THE PICKERINGS’

CHAPTER I

EXCUSES

POOR Madeline came into the room a little flustered and hustled, with papers in her muff. She found Bertha looking lovely and serene as usual.

Madeline Irwin was a modern-looking girl of twenty-three; tall, thin, smart and just the right shape; not pretty, but very sympathetic, with thick dark hair and strongly marked eyebrows, a rather long and narrow face, delicately modelled, a clear white complexion, and soft, sincere brown eyes.

Bertha—Mrs. Percy Kellynch—was known as a beauty. She was indeed improbably pretty, small, plump and very fair, with soft golden hair that was silky and yet fluffy, perfectly regular little features, and a kind of infantine sweetness, combined with an almost incredible cleverness that was curious and fascinating. She was of a type remote equally from the fashion-plate and the suffragette, and was so physically attractive that one could hardly be near her without longing to put out a finger and touch her soft, fair face or her soft hair; as one would like to touch a kitten or a pretty child. And yet one felt that it would not be an entirely safe thing to do; like the child or the kitten she might scratch or run away. But it is probable that a large average of her acquaintance had been weak enough—or strong enough—to give way to the temptation and take the risk.

This charming little creature sat in a room furnished in clear, pale colours—that was pink, white and blonde like herself. Madeline sat down without greeting her, saying in a scolding voice, as she rustled a letter:

“He’s refused again … more excuses … always, always excuses!”

“Well, all the better; excuses are a form of compliment. I’d far rather have a lot of apology and attenuation than utter coolness,” said Bertha consolingly. She had a low, even voice, and rarely made a gesture. Her animation was all in her eyes. They were long, bluish-grey, with dark lashes, and very expressive.

“Oh, you’d like a man to write and say that he couldn’t come to dinner because it was his mother’s birthday, and he always dined with her on that occasion, and besides he was in deep mourning, and had influenza, and was going to the first night at the St. James’s, and was expecting some old friends up from the country to stay with him, and would be out of town shooting at the time?”

“Certainly; so much inventive ingenuity is most flattering. Don’t you think it’s better than to say on the telephone that he wouldn’t be able to come that evening as he wouldn’t be able to; and then ring off?” said Bertha.

“Rupert would never do that! He’s intensely polite; politeness is ingrained in his nature. I’m rather hopeless about it all; and yet when I think how sometimes when I speak to him and he doesn’t answer but gives that slight smile …”

“How well I know that slight, superior smile—discouraging yet spurring you on to further efforts! … Rupert—Rupert! What a name! How can people be called Rupert? It isn’t done, you’re not living in a feuilleton, you must change the man’s name, dear.”

“Indeed I sha’n’t! Nonsense; it’s a beautiful name! Rupert Denison! It suits him; it suits me. Bertha, you can’t deny it’s a handsome, noble face, like a Vandyke portrait of Charles I, or one of those people in the National Gallery. And he must take a certain amount of interest in me, because he wants me to learn more, to be more cultured. He’s so accomplished! He knows simply everything. The other day he sent me a book about the early Italian masters.”

“Did he, though? How jolly!”

“A little volume of Browning, too—that tiny edition, beautifully bound.”

Bertha made an inarticulate sound.

“And you know he found out my birthday, and sent me a few dark red roses and Ruskin’s Stones of Venice.”

“Nothing like being up to date,” said Bertha. “Right up to the day after to-morrow! Rupert always is. How did he find out your birthday?”

“How do you suppose?”

“I can’t think. By looking in Who’s Who?—going to Somerset House or the British Museum?”

“How unkind you are! Of course not. No—I told him.”

“Ah, I thought perhaps it was some ingenious plan like that. I should think that’s the way he usually finds out things—by being told.”

“Bertha, why do you sneer at him?”

“Did I?—I didn’t mean to. Why does he behave like a belated schoolmaster?”

“Behave like a—oh, Bertha!”

Madeline was trying to be offended, but she could not succeed. It was nearly impossible to be angry with Bertha, when she was present. There were many reasons for this. Bertha had a small arched mouth, teeth that were tiny and white and marvellously regular, a dimple in her left cheek, long eyelashes that gave a veiled look to the eyes, and a generally very live-wax-dollish appearance which was exceedingly disarming. There was a touch, too, of the china shepherdess about her. But, of course, she was not really like a doll, nor remote from life; she was very real, living and animated; though she had for the connoisseur all the charm of an exquisite bibelot that is not for sale.

Bertha was twenty-eight, but looked younger than her age. Madeline might have been her senior. Under this peachlike appearance, and with the premeditated ïté of her manner, she was always astonishing people by her penetration and general ingenuity; she was at once very quick and very deep—quick especially to perceive and enjoy incongruities, and deep in understanding them; extremely observant, and not in the least superficial. Almost her greatest interest was the study of character; she had an intellectual passion for going below the surface, and finding out the little coins inédits of the soul. She was rather unpractical, but only in execution, and she had the gift of getting the practical side of life well done for her, not letting it be neglected. Her bonbonnière of a drawing-room seemed to be different from ordinary rooms, though one hardly knew in what; partly from the absence of superfluities; and somehow after many a triumph over the bewilderment of a sulky yet dazzled decorator, Bertha had contrived, in baffling him, to make the house look distinguished without being unconventional; dainty without being artificial; she had made it suit her perfectly and, what was more, the