From Clive she heard nothing: and she wrote to him no more. Of him she
did hear from time to time--mere scraps of conversation caught, a word
or two volunteered, some careless reference, perhaps, perhaps some
scrap of intentional information or some comment deliberate if not a
trifle malicious.
But to all who mentioned him in her presence she turned a serene face
and unclouded eyes. On the surface she was not to be read concerning
what she thought of Clive Bailey--if indeed she thought about him at
all.
Meanwhile he had married Winifred Stuart in London, where, it
appeared, they had taken a house for the season. All sorts of
honourables and notables and nobles as well as the resident and
visiting specimens of a free and sovereign people had been bidden to
the wedding. And had joyously repaired thither--the bride being
fabulously wealthy and duly presented at Court.
The American Ambassador was there with the entire staff of the
Embassy; also a king in exile, several famished but receptive dukes
and counts and various warriors out of jobs--all magnetised by the
subtle radiations from the world's most powerful loadstone, money.
They said that Mrs. Bailey, Sr., was very beautiful and impressive in
a gown that hypnotised the peeresses--or infuriated them--nobody
seemed to know exactly which.
Cecil Reeve, lounging on the balcony by the open window one May
evening, said to Hargrave--and probably really unconscious that
Athalie could hear him if she cared to: "Well, he got her all
right--or rather his mother got her. When he wakes up he'll be sick
enough of her millions."
Hargrave said: "She's a cold-blooded little proposition. I've known
Winifred Stuart all my life, and I never knew her to have any impulse
except a fishy one."
"Cold as a cod," nodded Cecil. "Merry times ahead for Clive."
And on another occasion, later in the summer, somebody said in the
cool dusk of the room: "It's true that the Bailey Juniors are living permanently in England.
I saw Clive in Scotland when I was fishing out Banff way. He says
they're remaining abroad indefinitely."
Some man's voice asked how Clive was looking.
"Not very fit; thin and old. I was with him several times that month
and I never saw him crack a smile. That's not like him, you know."
"What is it? His wife?"
"Well, I fancy it lies somewhere between his mother and his wife--this
pre-glacial freeze-up that's made a bally mummy of him."
And still again, and in the tobacco-scented dusk of Athalie's room,
and once more from a man who had just returned from abroad: "I kept running into Clive everywhere. He seems to haunt the
continent, turning up like a ghost here and there; and believe me he
looks the part of the lonely spook."