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Love at Second Sight

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<h3 id="id01602" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXIII</h3> A week later Aylmer and his son were sitting looking at each other in the old brown library. Teddy had come over for ten days' leave from somewhere in France. Everyone, except his father, was astonished how little he had changed. He seemed exactly the same, although he had gone through strange experiences. But Aylmer saw a different look in his eyes. He looked well and brisk—perhaps a little more developed and more manly; his shoulders, always rather thick and broad, seemed even broader, although he was thinner. But it was the expression of the eyes that had altered. Those eyes had seen things. In colour pale blue, they had a slightly strained look. They seemed paler. His sunburn increased his resemblance to his father, always very striking. Both had large foreheads, clearly cut features and square chins. Aylmer was, strictly speaking, handsomer. His features more refined, more chiselled. But Teddy had the additional charm of extreme youth—youth with the self-possession and ease that seemed, as it were, a copy—as his voice was an echo—of his father. The difference was in culture and experience. Teddy had gone out when he was just on the point of going to Balliol, yet seemed to have something of the Oxford manner, characteristic of his father—a manner suave, amiable, a little ironical. He had the unmistakable public-school look and his training had immensely improved his appearance. Aylmer was disappointed that the very first thing his son insisted on doing was to put on evening clothes and go to the Empire. That was where the difference in age told. Aylmer would not have gone to the Empire fresh from the fighting line. He made no objection, and concealed the tiniest ache that he felt when Teddy went out at once with Major Willis, an elder friend of his. Quite as old, Aylmer thought to himself, as he was. But not being a relative, he seemed of the same generation. The next evening Teddy spent at home, and sat with his father, who declared himself to be completely recovered, but was still not allowed to put his foot to the ground, Miss Clay was asked to sing to them. Her voice, as has been said, was a very beautiful one, a clear, fine soprano, with a timbre rare in quality, and naturally thrilling. She had not been taught well enough to be a public success perhaps, but was much more accomplished than the average amateur. Teddy delighted in it. She sang all the popular songs—she had a way that was almost humorous of putting refinement into the stupidest and vulgarest melody. And then she sang some of those technically poor but attaching melodies that, sung in a certain way, without sickening sentimentality or affectation, seem to search one's soul and bring out all that there is in one of romance. She looked very beautiful, that Aylmer admitted to himself, and she sang simply and charmingly; that he owned also. Why did it irritate him so intensely to see Teddy moved and thrilled, to see his eyes brighten, his colour rise and to see him obviously admiring the girl? When she made an excuse to leave them Teddy was evidently quite disappointed. The next day Aylmer limped down to the library. To his great surprise he heard voices in the room Dulcie used for her sitting-room. He heard Teddy begging her to sing to him again. He heard her refuse and then Teddy's voice asking her to go out to tea with him. Aylmer limped as loudly as he could, and they evidently heard him, but didn't mind in the least. He didn't want Miss Clay to stop at home. He was expecting Edith. 'Hang it, let them go!' he said to himself, and he wondered at himself. Why should he care? Why shouldn't she flirt with the boy if she liked, or rather—for he was too just not to own that it was no desire of hers—why shouldn't the boy make up to her? Whatever the reason was, it annoyed him. Annoyance was soon forgotten when Mrs Ottley was announced. Since their drive to Richmond there had been a period of extraordinary happiness and delight for Edith. Not another word had been said with reference to Aylmer's proposal. He left it in abeyance, for he saw to his great joy and delight that she was becoming her old self, more than her old self. Edith was completely changed. The first thing she thought of now in the morning was how soon she should see him again. She managed to conceal it well, but she was nervous, absent, with her eyes always on the clock, counting the minutes. When other people were present she was cool and friendly to Aylmer, but when they were alone he had become intimate, delightful, familiar, like the time, three years ago, when they were together at the seaside. But her mother-in-law had then been in the house. And the children. Everything was so conventional. Now she was able to see him alone. Really alone…. His eyes welcomed her as she came in. Having shut the door quietly, she reached his chair in a little rush. 'Don't take off your hat. I like that hat. That was the hat you wore the day I told you—' 'I'm glad it suits me,' she said, interrupting. 'Does it really? Isn't it too small?' 'You know it does.' He was holding her hand. He slowly took off the glove, saying: 'What a funny woman you are, Edith. Why do you wear grey gloves? Nobody else wears grey gloves.' 'I prefer white ones, but they won't stay white two minutes' 'I like these.' 'Tell me about Teddy. Don't, Aylmer!' Aylmer was kissing her fingers one by one. She drew them away. 'Teddy! Oh, there's not much to tell.' Then he gave a little laugh. 'I believe he's fallen in love with Miss Clay.' 'Has he really? Well, no wonder; think how pretty she is.' 'I know. Is she? I don't think she's a bit pretty.' 'She's to see Lady Conroy tomorrow, you know,' Edith said, divining an anxiety or annoyance in Aylmer on the subject. 'Yes. Will it be all right?' 'Oh yes.' 'Well, Teddy's going back on Monday anyway, and I certainly don't need a nurse any more. Headley will do all I want.' Headley was the old butler. 'What scent do you use, Edith?' 'I hardly ever use any. I don't care for scent.' 'But lately you have,' he insisted. 'What is it? I think I like it.' 'It's got a silly name. It's called Omar Khayyám.' 'I thought it was Oriental. I think you're Oriental, Edith. Though you're so fair and English-looking. How do you account for it?' 'I can't think,' said Edith. 'Perhaps you're a fair Circassian,' said he. 'Do you think yourself you're Oriental?' 'I believe I am, in some ways. I like lying down on cushions. I like cigarettes, and scent, and flowers. I hate wine, and exercise, and cricket, and bridge.' 'That isn't all that's needed. You wouldn't care for life in a harem, would you?' He laughed. 'You with your independent mind and your cleverness.' 'Perhaps not exactly, but I can imagine worse things.' 'I shall take you to Egypt,' he said. 'You've never been there, have you?' 'Never.' Her eyes sparkled. 'Yes, I shall take you to see the Sphinx. For the first time.' 'Oh, you can't. You're looking very well, Aylmer, wonderfully better.' 'I wonder why? You don't think I'm happy, do you?' 'I am,' said Edith. 'Because you're a woman. You live for the moment. I'm anxious about the future.' 'Oh, oh! You're quite wrong. It's not women who live for the moment,' said Edith. 'No, I don't know that the average woman does. But then you're not an average woman.' 'What am I?' 'You're Edith,' he answered, rather fatuously. But she liked it. She moved away. 'Now that's awfully mean of you, taking advantage of my wounded limb.' She rang for tea. 'And that's even meaner. It's treacherous,' he said, laughing. She sat down on a chair at a little distance. 'Angel!' he said, in a low, distinct voice. 'It is not for me to dictate,' said Edith, in a tone of command, 'but I should think it more sensible of you not to say these things to me—just now.' The servant came in with tea. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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