They had dined late and soon after eleven the Princess called for her bill. When it grew evident that they were about to go, the violinist who had played to them came forward with a plate. There were a few coins on it from diners at other tables and some small notes. What they thus received was the band's only remuneration. Mary opened her bag.
"Don't bother," said Rowley. "I'll give him a trifle."
He took a ten-lira note out of his pocket and put it on the plate.
"I'd like to give him something too," said Mary. She laid a hundred-lira note on the others. The man looked surprised, gave Mary a searching look, bowed slightly and withdrew.
"What on earth did you give him that for?" exclaimed Rowley. "That's absurd."
"He plays so badly and he looks so wretched."
"But they don't expect anything like that!"
"I know. That's why I gave it. It'll mean so much to him. It may make all the difference to his life."
The Italian members of the party drove off in their respective cars and the Princess took the Trails in hers.
"You might drop Rowley at his hotel, Mary," she said. "He's right out of my way."
"Would you mind?" he asked.
Mary had a suspicion that this plan had been arranged beforehand, for she knew how the lewd old woman loved to forward love affairs and Rowley was a favourite of hers. but there seemed no possibility of refusing so reasonable a request and so she answered that of course she would be delighted. They got into her car and drove along the quay. The full moon flooded their way with radiance. They spoke little. Rowley had a feeling that she was occupied with thoughts in which he had no part and he did not wish to disturb them. But when they came to his hotel he said:
"It's such a gorgeous night; it seems a pity to waste it by going to bed; wouldn't you drive on a little? You're not sleepy, are you?"
"No."
"Let's drive into the country."
"Isn't it rather late for that?"
"Are you afraid of the country or afraid of me?"
"Neither."
She drove on. She followed the course of the river, and presently they were going through fields with only a cottage here and there by the roadside or, a little way back, a white farmhouse with tall cypresses that stood black and solemn against the moonlight.
"Are you going to marry Edgar Swift?" he asked suddenly.
She looked round at him.
"Did you know I was thinking of him?"
"How should I?"
She paused for a while before she answered.
"Before he went away today he asked me to. I said I'd give him an answer when he got back."
"You're not in love with him, then?"
Mary slowed up. It looked as though she wanted to talk.
"What makes you think that?"
"If you had been you wouldn't have wanted three days to think it over. You'd have said yes there and then."
"I suppose that's true. No, I'm not in love with him."
"He's in love with you all right."
"He was a friend of my father's and I've known him all my life. He was wonderfully kind to me when I wanted kindness, and I'm grateful to him."
"He must he twenty years older than you."
"Twenty-four."
"Are you dazzled by the position he can give you?"
"I daresay. Don't you think most women would be? After all, I'm not inhuman."
"Do you think it would be much fun to live with a man you weren't in love with?"
"But I don't want love. I'm fed to the teeth with love."
She said this so violently that Rowley was startled.
"That's a strange thing to say at your age."
They were well out in the country now, on a narrow road; the full moon shone down from an unclouded sky. She stopped the car.
"You see, I was madly in love with my husband. They told me I was a fool to marry him; they said he was a gambler and a drunkard; I didn't care. He wanted me to marry him so much. He had plenty of money then, but I'd have married him if he hadn't had a cent. You don't know how charming he was in those days, so good to look at, so gay and light-hearted. The fun we used to have together! He had immense vitality. He was so kind and gentle and sweet-when he was sober. When he was drunk he was noisy and boastful and vulgar and quarrelsome. It was terribly distressing; I used to be so ashamed. I couldn't be angry with him; he was so sorry afterwards; he didn't want to drink; when he was alone with me he was as sober as anyone, it was only when there were other people there that he got excited, and after two or three drinks there was no holding him; then I used to wait till he was so blasé that he let me lead him away and at last I could put him to bed. I did everything I knew to cure him, it was useless; it's no good. I don't believe a drunk can ever be cured. And I was forced into the position of nurse and keeper. It irritated him beyond endurance when I tried to restrain him, but what else could I do? It was so difficult, I didn't want him to look upon me as a sort of governess, but I had to do what I could to keep him from drinking. Sometimes I couldn't help flying into a passion with him and then we'd have an awful row. You see, he was a dreadful gambler and when he was drunk he'd lose hundreds of pounds. If he hadn't died when he did he'd have gone bankrupt and I should have had to go back to the stage to keep him. As it is I have a few hundreds a year and the bits and pieces of jewellery he gave me when we were first married. Sometimes he wouldn't come back all night and then I knew he'd got blind and picked up the first woman he met. At first I used to be furiously jealous and unhappy, but at last I got to prefer it, for if he didn't do that he'd come home and make love to me with his breath stinking of whisky, all hunched up, his face distorted, and I knew it wasn't love that made him passionate but drink, just drink. I or another woman, it made no difference, and his kisses made me sick and his desire horrified and mortified me. And when he'd satisfied his lust he'd sink into the snoring sleep of drunkenness. You're surprised that I should say I was fed to the teeth with love. For years I only knew the humiliation of it."
