Maisie. “It’s awful! Fancy what it may have seen! He brought it out from the room behind, didn’t he?”
Trelawney nodded.
“I went in to ask about a carved screen they had in the window—he knows I like oddities, and he said he’d like to show me this…. No, I won’t get rid of it, May. It’s an ugly story, but in a sense it adds to the dramatic value of the thing; that’s nothing to what it must have seen in the old days, if it is, as I suspect, a sacrificial mask.”
Maisie turned away with a shrug, and led the way to the dining-room.
“Well,” she said over her pretty shoulder, “do as you like, of course, but, personally, I can’t congratulate you on your taste, Jack. Come on, Miles.”
Dinner was a rather constrained meal. Maisie, presumably by way of marking her displeasure with her husband, talked mainly to Miles, who, unconscious of the strain, ate hugely, laughed bluffly, and talked cheerfully all through the courses, to Trelawney’s increasing annoyance; he and Miles had always before been inseparable chums, and the younger man’s cheery, good-tempered humour, one of the joys of life—now that same humour was getting steadily and slowly on his nerves; and, heavens, how that perpetual “ha! ha!” maddened one! Trelawney wished to goodness Maisie wouldn’t laugh at all his futile jokes—damn it, she was looking amazingly pretty in that black velvet thing; it was his frock—he’d given it to her—she was his wife—and she should know it, should be made to know it if necessary. Why should he pay for frocks that were palpably being used to attract other men?—why should Maisie sit tilting her face up towards Miles in that fashion that always drove men mad?—oh, well, women were all alike, jades every one—never mind—we should see! With a sudden shock of nausea and anger at himself, Trelawney pulled himself sternly together and joined in the talk; but Maisie was still annoyed, and was so frigid that he relapsed into silence again, and played moodily with his bread till she gave the welcome signal for release.
Afterwards, in the drawing-room, a return of the ugly mood seized Trelawney, and he insisted on bringing the mask into the drawing-room. Miles was genuinely interested, and the two men sat studying the thing and discussing it for a long time, but Maisie chose to consider it—as indeed it was!—a deliberate “slap back” for her behaviour at dinner, and was correspondingly aloof and disagreeable.
At last the suppressed acrimony of the situation reached even Miles’ none too perceptive brain, and he relapsed into awkward silences, until the most uncomfortable evening ever spent in the Trelawneys’ cheerful house drew to a close, and with a barely supressed sigh of relief Miles Burnaby rose to his feet and held out a large hand to his host.
“Well, must be getting along, old man. Thanks for another awfully cheery evening”—the lie fell like a plummet into the waiting silence, and Miles hurried on. “Hope this priceless old chap you’ve got here isn’t going to bring you the rotten luck he seemed to land on old Schroeder and Co.!…”
“I sometimes wish, Miles,” said Trelawney very distinctly, “that you would learn to talk a little sense for a change.”
Miles’ open mouth of astonishment was a study, but Maisie intervened.
“Jack’s got the black dog on his back to-night—all because I hate his ugly old mask,” she said sweetly. “I’m afraid you’ve had a rotten time, Miles, you poor dear, with us two in a state of suppressed hostility all the evening! Never mind—next time we’ll choose an evening when Jack’s away! Kiss me, Miles!”
Her charming face lifted towards the soldier’s in the firelight, and Trelawney turned suddenly away, sick with the wave of red fury that surged up—and this was sure enough. The kiss that passed between the two who had loved each other so long and well, as brother and sister love, was no longer the frank and innocent thing it had been till this night, when Hey kissed under the baleful shadow of the mask….
Standing at the table, his head bent, Trelawney heard Miles cross the room, say “good-night,” and slam the door. Turning, he surveyed his wife, her slim satin-shod foot on the kerb, humming a contented little tune as she stared into the fire.
“With a great effort he opened his eyes”
“Maisie.” His voice had an odd harshness, carefully controlled. “Maisie. I won’t have you kiss Miles again. D’you hear?”
The toss of her head was unmistakable, and there was a hint of steel in her voice as she answered:
“My dear Jack! Isn’t it rather late in the day to try and come the early Victorian husband over me? I’ve always kissed dear old Miles—I should not dream of hurting his feelings by stopping now for no reason!”
“You don’t seem to mind hurting mine by doing it!” retorted the man.
“Nor you mine by refusing to throw away things I hate, like this old mask!” Maisie responded swiftly. “It doesn’t matter now, though—as a matter of fact, I’ve changed my mind, I rather admire the thing; in its horrible way it’s rather decorative. I’m going to hang it over the fireplace in
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