“Remember, Etarre, that every one in the world who is worth anything
either loves as we do or expects to do so, or else is unhappy because
he doesn’t.”
“Not every one?” I remonstrated.
“Every one,” Pelleas repeated firmly.
I wondered about that after he went away. Not every one, surely. There
was, for exception, dear Hobart Eddy who walked the world alone, loving
every one exactly alike; and there was, for the other extreme, Nichola,
our old servant. She was worth a very great deal but she loved nobody,
not even us; and I was sure that she prided herself on it. I could not
argue with Pelleas on the eve of a journey but I harboured the matter
against his return.
I was lonely when Pelleas was gone. I was sitting by the fire with
Semiramis on my knee--an Angora cannot wholly sympathize with you but
her aloofness can persuade you into peace of mind--when the telephone
bell rang. We are so seldom wanted that the mere ringing of the bell
is an event even, as usually happens, if we are called in mistake.
This time, however, old Nichola, whose tone over the telephone is
like that of all three voices of Cerberus saying “No admission,” came
in to announce that I was wanted by Miss Wilhelmina Lillieblade. I
hurried excitedly out, for when Miss “Willie” Lillieblade telephones
she has usually either heard some interesting news or longs to invent
some. She is almost seventy as well as I. As a girl she was not very
interesting, but I sometimes think that like many other inanimate
objects she has improved with age until now she is delightful and
reminds me of spiced cordials. I never see a stupid young person
without applying the inanimate object rule and longing to comfort him
with it.
“Etarre,” Miss Willie said, “you and Pelleas come over for tea this
afternoon. I am alone and I have a lame shoulder.”
“I’ll come with pleasure,” said I readily, “but Pelleas is away.”
“O,” Miss Willie said without proper regret, “Pelleas is away.”
For a moment she thought.
“Etarre,” she said, “let’s lunch downtown together and go to a matinée.”