But he banished both curiosity and possible confirmation. He was
replete and comfortable, and almost happy. The occasional silences
were now merely agreeable. She lay back in her deep chair as relaxed
as himself, but although she said little her aloofness had mysteriously
departed. She looked companionable and serene. Only one narrow foot
in its silvery slipper moved occasionally, and her white and beautiful
hands, whose suggestion of ruthless power Clavering had appreciated
apprehensively from the first, seemed, although they were quiet, subtly
to lack the repose of her body.
Once while he was gazing into the fire he felt sure that she was
examining his profile. He made no pretensions to handsomeness, but he
rather prided himself on his nose, the long fine straight nose of the
Claverings. His brow was also good, but although his hair was black,
his eyes were blue, and he would have preferred to have black eyes, as
he liked consistent types. Otherwise he was one of the "black
Claverings." Northumbrian in origin and claiming descent from the
Bretwaldes, overlords of Britain, the Claverings were almost as fair as
their Anglian ancestors, but once in every two or three generations a
completely dark member appeared, resurgence of the ancient Briton;
sometimes associated with the high stature of the stronger Nordic race,
occasionally--particularly among the women--almost squat. Clavering
had been spared the small stature and the small too narrow head, but
saving his steel blue eyes--trained to look keen and hard--he was as
dark as any Mediterranean. His mouth was well-shaped and closely set,
but capable of relaxation and looked as if it might once have been full
and sensitive. It too had been severely trained. The long face was
narrower than the long admirably proportioned head. It was by no means
as disharmonic a type as Gora Dwight's; the blending of the races was
far more subtle, and when making one of his brief visits to Europe he
was generally taken for an Englishman, never for a member of the Latin
peoples; except possibly in the north of France, where his type, among
those Norman descendants of Norse and Danes, was not uncommon.
Nevertheless, although his northern inheritance predominated, he was
conscious at times of a certain affinity with the race that two
thousand years ago had met and mingled with his own.
He turned his eyes swiftly and met hers. She colored faintly and
dropped her lids. Had she lowered those broad lids over a warm glow?
"Now I know what you look like!" he exclaimed, and was surprised to
find that his voice was not quite steady. "A Nordic princess."
"Oh! That is the very most charming compliment ever paid me."
"You look a pretty unadulterated type for this late date. I don't mean
in color only, of course; there are millions of blondes."
"My mother was a brunette."
"Oh, yes, you are a case of atavism, no doubt. If I were as good a
poet as one of my brother columnists I should have written a poem to
you long since. I can see you sweeping northward over the steppes of
Russia as the ice-caps retreated . . . reëmbodied on the Baltic coast
or the shores of the North Sea . . . sleeping for ages in one of the
Megaliths, to rise again a daughter of the Brythons, or of a Norse
Viking . . . west into Anglia to appear once more as a Priestess of
the Druids chaunting in a sacred grove . . . or as Boadicea--who
knows! But no prose can regenerate that shadowy time. I see
it--prehistory--as a swaying mass of ghostly multitudes, but always
pressing on--on . . . as we shall appear, no doubt, ten thousand years
hence if all histories are destroyed--as no doubt they will be. If I
were an epic poet I might possibly find words and rhythm to fit that
white vision, but it is wholly beyond the practical vocabulary and
mental make-up of a newspaper man of the twentieth century. Some of us
write very good poetry indeed, but it is not precisely inspired, and it
certainly is not epic. One would have to retire to a cave like Buddha
and fast."
"You write singularly pure English, in spite of what seems to me a
marked individuality of style, and--ah--your apparent delight in
slang!" Her voice was quite even, although her eyes had glowed and
sparkled and melted at his poetic phantasma of her past (as what
woman's would not?). "I find a rather painful effort to be--what do
you call it? highbrow?--in some of your writers."
"The youngsters. I went through that phase. We all do. But we
emerge. I mean, of course, when we have anything to express.
Metaphysical verbosity is a friendly refuge. But as a rule years and
hard knocks drive us to directness of expression. . . . But poets must
begin young. And New York is not exactly a hot-bed of romance."
"Do you think that romance is impossible in New York?" she asked
irresistibly.
"I--oh--well, what is romance? Of course, it is quite possible to fall
in love in New York--although anything but the ideal setting. But
romance!"
