She also found a source of secret excitement in his austerity and virtue. The fact that he was so high-minded and aloof from any thought of sex offered a piquant contrast to occasions when he condescended to be her lover. Such occasions were for Fanny far from austere and high-minded. She allowed the keen sensuality of her nature free reign.
Aubrey's noble attitude served to inspire her with a sense of guilt, as if their relations were really as indecent and immoral as he contended sex to be. And the idea of their being indecent and immoral heightened her enjoyment of them.
She wondered at many things about Aubrey. Despite his aversion to sex, (she did not think of it as an aversion but as a high-mindedness,) he was yet very attentive to women. Not in the way that most men were attentive. But chivalrously. He had become during their married life a veritable Chesterfield and Sir Raleigh. It was not only his manner--his observation of little rules of conduct such as rising when a woman entered or helping her on with her wraps, or assisting her to pull up her chair at the table or opening doors or any of the thousand niceties--that marked his attitude toward women. It was also his ideas.
He frequently discussed women and his point of view was more chivalrous than most men's. He said that he believed in the fineness of women. That a woman was a pure, beautiful soul. And he was quick to resent insults to women, even general insults which sought to reflect upon woman's purity as a whole or to make her out a scheming sexual animal.
Fanny was proud of his chivalrous tone. It distinguished him and she did not resent the fact that it interested women. She had never been jealous of Aubrey. And she had gradually accustomed herself to his high-mindedness. She would have liked abandoned caresses and embraces.
But these had never been forthcoming, even on their honeymoon long ago.
And she had given up dreaming of them--for herself. She dreamed about them now in connection with others and her mind, colored by unsatisfied desires, indulged itself in the luxurious and lascivious details of her suspicions of others.
She sat watching Henrietta as Mr. Mackay talked to her and despite an effort to control her thought, she began to wonder what they had been doing alone in the apartment before she and Aubrey came. He had probably taken her hand and pulled her to him, put his arms around her and Henrietta, overcome with a sudden passion, had probably flung her arms about his shoulders and given him her lips wildly. And just as they were standing deliriously embraced like that, the bell had probably rung and Henrietta had jumped away and grabbed her sewing. She had come to the door with her sewing in her hand and....
Fanny smiled at the colorless and unsuspecting Henrietta. Her sense of humor had done for her what her sense of justice had failed to do. It controlled her fancies. To imagine Henrietta giving her lips wildly to anybody, particularly the red-faced Mr. Mackay, was ludicrous. Poor Henrietta with her two noisy children and her interminable sewing. She didn't envy her the children. Thank Heaven, despite Aubrey's high-minded attitude toward sex as a distasteful mechanism through which the race continued itself, they had had no children.
There was something pitiful about Henrietta. She was so dumb. And even when she dressed up and powdered and frilled, she always seemed tired. A stranger might think she was an invalid just recovered from some serious illness.... Henrietta was probably like Aubrey about "those things".
Very high-minded and aloof.
Mr. Mackay and Aubrey were talking about advertising now. They always did this soon or late. And they usually quarreled because Aubrey was inclined to insist that his end of the business--the preparation of copy and ad. material--was as important as Mr. Mackay's end. Mr. Mackay was in charge of the salesmen.
She hadn't wanted to call on her brother. But Aubrey insisted. There was a deal on. The city was going to do a lot of advertising and the firm of Mackay-Gilchrist wanted the job. Basine could help them pull wires.
The bell rang and interrupted their talk.
"That must be George," Henrietta exclaimed. She grew nervous and began to flutter. The maid was out for the afternoon and she went to the door herself. A strange voice came from the hall as the door opened.
"Oh, come right in. George isn't home but I expect him any minute,"
Henrietta greeted the arrival. Paul Schroder, one of the attorneys who worked in the mysterious place called the state attorney's office with her husband, entered.
He was younger than her husband and of a type she disliked. She didn't like George to have him as a friend. He was too brutal looking.
And too noisy. Her submission to George had developed a keen set of prejudices in her. She liked only people who reminded her of her husband--normal-sized, thin men with aristocratic manners, and quick nervous eyes. And what she liked in such people was only the parts of them that seemed like George. All other kinds of men annoyed her.
