Chapter 38

THE VICTORY

“Get back into bed,” said G.J., having silently opened the window in the sitting-room.

He spoke with courteous persuasion, but his peculiar intense politeness and restraint somewhat dismayed Christine.  By experience she knew that they were a sure symptom of annoyance.  She often, though not on this occasion, wished that he would yield to anger and make a scene; but he never did, and she would hate him for not doing so.  The fact was that under the agreement which ruled their relations, she had no right to telephone to him, save in grave and instant emergency, and even then it was her duty to say first, when she got the communication:  “Mr. Pringle wants to speak to Mr. Hoape.”  She had omitted, in her disquiet, to fulfil this formality.  Recognising his voice, she had begun passionately, without preliminary:  “Oh!  Beloved, thou canst not imagine what has happened to me—­” etc.  Still he had come.  He had cut her short, but he had left whatever he was doing and had, amazingly, walked over at once.  And in the meantime she had hurriedly undressed and put on a new peignoir and slipped into bed.  Of course she had had to open the door herself.

She obeyed his command like an intelligent little mouse, and he sat down on the edge of the bed.  He might inspire foreboding, alarm, even terror.  But he was in the flat.  He was the saviour, man, in the flat.  And his coming was in the nature of a miracle.  He might have been out; he might have been entertaining; he might have been engaged; he might well have said that he could not come until the next day.  Never before had she made such a request, and he had acceded to it immediately!  Her mood was one of frightened triumph.  He was being most damnably himself; his demeanour was as faultless as his dress.  She could not even complain that he had forgotten to kiss her.  He said nothing about her transgression of the rule as to telephoning.  He was waiting, with his exasperating sense of justice and self-control, until she had acquainted him with her case.  Instead of referring coldly and disapprovingly to the matter of the telephone, he said in a judicious, amicable voice: 

“I doubt whether your coiffeur is all that he ought to be.  I see you had your hair waved to-day.”

“Yes, why?”

“You should tell the fellow to give you the new method of hair-waving, steaming with electric heaters—­or else go where you can get it.”

“New method?” repeated Christine the Tory doubtfully.  And then with sudden sexual suspicion: 

“Who told you about it?”

“Oh!  I heard of it months ago,” he said carelessly.  “Besides, it’s in the papers, in the advertisements.  It lasts longer—­much longer—­and it’s more artistic.”