"But why didn't you leave him?"
"How could I leave him? He was so dependent on me. When anything went wrong, if he got into trouble, if he was ill, it was me he came to for help. He clung to me like a child." Her voice broke. "He was so broken then that my heart bled for him. Though he was unfaithful to me, though he hid himself from me so that he could drink without restraint, though I exasperated him sometimes so that, he hated me, deep down he always loved me, he knew I'd never let him down and he knew that except for me he'd go all to pieces. He was so beastly when he was drunk he had no friends, only the riff-raff that sponged on him and bled him and robbed him; he knew I was the only person in the world who cared if he lived or died and I knew that I was the only person who stood between him and absolute ruin. And when he died, in my arms, I was broken-hearted."
The tears were flowing down Mary's face and she made no effort to restrain them. Rowley, thinking perhaps that it would relieve her to cry, sat still and said no word. Presently he lit a cigarette.
"Give me one too. I'm being stupid."
He took a cigarette out of his case and handed it to her.
"I'd like my handkerchief. It's in my bag."
The bag was between them and when he opened it to find her handkerchief he was surprised to feel a revolver.
"What have you got a gun here for?"
"Edgar didn't like the idea of my driving about alone. He made me promise to take it. I know it's idiotic." But the new subject that Rowley had brought up helped her to regain her self-control. "I'm sorry to have got so emotional."
"When did your husband die?"
"A year ago. And now I'm thankful he died. I know now that my life was wretched with him and he had nothing to look forward to but hopeless misery."
"He was young to die, wasn't he?"
"He was smashed up in a motor accident. He was drunk. He was driving at sixty miles an hour and skidded on a slippery road. He died in a few hours. Mercifully I was able to get to him. His last words were: I've always loved you, Mary." She sighed. "His death has given us both freedom."
For a little while they sat and smoked in silence. Rowley lit another cigarette on the stub of the first.
"Are you sure you're not committing yourself to a slavery just as great when you marry a man who means nothing to you?" he asked, as though their conversation had gone on without interruption.
"How well do you know Edgar?"
"I've met him fairly often during the five or six weeks he's been here dangling at your skirts. He's the Empire builder; it's not a type that has ever very much appealed to me."
Mary giggled.
"No, I should hardly think it would. He's strong, he's clever, he's trustworthy."
"Everything I'm not, in short."
"Can't we leave you out of it for the minute?"
"All right. Go on with his virtues."
"He's kind and considerate. He's ambitious. He's a man who has done great things and he'll do still greater in future. It may be I can help him. I can't hope that you'll think it anything but idiotic when I tell you that I should like to be of some use in the world."
"You haven't got a very good opinion of me, have you?"
"No, I haven't," chuckled Mary.
'I wonder why?"
"If you'd like to know I'll tell you," she answered coolly. "Because you're a waster and a rotter. Because you think of nothing but having a good time and as many women as are fools enough to fall for you."
"I look upon that as a very accurate description. I was lucky enough to inherit an income which made it unnecessary for me to earn my living. Do you think I should have got some job that would have taken the bread out of the mouth of a poor devil who needed it? So far as I know I've only got this one life to dispose of. I like it awfully. I'm in the fortunate position of being able to live for living's sake. What a fool I should be if I didn't make the most of my opportunities! I like women, and strangely enough they like me. I'm young and I know youth doesn't last for ever. Why shouldn't I have as good a time as I can while I have the chance?"
"It would be hard to find a greater contrast to Edgar."
"I agree. It may be that I'd be easier to live with. I should certainly be more fun."
"You forget that Edgar wishes to marry me. You are suggesting a much more temporary arrangement."
"What makes you think that?"
"Well, for one thing, you happen to be married already."
"That's where you're mistaken. I was divorced a couple of months ago."
"You kept very quiet about it"
"Naturally. Women have funny ideas about marriage. It makes things easier all round if there's never any question of that. We all know where we are then."
"I see your point," smiled Mary. "Why should you divulge this guilty secret to me? With the idea that if I behaved myself and gave satisfaction you might in due course reward me with a wedding ring?"
