I
He took her by the hand and led her down the dark stairs, and flung open
the door of his room ceremoniously. An immense room, which ran from the
front to the back of the house. It was bare, plain, neat as a pin, no
draperies, no artistic ornaments. And yet it had a fine air of luxury.
There was a splendid wood fire in the grate, and before it stood a
waggon with a silver tea service, brightly polished. Every one of the
chairs, ranged severely against the walls, was rare and beautiful; the
rug on the floor was a fine Chinese one. The walls were bare, not a
single picture to be seen but the one he was completing, on an easel
near the window.
He was wonderfully polite. He settled Rosaleen at a little table and
brought her all the materials she required.
“Now, my dear child,” he said. “Just what is it you want to do?”
“Well,” said Rosaleen. “I’m afraid I’ve got to think about making
money.”
“Ah! Who hasn’t? Very well, then, so you shall!”
He encouraged her very much. She sat at the little table working
patiently all the afternoon. They hardly spoke. He was at work on his
own canvas, but he took time now and then to go over to Rosaleen and
make a suggestion or a correction. She had never worked so well before;
the finished figures delighted her.
When the light began to fail, he pushed the easel into a corner and
stretched.
“Now, nice Rosaleen, make tea!” he said.
She did her best, but tea-making was an exotic art for her; she
understood nothing of its possibilities.
“Dear creature!” he cried. “I don’t want a concentrated essence of tea!”
He took the charge from her, and began very deftly to do it himself.
Then he handed her a cup of delicate, fragrant, clear amber liquid
(which she privately considered much too weak). She drank it dutifully,
disappointed that there wasn’t so much as a cracker or a piece of bread
to go with it.
“Shall I wash the tea things for you?” she asked, when they had
finished.
He smiled.
“I have a person for that, thank you. No; let’s talk instead. We’ve
never had a talk alone.... Won’t you tell me something about yourself?”
With her release from the Humbertian atmosphere, Rosaleen had lost her
former humility. None of these people would care in the least who her
mother was. She wasn’t ashamed now. She was rather glad of a chance to
place herself, to explain that she wasn’t “Miss Humbert.” She told him
candidly, and he seemed to hang on her words. Indeed, his interest
became embarrassing, for after she had ceased to speak, he still
continued to stare at her with a curious intensity. Somehow his face
looked _different_.... She stirred uneasily.
“I’d better be going, I think,” she said. “They’ll----”
But he stopped her as she was about to get up, with a hand on her arm.
“No!” he said. “No!...”
“Why?” she asked.
His great staring eyes made her terribly uneasy.
“I’ll really have to go,” she said. “It’s late.”
He let her rise this time, but rose himself as well, and suddenly caught
her in his arms.
She was for an instant too much astounded to struggle. But as he tried
to kiss her, she gave him a vigourous push.
“Let me go!” she cried. “What’s the _matter_ with you?”
He couldn’t delude himself that she was acting; he could see too plainly
the horrified incredulity in her eyes. He saw that he had made a
mistake.
He released her at once.
“Rosaleen!” he said. “I--apologise!”
She turned away without answering and went to the door. But he went in
front of her.
“Don’t be unreasonable!” he said. “I’m sorry. I can’t say any more, can
I? I didn’t mean anything. Shake hands and say you forgive me!”
Rosaleen shook her head.
“I can’t!” she said, with a faint sob. “You don’t--you _couldn’t_
know--how I hate anything of that sort.... And _you_!... I didn’t think
it was _in_ you.”
“It’s _in_ all men,” said Lawrence, gloomily.
“No, it isn’t!” said Rosaleen, thinking of that one quite perfect man
she had lost.
“I tell you it is!” said Lawrence, beginning to grow angry. “What do you
know about men?”
Rosaleen didn’t answer, but he saw a tear running down her cheek.
“Bah!” he shouted. “Don’t be tragic, for God’s sake! Why should you make
such a row about _that_? You’re none the worse, are you, in health,
morals or purse, because I tried to kiss you?”
“Yes, I am!” said she, stubbornly. “I’ve lost something I thought a lot
of.... My confidence in----”
“Don’t say confidence in me! I won’t allow women to have confidence in
me. It’s insulting. Go on, if you want to! Go upstairs and cry and
snivel and have a scene with your two precious friends.”
She was half way up the stairs when he came bounding after her.
“Rosaleen!” he whispered. “Please! Be friends again! I’m sorry. But I’m
sure you understand!”
Against the ancient flattery of that appeal she had no defense. She took
the big hand he proffered.
“All right!” she said, with her absurd, her heavenly benevolence.