Imprudent Lady (10 page)

She was at a loss to understand Mr. Seville's bark of laughter, and why he should say, “That's a good one, Miss Mallow. A very good one indeed. You are an Original!” No more did she think it worth repeating when a whole bevy of callers came to their box, everyone of them gentlemen. But they all agreed it was a gem of the first water.

This sudden influx into their box attracted a certain degree of attention to it. Lady Melvine, one of Dammler's group, noticed and called it to his attention, but by the time he was looking at them, Prudence's attention was directed at their guests. They all seemed extremely lively and good-natured. Two of them were being called milord, but she didn't catch the name, which Uncle Clarence would like to know when she got home.

“Can that possibly be Miss Mallow with the Nabob?” Hettie asked Dammler, levelling her glasses at them. “Yes, certainly it is. How well she looks when she smiles. Only see the collection of old roués with them—Seville should know better. For that matter, Miss Mallow should know better than to be here with him alone. Well, well, she's flying high."

“There's Barrymore. Dash it, Seville shouldn't present her to
him,"
Dammler said, frowning.

“Why don't you drop in on them before intermission is over?"

“To lend the party an air of respectability? It would have rather the opposite effect, I'm afraid."

“How true. To rush from one light o’ love to another. Too titillating. The cats would love it. I daresay Cybele wouldn't."

“Miss Mallow is not in the same category as...” he slid an eye to his fair charmer, who pouted at him, demanding attention.

“You'd better slip her word when you next see her. Not the thing."

“I will,” he said, with a last scowl across the hall, then he turned to his female.

Prudence did some soul-searching that night alone in her bed. After spending several hours in Mr. Seville's jolly company, she immediately forgot him and considered another. She was becoming fonder of Dammler than was wise. For romance he would naturally favour Incomparables of the sort she had glimpsed this evening. It was a byword that every beauty in town was after him. How absurd for her to entertain the idea he felt anything but friendship for herself. He never had, and she had known it from the start. The wonder was that he found anything in her to attract him as a friend. Well, you prudent girl you, she said to herself, time to put all the prudence to use and get yourself in line. Don't sit waiting at your desk for him to come. If your
friend
drops by, you will be happy to see him. Too happy, but never mind. You won't show it, and it will never occur to
him.
He half thinks you are a man.

The next afternoon, Miss Mallow was honoured once again with a call from Dammler. It was raining, and she assumed they would not be going out. “Hard at it, I see,” he said, seeing she was at her desk, with her hair tousled and her fingers stained with ink. “With all your skylarking you must make use of any odd minute the suitors leave you. You make me realize how hard
I
should be working."

“I am not entirely given over to dissipation,” she said, striking an expression that did not go a jot beyond the limits of platonic affection.

“You are on the pathway to hell, milady,” he jeered, waggling a finger at her and smiling more widely than she allowed herself to. “We will have to be rechristening you if you keep up this pace. Hobnobbing with nabobs—too many
obs
in there—your finely tuned ear won't like it."

“That's all right. We may say what we daren't write."

“And sing what is too foolish to say."

“How is Shilla doing? Leading you a merry chase, I hope."

He sat in a casual fashion just short of sprawling which she felt instinctively he would not do if he wished to appear at his best with a lady in whom he was interested. “We were wrong to let her bolt on us. The hoyden has fallen in with a caravan of unholy men, and how Wills is to get a dozen camels on stage is beyond me."

“The excitement occurs off-stage, does it not?"

“Damme,
something
must happen on stage. She's become so brazen there's not a move she makes that can be seen in polite company I can't have the Mogul wringing his hands and cursing in frustration for two hours. I may have to bring her back to the harem and start all over. But I'll put her into a novel later and let her go her length. I am too fond of her to give her up."

“Cutting into my territory, I see. Take care or I'll put Clarence into a play or a poem."

“Good idea, but you are diverting me from my errand. I am here to ring a peal over you, Miss Imprudence. No my girl, widening your big blue eyes at me won't save you from a scold. You know well enough you were the talk of the opera last night, with every rake and rattle in town drooling over you."

“How nonsensical you are,” she said, happy to know he had seen her moment of glory.

