She had seen him again. She could count the times on the fingers of one
hand. Once, when he came to dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Draper; once at
Sunday supper with the Drapers after Church; once on a Saturday when Mrs.
Draper asked her to tea again; and once when he called to take her for a
walk in the fields.
Mamma had lifted her eyebrows and Mrs. Draper said, "Nonsense. He's old
enough to be her father."
The green corn stood above her ankles then. This was the fifth time. The
corn rose to her waist. The ears were whitening.
"You're the only person besides Mark who listens. There was Jimmy. But
that was different. He didn't know things. He's a darling, but he doesn't
know things."
"Who is Jimmy?"
"Mark's friend and mine."
"_Where_ is he?"
"In Australia. He can't ever come back, so I shall never see him again."
"I'm glad to hear it."
A sudden, dreadful doubt. She turned to him in the narrow path.
"You aren't laughing at me, are you? You don't think I'm shamming and
showing off?"
"I? I? Laughing at you? My poor child--No--"
"They don't understand that you can really love words--beautiful sounds.
And thoughts. Love them awfully, as if they were alive. As if they were
people."
"They are alive. They're better than people. You know the best of your
Shelley and Plato and Spinoza. Instead of the worst."
"I should have liked to have known them, too. Sometimes I pretend that I
do know them. That they're alive. That they're here. Saying things and
listening. They're kind. They never misunderstand. They never lose their
tempers."
"You mustn't do that," he said sharply.
"Why not?"
"It isn't good for you. Talk to me. I'm alive. I'm here, I'll listen.
I'll never misunderstand. I'll never lose my temper."
"You aren't always here."
He smiled, secretly, with straight lips, under the funny, frizzy, French
moustache. And when he spoke again he looked old and wise, like an uncle.
"Wait," he said. "Wait a bit. Wait three years."
"Three years?" she said. "Three years before we can go for another walk?"
He shouted laughter and drew it back with a groan.
She couldn't tell him that she pretended he was there when he was not
there; that she created situations.
He was ill, and she nursed him. She could feel the weight of his head
against her arm, and his forehead--hot--hot under her hand. She had felt
her hands to see whether they would be nice enough to put on Mr.
Jourdain's forehead. They were rather nice; cool and smooth; the palms
brushed together with a soft, swishing sound like fine silk.
He was poor and she worked for him.
He was in danger and she saved him. From a runaway horse; from a furious
dog; from a burning house; from a lunatic with a revolver.
It made her sad to think how unlikely it was that any of these things
would ever happen.