towards me, Charles?”
“There was that little affair of Mr. Benjamin’s catalogue, you know,” he reflected. “Then the number and variety of your admirers keeps me disquieted. By the by, where is His Highness?”
“Your namesake?”
“Yes.”
“From Zürich I telephone,” she confided. “It is possible that he is at Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo would suit me very well for a short time unless something more amusing suggested itself. What are your plans, Charles?”
“Already,” he told her severely, “you have begun to interfere with them. That box is full of papers, most of which need destroying. I ought to begin work on them at once.”
Her eyes, he decided, were beautiful even at this time in the morning, although they rather resembled a cat’s. They were watching him sleepily yet intently.
“I do not wish to interfere with your work,” she said. “I will help you.”
“I am not yet sufficiently awake,” he confessed. “Perhaps I will doze a little longer.”
“But you are ungallant,” she complained. “I know what I will do. I have a thermos full of coffee here. I will give you a cup. Then you will wake up. You will be your old self. How is that? What do you say?”
She drew her dressing-case a little closer to her and unlocked it. She brought out a very beautiful thermos and two collapsible cups. She filled them with coffee and held one out towards him. He shook his head.
“You will excuse me,” he begged, glancing at his watch. “I had coffee at the hotel. Before long I shall shock you by bringing out a little apparatus of my own which makes something more palatable.”
“You will not take a half a cup?” she pleaded. “It is of my own making.”
He shook his head again.
“Don’t let me stop you, though.”
She poured the contents of the cups carefully back into the thermos.
“I will wait,” she murmured.
“If you wait for me to drink that coffee,” he said gently, “you will wait a long time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that I do not drink coffee in the middle of the morning,” he replied. “Do not let us bandy words any longer, Baroness—or Beatrice—which you like. I must think and I must think very hard.”
“What about?”
“I must try to solve the question which is at present puzzling me. I must try to find out why you have chosen to board this train and why I opened my eyes to find you staring at that tin box.”
“All these things you could find out quickly,” she assured him, “if you would give me your own confidence.”
“And in return?”
“What do you want?” she asked. “Not me, I am afraid. Never have I gone so near offering myself to anyone as I have to you. All the time you keep me at a distance. At night I begin to look for the crow’s-feet round my eyes. I look at my body before the glass. I ask myself what you can find fault with. Sometimes I fancy that your voice grows a little kinder. The moment passes and the suspicions are all back again, the cold light is fixed in your eyes. And I could do so much for you!”
He threw down the window and looked out. They were passing across a great stretch of upland country and a fresh tingling wind from the distant mountains was blowing in their faces. He moved to the other side of the carriage and glanced down the corridor. The train seemed packed with a monumental burden of human beings, men and women from every walk of life, from a little herd of terrified Jews to the scattered members of a British touring company. The heat was overpowering. People were wedged together in the corridors until there was scarcely room for them to breathe. The air which swept through the window brought fresh life with it. The smell of the fields and woods seemed to chase away the heavy odours of the overcrowded train. Charles turned and dabbled his fingers in the tiny toilet basin and passed them over his eyes. He took Eau de Cologne from his dressing-case and offered it to his companion. She moistened her hands and lips.
“My bath this morning was a farce,” he remarked. “It was five o’clock and the water was unheated. A swim in some southern sea, and a sun bath afterwards, I think that is what we need.”
“We could have it,” she murmured.
“Ah, my dear, but there is work to be done,” he reminded her. “There is work before me now.”
“Where do you sleep to-night?”
“How can I tell.” he answered. “Somewhere in Switzerland, I hope.”
“There is always a doubt,” she said, “whether we shall cross the frontier to-night. There is another huge train behind ours. I cannot really see how everyone can expect to get through the Customs. Is this all your luggage?” she concluded, looking round the coupé,
“I have clothes in Switzerland.”
“Clothes and what?”
“It is the curse of my life,” he sighed, “that I can never answer a beautiful woman in the way she sometimes deserves. I ought to tell you firmly and unmistakably not to seek to penetrate into my secrets and instead of that I find myself telling you very gently that much though I appreciate your interest in my affairs I should prefer your abandoning this habit of perpetually teasing me with questions.”
“You are a tantalizing person, Charles.”
“You will like me better presently when I tell you something.”
She moved a little closer to him.
“What is it, please?”
“I possess a luncheon basket.”
Disappointment gleamed for a moment in her eyes.
“You are so very British,” she said. “I, too, love to eat and I shall certainly be hungry by and by but there are other things I like better.”
“Yes?”
“I love kindness and kind words. I am a soft woman. I love affection. I love love. I really do not think you understand what Austrian women are like, Charles.”
He was silent for several moments. When he spoke again she might well have believed that she had made progress.
“It is a pity,” he complained, “that women, so lovable in themselves, should devote their lives as they so often do to unworthy purposes. I can imagine you, Beatrice, as a wonderful wife, a delightful companion, an excellent mother. The trouble seems to be that nowadays a woman does not find these things sufficient. She peers into the men’s world of strife and struggle and she fosters unsuitable ambitions. The Viennese world, the little I have seen of it, is inclined to be artificial, Beatrice. The realities arc not sufficient. From the manicurist to the Princess, all women seem to be searching for something in life which they will never find.”