“And as to making
me
a laughing stock with that curst viper's tongue of yours. My Phyrne was furious; she is justly proud of her locks. You may be sure she heard of your wit."

“There was no wit in it. I only said..."

“I know well enough what you said, and what you
meant."

“I only meant she coloured her hair."

He sat up and stared at her. “Oh, no, you didn't,” he contradicted flatly. “You
said
it very nicely, I grant you, but you called her a Phyrne. We all admit tacitly to these things, but we don't run around broadcasting them, calling names."

“Dammler,
tell
me so that I shan't blunder again. Is her name not Fern?"

“Prudence Mallow,” he said, shaking his head, “you are either the biggest greenhead in town or the best actress."

“What did I say?"

He hunched his shoulders, and threw up his hands in the gesture of helplessness so characteristic of him. “Where do I begin?” he asked himself. “Phyrne, sweet idiot, is not a
name
like Mary or Joan—it is a title, like Princess or Prostitute. Rather more like the latter, if you follow me."

Prudence was stunned, but she had resolved some time ago to match her new acquaintances in sophistication, and she tried gamely to rally. Still her shock was quite evident to him. “I see,” she said.

“You are disappointed in me."

“No,” she answered quickly. “Why should I be?"

“Why indeed, I never led you to believe I was a saint. Oh, Prudence, why did I ever meet you? You are giving me back my conscience. I was well rid of it. I haven't felt such a reprobate since the first time I got drunk and Mama cried for two hours."

“
I
am not crying,” she laughed at his boyish despair, and a little, too, at his using her first name without realizing it. “I am just a little surprised that you would be seen in such a public way with a—one of those women."

“Well, everyone does. Half the females there last night were prostitutes. I hold them to be every bit as respectable as a married woman who commits adultery—more so, in fact. They're not hypocrites.
They
have not promised to love, honour and obey anyone's desires but their own. Why should it add to a woman's virtue or reputation to deceive her husband with a lover? Surely that compounds the trespass. No, no, I won't allow anyone to tell me I must restrict my amours to married ladies."

“You ought to restrict yourself to an appearance at least of respectability."

“Where did you get the bizarre idea my Phyrne is not respectable? Top of the frees. She has none but the most elevated of lovers, and only one at a time. Unlike the married ladies, who require at least two, and preferably three or four. It is better to consort with a Phyrne than with a married lady. There is no question of it in my mind. Tell me you disagree. On what logical grounds can you possibly refute me?"

“I don't. There is much in what you say, but that is not to say that consorting with either one is good. You set up a home for ruined girls on one hand, and ruin them on the other. There is no logic in that."

“Prudence, we're talking about two
very
different species. Those little girls—young, ignorant without the sense to know what they're getting into ... My Phyrne—the mistresses of gentlemen, are in a different class entirely. They knowingly go into this sort of a life because they don't want to work. They prefer a life of leisure and luxury, they have a beautiful body to buy it with, and they sell it. It is a business transaction."

“Oh, don't try to tell me it is a good thing to keep a mistress."

“I didn't say it was good."

“You said it was
better
to have a mistress than to take another man's wife. Surely better is a degree of good. Take it a step further, you lover of logic, and you must agree
best
would be to take no lovers at all. A chaste married lady or a spinster is better than either a Phyrne or an adulteress, surely."

“Not to me she isn't,” he replied unequivocally. “Oh, all right, if you're talking theology or religion or some damned thing. I thought we were talking about real life, and not philosophy. In actual practice, it is
less immoral
—does that satisfy you—to keep an unmarried mistress than to go poaching on your friends’ private property."

“Yes, I'll accept that partial victory, before you convince me I'm a scoundrel for not selling my own old ramshackle body to help my uncle pay the bills."

“Oh, I don't go quite that far, Prudence,” he replied, throwing his head back in uncontrolled laughter. “And to think, I came here to read you a lecture! How did I end up giving you the notion you should take to the streets? We—Lady Melvine and myself—do not approve of your consorting with the Nabob."

“Is Mr. Seville so rich then?"

“Full of juice. An uncle from the East India Company died and left him a million, literally."

"I
have no objection to the fact. Do you disapprove of money
per se
?"

“No, I am excessively fond of it, but...”

