The French nephew was listening. He had been listening for quite a long
time, ten minutes perhaps; ever since they had turned off the railway
bridge into Ley Street.
They had known each other for exactly four hours and seventeen minutes.
She had gone to the Drapers for tea. Rodney had left her on their
doorstep and he had found her there and had brought her into the
dining-room. That, he declared, was at five o'clock, and it was now
seventeen minutes past nine by his watch which he showed her.
It had begun at tea-time. When he listened he turned round, excitedly, in
his chair; he stooped, bringing his eyes level with yours. When he talked
he tossed back his head and stuck out his sharp-bearded chin. She was not
sure that she liked his eyes. Hot black. Smoky blurs like breath on
glass. Old, tired eyelids. Or his funny, sallowish face, narrowing to the
black chin-beard. Ugly one minute, nice the next.
It moved too much. He could say all sorts of things with it and with his
shoulders and his hands. Mrs. Draper said that was because he was half
French.
He was showing her how French verse should be read when Rodney came for
her, and Dr. Draper sent Rodney away and kept her for dinner.
The French nephew was taking her home now. They had passed the crook of
the road.
"And all this time," she said, "I don't know your name."
"Maurice. Maurice Jourdain. I know yours--Mary Olivier. I like it."
"You wouldn't if you were me and your father kept on saying, 'Mary, Mary,
quite contrary,' and 'Mary had a little lamb.'"
"Fathers will do these cruel things. It's a way they have."
"Papa isn't cruel. Only he's so awfully fond of Mamma that he can't think
about _us_. He doesn't mind me so much."
"Oh--he doesn't mind you so much?"
"No. It's Mark he can't stand."
"Who is Mark?"
"My brother. Mark is a soldier--Royal Artillery."
"Lucky Mark. I was to have been a soldier."
"Why weren't you?"
"My mother wouldn't have liked it. So I had to give it up."
"How you must have loved her. Mark loves my mother more than anything;
but he couldn't have done that."
"Perhaps Mark hasn't got to provide for his mother and his sisters. I
had. And I had to go into a disgusting business to do it."
"Oh-h--"
He was beautiful inside. He did beautiful things. She was charmed,
suddenly, by his inner, his immaterial beauty. She thought: "He must be
ever so old."
"But it's made them love you awfully, hasn't it?" she said.
His shoulders and eyebrows lifted; he made a queer movement with his
hands, palms outwards. He stood still in the path, turned to her,
straight and tall. He looked down at her; his lips jerked; the hard,
sharp smile bared narrow teeth.
"The more you do for people the less they love you," he said.
"Your people must be very funny."
"No. No. They're simply pious, orthodox Christians, and I don't believe
in Christianity. I'm an atheist. I don't believe their God exists. I hope
he doesn't. They wouldn't mind so much if I were a villain, too, but
it's awkward for them when they find an infidel practising any of the
Christian virtues. My eldest sister, Ruth, would tell you that I _am_ a
villain."
"She doesn't really think it."
"Doesn't she! My dear child, she's got to think it, or give up her
belief."
She could see the gable end of Five Elms now. It would soon be over. When
they got to the garden gate.
It _was_ over.
"I suppose," he said, "I must shut the prison door."
They looked at each other through the bars and laughed.
"When shall I see you again?" he said.