Particularly the kind Schroder was--rough, coarse and laughing too loudly always. She thought of him as a vulgar animal and once or twice hinted to George that she didn't like to have him visit the house.
Schroder entered, his blond, well shaped head tossing dramatically. The exuberance of his manner gave him the air of being larger than he was.
Aubrey Gilchrist when he straightened up was taller than Schroder and Mr. Mackay's shoulders were broader. But somehow the blond-headed man dwarfed them both as he shook hands with them. He sat down next to Fanny.
"Well," he said to her, "how you been? Bright-eyed as ever." He laughed and Fanny smiled. "What's the matter with friend husband," he turned to Henrietta. "Can't you keep His Nobs home like a God-fearing man on Sundays?"
Henrietta winced.
"He went to see his sister who is ill," she said. "He'll be back any minute."
"Oh, that's all right;" Schroder answered, as if Henrietta had apologized and he was forgiving her. Then to Aubrey he added, "What are you two pirates after from Basine?"
Aubrey raised his eyebrows. He was subject to quick dislikes. Schroder was one of them. Schroder was the kind of person who had no respect for merit or his superiors. The world, unfortunately, was full of such people--boors lacking the intelligence to perceive their betters. Aubrey always felt ill at ease in their presence.
Although he had written no novels for five years, in his own mind he was still a literary figure of importance. He had gone into the advertising business, but not permanently. He had intended at first remaining in it only for a year and then returning to his writing. He wanted to do a different sort of writing and a vacation was necessary. He wanted to do something real. He had, as a matter of fact, lost interest in the business of turning out narratives. Worried at the time by this loss of interest in his work he had explained it as "an ambition for better things."
But five years had passed and he was still an advertising man. The firm of Mackay and Gilchrist had grown. He flattered himself that its success had been due to his personal prestige. People said, "Oh, that's Aubrey Gilchrist, the writer. Well, that's quite an asset for an advertising concern." And so they brought their business to Mackay-Gilchrist.
He disliked Schroder because on the few occasions they had met, the man had exuberantly ignored the fact he was Aubrey Gilchrist. Schroder was a man who had no interest in anything outside himself--a noisy, self-satisfied creature with no reason to be noisy or self-satisfied. He had never done anything.
"I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Schroder," Aubrey answered stiffly.
"Ho ho," Schroder exclaimed, "your husband is insulted, Mrs. Gilchrist.
Well, I apologize. There's George, I'll lay you dollars to doughnuts."
The bell had rung. Basine entered. Aubrey looked significantly at his partner. The significance was due to the fact that Schroder seemed likely to ruin the visit. Aubrey announced aloud after the greetings:
"Thought we'd drop in for a private discussion, George."
Henrietta was smiling tenderly at her husband.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"Well, I've got great news for you," Basine exclaimed. The company looked hopefully at him.
"What, dear?"
"Oh, I'll tell you tonight, little girl."
"If it's good news we'd all like to hear it," Fanny insisted.
Schroder regarded his friend askance. He suspected something. He had left Basine yesterday night and there had been no hint of anything happening. And today being Sunday.... He smiled to himself. "Covering up," he thought. "Husbands are comical." He decided not to press Basine.
He had evidently been up to something ... "playing a matinee." He noticed that his friend was trying to change the subject.
"Is it something personal?" Henrietta asked with a frown. "You frighten me, George, when you don't tell me things."
Basine, sitting down, beamed with enthusiasm on the group, on his home.
"Where are the children?" he asked.
"Over at the Harveys," Henrietta answered.
"Well," said her husband with an explosive intonation, "I've made up my mind to go after the circuit court. There's a chance next April."
"Going to run for Judge, eh?" Schroder asked with interest.
"Yes sir," Basine laughed. "I just had a session with some of the boys this afternoon and we discussed it."
"Oh, I thought you were at Doris'," Henrietta interrupted.
"I did see her," Basine answered, "but only for a few seconds. I spent most of the afternoon in conference."
"Congratulations," Aubrey spoke. "Mac and I were going to...."
Schroder stood up.
"What do you say if we take a walk, Mrs. Gilchrist," he whispered loudly. "Your husband insists that I get out. And I won't unless you come along."
He laughed good-naturedly until Aubrey smiled, and nodded to his wife.