She looked, waiting.

“Your Mr. Seville—ah—likes the ladies. Of a certain sort."

“The sort who use the title Phyrne?"

“Yes, those certainly, and those who use the title Duchess or Baroness even better. It is generally considered he is looking for a title, to ease his own way into the peerage. He cannot mean to
marry
you; he is well into negotiations with Baroness McFay, and for entertainment he prefers the muslin company. Why do I feel like a child molester telling you these things?"

“I don't know, but you misjudge him. He is not like that at all. He has very strict notions of propriety.” She toyed with the idea of telling him Seville had feared she was Dammler's lightskirt, but decided against it.

“Seville! He has no more notion of propriety than a jackrabbit."

“How can you say so? He's your friend. You introduced him to me."

“Yes, and that is why I am worried. I never thought you'd catch his eye. You aren't his type. I wonder if the old fool has decided to take up with the literary society. Might think it would lend him a vicarious air of intellect. God knows he could use it. He is
very proper
in his dealings with you?"

“Of course. Oh, he gossips about the
ton,
but you may be sure he does not take me for any loose piece of baggage."

“There—I've depraved you. For Miss Mallow to be speaking of herself in terms of loose baggage! Well, he is up to something, but apparently it isn't what we feared. I don't like the company he introduces to you, however. I wish you would see less of him, or at least not go about with him without some other company. Some respectable married couple, or some such thing."

“I am not really fond of him. I don't expect I'll be seeing much of him—we have little in common."

“If the old Benedict gets out of hand, call on me, and I'll come galloping
ventre à terre
on my white steed to rescue you. Promise me, Prudence."

“Promise.” She found herself aping his shrug, and felt foolish.

“What a lot of bother you women are. Whoever would have thought I would end up playing Dutch uncle to a little greenhead of a spinster.” Prudence gave a mental wince at this, but concealed it quite well. At least he had come to realize she was not a man.

“Now I have shocked you with my heedless tongue again.” She realized she had not concealed it as well as she thought. “You are only twenty-four, and not a spinster any more, I suppose, since
I
foolishly induced you to take off your caps. Do me a favour, Miss Mallow, put them back on and start pretending you are forty or so again, so I can stop worrying about you."

“Don't worry about me. I have a family to protect me. Worry about Shilla and her Mogul. When is she due to tread the boards?"

“Not this season. It isn't half done.” He arose. “I'm off, Miss Mallow. May I call on you tomorrow? I'd like you to look over Shilla for me and see what you think of her. There is no one whose opinion I respect more."

“I should be happy to,” she answered with real pride. Her womanhood had been laid low by his thoughtless words, but how fine to have a poet of Dammler's stature pay her such a compliment.

The next morning Prudence received two notes, one of them accompanied by a spray of violets, which she had happened to mention liking, from Mr. Seville. He requested her company for a drive that afternoon. Just as well I cannot go with him, she thought, remembering her appointment with Dammler. The other envelope bore a crest, and when she opened it, it was a scrawl of two lines from Dammler. “Miss Mallow: I can't bring Shilla to you this p.m. after all. She has other plans, and we daren't buck her. See you soon. Be Prudent about S. Dammler."

She felt a letdown of no small magnitude, then read the note again for any hidden compliment or insult. It was facetious—but he was always joking. Some business had come up that detained him. There was no one whose opinion he valued more than hers. He would come soon. “Be Prudent about S.” Seville, of course. Strange he hadn't said what detained him. Had it been herself breaking the appointment, she would have felt a complete explanation necessary. And no explanation occurred to her either which could be important enough to break a date with Dammler. From suspicion she slid easily into jealousy, and she was soon possessed of the idea that Shilla should more accurately read Phyrne. That would account for his not giving her the reason. No doubt a gentleman friend would have understood at a glance what he meant and accepted it. Her eye fell on Mr. Seville's spray of violets. It never occurred to Dammler to send her a flower. Why should she sit home while he was out enjoying himself? She picked up her pen and accepted Mr. Seville's offer. A drive in the park was quite unexceptionable, and she was
not
doing it to spite Dammler. Not the highest stickler could take exception to it, and she hoped she met Dammler head-on with his Phyrne.