"Darling, I'm quite intelligent enough to know you're no fool."
"You need not call me darling."
"Damn it all, I'm in process of making you a proposal of marriage."
"Are you? Why?"
"I don't think it's a bad idea. Do you?"
"Rotten. What on earth put it in your head?"
"It just occurred to me. You see, when you told me about your husband I suddenly realized that I was terribly fond of you. That's different from being in love, you know, but I'm in love too. I feel a great tenderness towards you."
"I'd rather you didn't say things like that. You are a devil, you seem to know instinctively what to say to melt a woman."
"I couldn't say them if I didn't feel them."
"Oh, shut up. It's lucky for you that I have a cool head and a sense of humour. Let's go back to Florence. I'll drop you at your hotel."
"Does that mean the answer is no?"
"It does."
"Why?"
"I'm sure it'll surprise you; I'm not in the least in love with you."
"It doesn't surprise me. I knew it; but you would be if you gave yourself half a chance."
"Modest fellow, aren't you? But I don't want to give myself half a chance."
"Are you determined to marry Edgar Swift?"
"Now I am, yes. Thank you for letting me talk to you. It was hard having no one I could talk to. You've helped me to make up my mind."
"I'm damned if I see how."
"Women don't reason in the same way that men do. All you've said, all I've said, the recollection of the life with my husband, the misery, the mortification—well, against that Edgar stands like a great rock; he's so strong and so staunch. I know I can rely on him; he'd never let me down, because he couldn't. He offers me security. I have so great an affection for him at this moment that it's almost love."
"It's rather a narrow road," said Rowley; "would you like me to turn the car for you?"
"I'm perfectly capable of turning my own car, thank you," she answered.
His remark had given her a moment's irritation, not because it reflected on her driving, but because for some reason it made what she had just said seem a trifle high-flown. He chuckled.
"There's a ditch on one side and a ditch on the other. I shall be vexed if you pitch me into either one or the other."
"Hold your bloody tongue," she said.
He lit a cigarette and watched her as she advanced, turned the wheel with an effort of all her strength, stopped the engine and started it again, put the clutch in reverse and gingerly backed, grew very hot, and eventually got the car round and set off on the homeward journey. They drove in silence till they reached the hotel. It was late now and the door was shut. Rowley made no attempt to get out.
"Here we are," said Mary.
"I know."
He sat silent for a moment or two staring straight in front of him. She gave him a questioning look and with a smile he turned to her.
"You're a fool, Mary, my dear. Oh, I know, you've turned me down. That's all right. Though I dare say I'd have made a better husband than you think. But you're a fool to marry a man twenty-five years older than yourself. How old are you? Thirty at the outside. You're not a fish. One only has to look at your mouth and the warmth of your eyes, and at the lines of your body, to know that you're a passionate and sensual woman. Oh, I know you had a rotten break. But at your age one recovers from those things; you'll fall in love again. D'you think you can ignore your sexual instincts? That beautiful body of yours is made for love; it won't allow you to deny it. You're too young to shut the door on life."
"You disgust me, Rowley. You talk as though bed were its aim and end."
"Have you never had a lover?"
"Never."
"Many men besides your husband must have loved you."
"I don't know. Some have said they did. You can't think how little they meant to me. I can't say I've resisted temptation; I've never been tempted."
"Oh, how can you waste your youth and beauty? They last so short a time. What's the good of riches if one does nothing with them? You're a kind woman and a generous one. Haven't you ever the desire to give of your riches?"
Mary was silent for an instant.
"Shall I tell you something? I’m afraid you'll think me even more foolish than you do."
"Very possibly. But tell me all the same."
"I should be a fool if I didn't know I was prettier than most women. It's true that sometimes I felt that I had something to give that might mean a great deal to the person I gave it to. Does that sound frightfully conceited?"
"No. It's the plain truth."
"I've had a lot of time to myself lately and I dare say I've wasted too much of it on idle thoughts. If ever I'd taken a lover it wouldn't have been a man like you. My poor Rowley, you're the last man I would ever have had an affair with. But I've sometimes thought that if I ever ran across someone who was poor, alone and unhappy, who'd never had any pleasure in life, who'd never known any of the good things money can buy—and if I could give him a unique experience, an hour of absolute happiness, something that he'd never dreamt of and that would never be repeated, then I'd give him gladly everything I had to give."
"I never heard such a crazy idea in my life!" cried Rowley.
"Well, now you know," she answered brightly. "So get out and let me drive home."
"Will you be all right alone?"
"Of course."
"Then good night. Marry your Empire-builder and be damned to you."
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