THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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I warn you, too," he told her, "I've had enough of you and Rice."
"Oh, don't be a fool, and start that Middle Ages stuff all over again. You've nothing on me. I'm free to do as I like. I can chuck you—and I will, too—if you persist in being impossible. I've my own money."
"Perhaps, that's why I'm anxious to keep you," said Newton. "Don't forget, this family runs to brains."
The anger faded from Simone's face and she looked at her husband with a flicker of real interest. Swayed by her senses and desires, she had deliberately stunted her own intellect. She despised cleverness in a woman, since she believed she needed only instinct, in order to explore every part of the territory—man.
Because it was an unfamiliar dimension, she respected a masculine brain. She married Newton, in spite of his ugly face, for the sake of the uncharted region behind his bulging forehead. Intensive spoiling had made her care only for the unattainable.
Her series of affairs with ardent undergraduates had made no impression on her, because they were too easy. Newton could have held her, had he persisted in his pose of indifference.
Unfortunately, his jealousy of Stephen Rice's good looks had dragged him down from his heights and into the arena.
There was mutual dislike between them, on the score of an old episode which had sent Rice down from Oxford. For this reason, Stephen played Simone's game, whenever her husband was present, on purpose to annoy him.
At the drawing-room door, Simone turned and spoke to her husband.
"I'm going upstairs, alone."
Newton stared at her, and then sullenly sank down again in his chair. A minute later, he threw down his book, and walked softly up the stairs, as far as the first landing where he stood, listening.
Simone had reached the second floor, but she did not enter the red room. Instead, she scraped with her finger on the panel of Stephen's door.
"Steve," she called.
Stephen was stretched on the bed, smoking, while the Alsatian lay beside him, his head on his master's chest.
At the sound of Simone's knock, Stephen grimaced to him, as a sign to him to remain silent.
The dog showed the lining of his ears, while his eyes rolled, revealing their whites. Simone knocked louder and rattled the door-handle.
"Don't come in," shouted Stephen. "I'm dressing."
"Then hurry. I want to see you."
Simone sauntered back to the big red room, to find her husband already in possession.
"No luck?" he asked casually, as he took off his coat.
"I told you not to follow me," she said.
"I didn't. I merely moved, in obedience to the natural law. Even glaciers travel—although we don't see them do it."
"If you travelled at their rate, I shouldn't complain."
Simone crossed to the wardrobe and took out the black velvet dinner gown, which she had worn since her arrival at the Summit.
Rejecting it in favour of a backless gown of pale-pink angel-skin, she drew it over her head.
"Excellent taste for a family dinner, in the wilds," sneered Newton.
Simone looked at him defiantly. "I'm not wearing it for the benefit of your family," she told him.
She felt his eyes upon her, watching every process of making up her complexion.
"A touch of perfume behind the ears," he advised. "No man can resist it."
"Thanks for the reminder."
Simone finished her toilet—eyes brilliant with temper and her lips compressed. When she went out of the room, she deliberately flung the door wide open, so that her husband could hear her footsteps cross the landing to the bachelor's room.
"Steve," she called. "I want to speak to you."
"Oh—all right."
The pupil appeared, looked both crumpled and sulky.
"Your hair's untidy," said Simone, putting up her hands to part his heavy wave.
"Don't." He shook his head impatiently. "I detest fiddling."
"But I like doing it."
"Then keep on doing it, my dear."
Stephen ceased to protest, for the reason that he heard footsteps behind him. He looked up at Newton with a malicious grin.
"You'll get the benefit of this, Warren," he said, "Your wife's practising on me,"
The veins swelled on Newton's temples as he watched his wife's bare arms clasped around Stephen's neck. With a laugh and a backward sweep of her hand, she rumpled his hair until it stood up in a mop.
"There—you're finished," she declared.
Newton burst into a hoot of amusement at Stephen's discomfiture.
"He looks like Harpo," he said. "I hope my wife will continue to use you as her model, so long as she spares me that."
Simone glanced at her husband's stubborn crest.
"Where's the difference?" she asked. "Stephen, you've not admired my new dress."
Although the young man had not even noticed her finery, he stressed his admiration for Newton's benefit.
"Well. I'm bowled over. Beautiful—and most revealing. I'll never mistake you for a nun again."
Newton's mouth tightened and his glasses magnified the ugly gleam in his eyes, Stephen was self-conscious and truculent as Simone slowly revolved to display a back which had been pronounced perfect.
The scene appeared an ordinary exhibition of herd-instinct, complicated by a frustrated sense of ownership. Yet each released current of human passion was another tributary to swell the tidal-wave which, later, would sweep Helen away, like a straw on flood-water.
Newton turned away, with an affected shrug.
"I'm afraid my wife's dresses are not the same novelty to me," he said, "Oh—by the way, Rice—what have you done with that dog?"
"He's in my bedroom," snapped Stephen.
"In a bedroom? Really, than going too far. It's hardly fair to the lady of the house. If you take my advice, you'll put him in the garage for the night."
"I'll take nothing from you," snarled Stephen.
"Not even my wife? Many thanks."
Whistling in apparent unconcern, Newton strolled down the stairs, without a backward glance.
Stephen bristled with defensive instinct, although he knew that Newton's attitude was reasonable.
"Hanged if I'll park the pup in that draughty hole," he stormed. "He stays here—or I go with him,"
"For Heaven's sake, forget the dog," exclaimed Simone. "Tell me if you really like my dress."
"What there is of it," remarked Stephen, reverting to type, since Newton had gone. "I'm keen on seeing how a boxer strips, when I've backed him; but I don't care about bare backs out of the ring."
"You brute," Simone cried, "I put it on for you. I want you to remember our last night. And me."
"Sorry, my dear," said Stephen lightly. "But I'm going to the Bull after dinner."
Simone's eyes blazed with sudden passion.
"You're going to see that tow-headed barmaid,"
"Whitey? Yes. But I'm going to see something else, too. Beer. Glorious beer."
"Stay with me, instead. You're the only man I've ever had to ask before."
Stephen stuck out his lip, like a spoiled child. He wanted an evening of masculine society—the