She looked at him more quizzically. “Anyone in particular?”

“Madame Matterhorn,” he replied. “It’s my intention to leave a calling card during the Easter vacation.” He took another sip of his cold coffee before asking, “And where will you be spending Easter, Miss Turner?”

“Father is taking us to Venice in April. A city that I suspect would not meet with your approval, Mr. Mallory, as it languishes only a few feet above sea level.”

“It’s not only elevation that matters, Miss Turner. ‘Underneath day’s azure eyes, ocean’s nursling, Venice lies, a peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite’s destined halls.’”

“So you admire Shelley,” said Ruth as she placed her empty cup back on a side table.

George was about to reply when the clock on the mantelpiece struck once to indicate that it was half past the hour. Andrew rose from his place and, turning to his host, said, “It’s been a delightful evening, sir, but perhaps the time has come for us to take our leave.”

George glanced at his watch: 10:30. The last thing he wanted to do was take his leave, but Turner was already on his feet, and Marjorie was heading toward him. She gave him a warm smile. “I do hope that you’ll come and see us again soon, Mr. Mallory.”

“I hope so too,” said George, while still looking in Ruth’s direction.

Mr. Turner smiled. He might not have defeated Mallory, but one of his daughters certainly had the measure of him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13TH, 1914

GEORGE DIDN’T WANT Andrew to discover what he was up to.

He couldn’t get Ruth out of his mind. He had never come

across such serene beauty, such delightful company, and all he had managed to do, when left alone with her, was stare into those blue eyes and make a complete fool of himself. And the more she smiled at Andrew, the more desperate he had become, quite unable to come up with a witty comment, or even to manage polite conversation.

How much he had wanted to hold her hand, but Mildred had kept distracting him, allowing Andrew to retain Ruth’s attention. Did she have any interest in him at all or had Andrew already spoken to her father? During dinner he had watched the two of them deep in conversation. He had to find out what they had talked about. He had never felt so pathetic in his life.

George had observed smitten men in the past, and had simply dismissed them as deluded fools. But now he had joined their number and, even worse, his goddess appeared to favor another creature. Andrew isn’t worthy of her, George said out loud before he fell asleep. But then he realized that neither was he.