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Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton
by
`Well, dressing for dinner is a great tonic. Especially if one shaves. My spirits rose as I lathered my face. I smiled to my reflection in the mirror. The afterglow of the sun came through the window behind the dressing-table, but I had switched on all the lights. My new silver-topped bottles and things made a fine array. To-night I was going to shine, too. I felt I might yet be the life and soul of the party. Anyway, my new evening suit was without a fault. And meanwhile this new razor was perfect. Having shaved “down,” I lathered myself again and proceeded to shave “up.” It was then that I uttered a sharp sound and swung round on my heel.
`No one was there. Yet this I knew: Stephen Braxton had just looked over my shoulder. I had seen the reflection of his face beside mine– craned forward to the mirror. I had met his eyes.
`He had been with me. This I knew.
`I turned to look again at that mirror. One of my cheeks was all covered with blood. I stanched it with a towel. Three long cuts where the razor had slipped and skipped. I plunged the towel into cold water and held it to my cheek. The bleeding went on–alarmingly. I rang the bell. No one came. I vowed I wouldn’t bleed to death for Braxton. I rang again. At last a very tall powdered footman appeared–more reproachful-looking than sympathetic, as though I hadn’t ordered that dressing-case specially on his behalf. He said he thought one of the housemaids would have some sticking-plaster. He was very sorry he was needed downstairs, but he would tell one of the housemaids. I continued to dab and to curse. The blood flowed less. I showed great spirit. I vowed Braxton should not prevent me from going down to dinner.
`But–a pretty sight I was when I did go down. Pale but determined, with three long strips of black sticking-plaster forming a sort of Z on my left cheek. Mr. Hilary Maltby at Keeb. Literature’s Ambassador.
`I don’t know how late I was. Dinner was in full swing. Some servant piloted me to my place. I sat down unobserved. The woman on either side of me was talking to her other neighbour. I was near the Duchess’ end of the table. Soup was served to me–that dark-red soup that you pour cream into–Bortsch. I felt it would steady me. I raised the first spoonful to my lips, and–my hand gave a sudden jerk.
`I was aware of two separate horrors–a horror that had been, a horror that was. Braxton had vanished. Not for more than an instant had he stood scowling at me from behind the opposite diners. Not for more than the fraction of an instant. But he had left his mark on me. I gazed down with a frozen stare at my shirtfront, at my white waistcoat, both dark with Bortsch. I rubbed them with a napkin. I made them worse.
`I looked at my glass of champagne. I raised it carefully and drained it at one draught. It nerved me. But behind that shirtfront was a broken heart.
`The woman on my left was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. I don’t know who was the woman on my right. She was the first to turn and see me. I thought it best to say something about my shirtfront at once. I said it to her sideways, without showing my left cheek. Her handsome eyes rested on the splashes. She said, after a moment’s thought, that they looked “rather gay.” She said she thought the eternal black and white of men’s evening clothes was “so very dreary.” She did her best…. Lady Thisbe Crowborough did her best, too, I suppose; but breeding isn’t proof against all possible shocks: she visibly started at sight of me and my Z. I explained that I had cut myself shaving. I said, with an attempt at lightness, that shy men ought always to cut themselves shaving: it made such a good conversational opening. “But surely,” she said after a pause, “you don’t cut yourself on purpose?” She was an abysmal fool. I didn’t think so at the time. She was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. This fact hallowed her. That we didn’t get on at all well was a misfortune for which I blamed only myself and my repulsive appearance and–the unforgettable horror that distracted me. Nor did I blame Lady Thisbe for turning rather soon to the man on her other side.