The Price of Things | Page 9

a wedding was a most agreeable thing!
And could she have penetrated into the thoughts of John Ardayre, this
is the prayer she would have heard, as he knelt there beside her at the
altar rails: "Oh, God, keep the axe from falling yet, give me a son."
The most curious emotions of excitement rose in her when they went
off in the smart new automobile en route for that inevitable country
house "lent by the bridegroom's uncle, the Earl de la Paule, for the first
days of the honeymoon."

This particular mansion was on the river, only two hours' drive from
her aunt's Charles Street door. Now that she was his wife, surely John
would begin to make love to her, real love, kisses, claspings, and what
not. For Elsie Goldmore had presumed upon their schoolgirl friendship
and been quite explicate in these last days, and in any case Amaryllis
was not a miss of the Victorian era. The feminine world has grown too
unrefined in the expression of its private affairs and too indiscreet for
any maiden to remain in ignorance now.
It is true John did kiss her once or twice, but there was no real warmth
in the embrace, and when, after an excellent dinner her heart began to
beat with wonderment and excitement, she asked herself what it meant.
Then, all confused, she murmured something about "Good-night," and
retired to the magnificent state suite alone.
When she had left him John Ardayre drank down a full glass of
Benedictine and followed her up the stairs, but there was no lover's
exaltation, but an anguish almost of despair in his eyes.
Amaryllis thought of that night--and of other nights since--as she sat
there at Arménonville, in the luminous sensuous dusk.
So this was being married! Well, it was not much of a joy--and why,
why did John sit silent there? Why?
Surely this is not how the Russian would have sat--that strange
Russian!

CHAPTER III
It was nearing sunset in the garden below the Trocadéro. A tall German
officer waited impatiently not far from the bronze of a fierce bull in a
secluded corner under the trees; he was plainly an officer although he
was clothed in mufti of English make. He was a singularly handsome
creature in spite of his too wide hips. A fine, sensual, brutal male.

He swore in his own language, and then, through the glorious light, a
woman came towards him. She wore an unremarkable overcoat and a
thick veil.
"Hans!" she exclaimed delightedly, and then went on in fluent German
with a strong American accent.
He looked round to be sure that they were alone, and then he clasped
her in his arms. He held her so tightly that she panted for breath; he
kissed her until her lips were bruised, and he murmured guttural words
of endearment that sounded like an animal's growl.
The woman answered him in like manner. It was as though two brute
beasts had met.
Then presently they sat upon a seat and talked in low tones. The
woman protested and declaimed; the man grumbled and demanded. An
envelope passed between them, and more crude caresses, and before
they parted the man again held her in close embrace--biting the lobe of
her ear until she gave a little scream.
"Yes--if there was time--" she gasped huskily. "I should adore you like
this--but here--in the gardens--Oh! do mind my hat!"
Then he let her go--they had arranged a future meeting. And left alone,
he sat down upon the bench again and laughed aloud.
The woman almost ran to the road at the bottom and jumped into a
waiting taxi, and once inside she brought out a gold case with mirror
and powder puff, and red greases for her lips.
"My goodness! I can't say that's a mosquito!" and she examined her ear.
"How tiresome and imprudent of Hans! But Jingo, it was good!--if
there only had been time--"
Then she, too, laughed as she powdered her face, and when she alighted
at the door of the Hotel du Rhin, no marks remained of conflict except
the telltale ear.

But on encountering her maid, she was carrying her minute Pekinese
dog in her arms and was beating him well.
"Regardez, Marie! la vilaine bête m'a mordu l'oreil!"
"Tiens!" commented the affronted Marie, who adored Fou-Chou. "Et le
cher petit chien de Madame est si doux!"
* * * * *
Stanislass Boleski was poring over a voluminous bundle of papers
when his wife, clad in a diaphanous wrap, came into his sitting room.
They had a palatial suite at the Rhin. The affairs of Poland were not
prospering as he had hoped, and these papers required his supreme
attention--there was German intrigue going on somewhere underneath.
He longed for