“No, I could not,” she said, in a loud violent tone. “Go back on the
man who tried to make me, dragged me out of obscurity and gave me my
chance? Umph!” She turned away with a scornful movement: “That would be
a great thing to do.”
The change was so quick that it bewildered me. The cudgel with which
she had been beating Masters was now wielded in his defense. The ground
was even more delicate than I had thought, and silence was wisdom till
I saw what was coming next. I rose from the rocky cushions and moved to
the window.
The light in the little room had grown dim, the keys of the piano
gleaming whitely from their dusky corner. With a deep sigh Miss Harris
walked to the sofa, threw herself full length on it and lay still, a
tall dark shape looking up at the ceiling.
I did not know what to say and yet I did not like to leave her so
obviously wretched.
“Shall I light the gas?” I asked.
“No,” came the answer, “I like the dark.”
“Do you mind if I water the cyclamen? They’re dying.”
“I do. I want them to die.”
She clasped her hands under her head and continued to gaze at the
ceiling. I moved to the door and then paused.
“Can I do anything for you?”
“Yes--” she shifted her glance and looked at me from beneath lowered
lids. I again received the impression I had had the evening when
I hooked her dress--that I was suddenly removed to an illimitable
distance from her, had diminished to an undecipherable speck on her
horizon. Never before had I met anybody who could so suddenly and so
effectively strike from me my sense of value and importance.
“You can do something I’d like very much--go,” the voice was like a
breath from the arctic.
I went, more amazed than angry. On the landing I stood wondering. What
had I done to her? If I hadn’t been so filled up with astonishment I
might have laughed at the contrast between my recent satisfaction in my
mission and my inglorious dismissal.
My thoughts were dispersed by voices from below, resounding up through
the cleft of the stairs. From a background of concerted sound, a series
of short staccato phrases detached themselves:--
“My ’at! Look at it! Ruined! Smashed!”
I looked over the banister. On the floor below stood the count
addressing Miss Bliss, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Hazard and Mr. Weatherby, who
stood ranged in their hallway in a single line, staring up at him. In
one extended arm he held out a silk hat in a condition of collapse.
Their four upturned faces were solemn and intent. Miss Bliss’ mouth was
slightly open, Mr. Hamilton’s glasses glittered.
“What’s the matter?” I called, beginning to descend.
The count lifted a wrathful visage and shook the hat at me.
“Look at my ’at.”
A chorus rose from the floor below:
“Some one smashed his hat.”
“Threw an orange on it.”
“He says it came from here.”
“I think he’s wrong. It must have been the next house.”
“It was not,” cried the count, furious. “It was ’ere--_this_ ’ouse. I
am about to enter and crash--it falls on me! From there--above,” he
waved the hat menacingly at the top floor.
The quartet below chorused with rising hope.
“Who’s up there, Mrs. Drake?”
“Did any one throw an orange?”
“Is Miss Harris at home?”