Westmoreland her father came to her in the middle of the day, and told her that John Grey was going to dine with him in Queen Anne Street on that evening.
“To-day, papa?” she asked.
“Yes, to-day. Why not? No man is less particular as to what he eats than Grey.”
“I was not thinking of that, papa,” she said.
To this Mr Vavasor made no reply, but stood for some minutes looking out of the window. Then he prepared to leave the room, getting himself first as far as the table, where he lifted a book, and then on halfway to the door before Alice arrested him.
“Perhaps, papa, you and Mr Grey had better dine alone.”
“What do you mean by alone?”
“I meant without me,—as two men generally like to do.”
“If I wanted that I should have asked him to dine at the club,” said Mr Vavasor, and then he again attempted to go.
“But, papa—”
“Well, my dear! If you mean to say that because of what has passed you object to meet Mr Grey, I can only tell you it’s nonsense,—confounded nonsense. If he chooses to come there can be no reason why you shouldn’t receive him.”
“It will look as though—”
“Look what?”
“As though he were asked as my guest.”
“That’s nonsense. I saw him yesterday, and I asked him to come. I saw him again to-day, and he said he would come. He’s not such a fool as to suppose after that, that you asked him.”
“No; not that I asked him.”
“And if you run away you’ll only make more of the thing than it’s worth. Of course I can’t make you dine with me if you don’t like.”
Alice did not like it, but, after some consideration, she thought that she might be open to the imputation of having made more of the thing than it was worth if she ran away, as her father called it. She was going to leave the country for some six or eight months,—perhaps for a longer time than that, and it might be as well that she should have an opportunity of telling her plans to Mr Grey. She could do it, she thought, in such a way as to make him understand that her last quarrel with George Vavasor was not supposed to alter the footing on which she stood with him. She did not doubt that her father had told everything to Mr Grey. She knew well enough what her father’s wishes still were. It was not odd that he should be asking John Grey to his house, though such exercises of domestic hospitality were very unusual with him. But,—so she declared to herself,—such little attempts on his part would be altogether thrown away. It was a pity that he had not yet learned to know her better. She would receive Mr Grey as the mistress of her father’s house now, for the last time; and then, on her return in the following year, he would be at Nethercoats, and the whole thing would be over.
She dressed herself very plainly, simply changing one black frock for another, and then sat herself in her drawing-room awaiting the two gentlemen. It was already past the hour of dinner before her father came upstairs. She knew that he was in the house, and in her heart she accused him of keeping out of the way, in order that John Grey might be alone with her. Whether or no she were right in her suspicions John Grey did not take advantage of the opportunity offered to him. Her father came up first, and had seated himself silently in his armchair before the visitor was announced.
As Mr Grey entered the room Alice knew that she was flurried, but still she managed to carry herself with some dignity. His bearing was perfect. But then, as she declared to herself afterwards, no possible position in life would put him beside himself. He came up to her with his usual quiet smile,—a smile that was genial even in its quietness, and took her hand. He took it fairly and fully into his; but there was no squeezing, no special pressure, no lovemaking. And when he spoke to her he called her Alice, as though his doing so was of all things the most simply a matter of course. There was no telltale hesitation in his voice. When did he ever hesitate at anything? “I hear you are going abroad,” he said, “with your cousin, Lady Glencora Palliser.”
“Yes,” said Alice; “I am going with them for a long tour. We shall not return, I fancy, till the end of next winter.”
“Plans of that sort are as easily broken as they are made,” said her father. “You won’t be your own mistress; and I advise you not to count too surely upon getting further than Baden.”
“If Mr Palliser changes his mind of course I shall come home,” said Alice, with a little attempt at a smile.
“I should think him a man not prone to changes,” said Grey. “But all London is talking about his change of mind at this moment. They say at the clubs that he might have been in the Cabinet if he would, but that he has taken up this idea of going abroad at the moment when he was wanted.”
“It’s his wife’s doing, I take it,” said Mr Vavasor.
“That’s the worst of being in Parliament,” said Grey. “A man can’t do anything without giving a reason for it. There must be men for public life, of course; but, upon my word, I think we ought to be very much obliged to them.”
Alice, as she took her old lover’s arm, and walked down with him to dinner, thought of all her former quarrels with him on this very subject. On this very point she had left him. He had never argued the matter with her. He had never asked her to argue with him. He had not condescended so far as that. Had he done so, she thought that she would have brought herself to think as he thought. She would have striven, at any rate, to do so. But she could not become unambitious, tranquil, fond of retirement, and philosophic, without an argument on the matter,—without being allowed even the poor grace of owning herself to be convinced. If a man takes a dog with him from the country up to town, the dog must live a town life without knowing the reason why;—must live a town life or die a town death. But a woman should not be treated like a dog. “Had he deigned to discuss it with me!” Alice had so often said. “But, no; he will read his books, and I am to go there to fetch him his slippers, and make his tea for him.” All this came upon her again as she walked downstairs by his side; and with it there came a consciousness that she had been driven by this usage into the terrible engagement which she had made with her cousin. That, no doubt, was now over. There was no longer to her any question of her marrying George Vavasor. But the fact that she had been mad enough to think and talk of such a marriage, had of itself been enough to ruin her. “Things of that sort are so often over with you!” After such a speech as that to her from her father, Alice told herself that there could be no more “things of that sort” for her. But all her misery had been brought about by this scornful superiority to the ordinary pursuits of the world,—this looking down upon humanity. “It seems to me,” she said, very quietly, while her hand was yet upon his arm, “that your pity is hardly needed. I should think that no persons can be happier than those whom you call our public men.”
“Ah!” said he, “that is our old quarrel.” He said it as though the quarrel had simply been an argument between them, or a dozen arguments,—as arguments do come up between friends; not as though it had served to separate for life two persons who had loved each other dearly. “It’s the old story of the town mouse and the country mouse,—as old as the hills. Mice may be civil for a while, and compliment each other; but when they come to speak their minds freely, each likes his own life best.” She said nothing more at the moment, and the three sat down to their small dinner-table. It was astonishing to Alice that he should be able to talk in this