"Surely the sense of mystery between a man and woman irresistibly
attracted may be as provocative in a great city as in a feudal castle
surrounded by an ancient forest--or on one of my Dolomite lakes. Is it
not that which constitutes romance--the breathless trembling on the
verge of the unexplored--that isolates two human beings as
authentically--I am picking up your vocabulary--as if they were alone
on a star in space? Is it not possible to dream here in New York?--and
surely dreams play their part in romance." Her fingertips, moving
delicately on the surface of her lap, had a curious suggestion of
playing with fire.
"One needs leisure for dreams." He stood up suddenly and leaned
against the mantelpiece. The atmosphere had become electric. "A good
thing, too, as far as some of us are concerned. The last thing for a
columnist to indulge in is dreams. Fine hash he'd have for his readers
next morning!"
"Do you mean to say that none of you clever young men fall in love?"
"Every day in the week, some of them. They even marry--and tell
fatuous yarns about their babies. No doubt some of them have even
gloomed through brief periods of unreciprocated passion. But they
don't look very romantic to me."
"Romance is impossible without imagination, I should think. Aching for
what you cannot have or falling in love reciprocally with a charming
girl is hardly romance. That is a gift--like the spark that goes to
the making of Art."
"Are you romantic?" he asked harshly. "You look as if born to inspire
romance--dreams--like a beautiful statue or painting--but mysterious as
you make yourself--and, I believe, are in essence--I should never have
associated you with the romantic temperament. Your eyes--as they too
often are---- Oh, no!"
"It is true that I have never had a romance."
"You married--and very young."
"Oh, what is young love! The urge of the race. A blaze that ends in
babies or ashes. Romance!"
"You have--other men have loved you."
"European men--the type my lot was cast with--may be romantic in their
extreme youth--I have never been attracted by men in that stage of
development, so I may only suppose--but when a man has learned to
adjust passion to technique there is not much romance left in him."
"Are you waiting for your romance, then? Have you come to this more
primitive civilization to find it?"
She raised her head and looked him full in the eyes. "No, I did not
believe in the possibility then."
"May I have a high-ball?"
"Certainly."
He took his drink on the other side of the room. It was several
minutes before he returned to the hearth. Then he asked without
looking at her: "How do you expect to find romance if you shut yourself
up?"
"I wanted nothing less. As little as I wanted it to be known that I
was here at all."
"That damnable mystery! Who _are_ you?"
"Nothing that you have imagined. It is far stranger--I fancy it would
cure you."
"Cure me?"
"Yes. Do you deny that you love me?"
"No, by God! I don't! But you take a devilish advantage. You must
know that I had meant to keep my head. Of course, you are playing with
me--with your cursed technique! . . . Unless . . ." He reached her in
a stride and stood over her. "Is it possible--do you--_you_----"
She pushed back her chair, and stood behind it. Her cheeks were very
pink, her eyes startled, but very soft. "I do not admit that yet--I
have been too astounded--I went away to think by myself--where I was
sure not to see you--but--my mind seemed to revolve in circles. I
don't know! I don't know!"
"You do know! You are not the woman to mistake a passing interest for
the real thing."
"Oh, does a woman ever--I never wanted to be as young as _that_ again!
I should have believed it impossible if I had given the matter a
thought--It is so long! I had forgotten what love was like. There was
nothing I had buried as deep. And there are reasons--reasons!"
"I only follow you vaguely. But I think I understand--worse luck!
I've hated you more than once. You must have known that. I believe
you are deliberately leading me on to make a fool of myself."
"I am not! Oh, I am not!"
"_Do_ you love me?"
"I--I want to be sure. I have dreamed . . . I--I have leisure, you
see. This old house shuts out the world--Europe--the past. The war
might have cut my life in two. If it had not been for that--that long
selfless interval . . . I'd like you to go now."
"Will you marry me?"
"It may be. I can't tell. Not yet. Are you content to wait?"
"I am not! But I've no intention of taking you by force, although I
don't feel particularly civilized at the present moment. But I'll win
you and have you if you love me. Make no doubt of that. You may have
ten thousand strange reasons--they count for nothing with me. And I
intend to see you every day. I'll call you up in the morning. Now I
go, and as quickly as I can get out."