After that he behaved very well. He was a most gallant and generous
friend, and a valuable one. In spite of his swagger, his bombastic talk,
in spite of his fatness and foppishness, he had undeniably a grand air,
a sort of magnificence. He saw to it that she was well treated by the
others, and that she had an advantage over them. It lay in his hands to
bestow prestige, and he did so. She became tenfold more important, more
significant. He knew how to manage this. He gave Rosaleen privileges
which he permitted to no one else. Enid and Dodo were very rarely
invited into his studio, but Rosaleen worked there two or three days a
week.
He hadn’t gone so far as to be seen in public with her, though. He
didn’t even take her to his own exhibition. He was a conspicuous and, in
certain circles, a well-known figure; he was very careful. He sometimes
gave her tickets for private views, and so on, or even for theatres and
concerts. He sent up chocolates and flowers from time to time, and the
foreign art journals to which he subscribed. But he drew a line. He
never asked Rosaleen into his studio when there was anyone there. More
than once when she had come down as she had been told to do the day
before, and knocked at his door, he would put out his head and stare at
her through his monocle.
“Not to-day!” he would say. “Wait till I’m alone.”
Enid used to jeer at this.
“Sent home?” she would say, when Rosaleen returned so promptly. But
Rosaleen refused to resent this.
“Why in the world should he introduce me to his friends?” she asked. “He
only knows me in a--oh, a sort of business way.”
“He doesn’t think you’re good enough,” said Enid.
“Maybe I’m not,” said Rosaleen, unruffled. “I dare say he knows lots of
people who wouldn’t want to be bothered with me.”
Not Enid nor Lawrence, nor anyone about her could understand her
attitude. They thought her humble, lacking in pride. Even Miss Mell
advised her to assert herself more. Whereas it _wasn’t_ really humility,
or lack of pride or self-respect; it was her exquisite Irish sense of
propriety. She knew exactly where she belonged. And she didn’t hesitate
to place Lawrence higher than herself. He was an incomparably greater
artist, he was much more important, much more clever. As for his moral
worth, she didn’t take that into consideration. She never had made, she
never would make, the least effort to judge the morals of other people.
She had quite forgiven him his unique outburst, both because he was an
artist and outside the pale, and because she liked him. She had more
indulgence for him, in fact, than she would have had for her hero, Nick
Landry. No doubt because she didn’t expect very much from Lawrence. She
went ahead, enjoying his companionship without the least distrust.
He couldn’t have been nicer. To please her he even went so far as to go
with her to Miss Waters’ studio. He had met Rosaleen in the street, on
her way there.
“She’d be so awfully pleased!” Rosaleen told him. “She admires your work
so much.”
He was good-humoured that afternoon, and lazy, indisposed for work; so
he turned and walked along with her, like an opulent foreign prince in
his impressive fur-lined overcoat and his soft grey felt hat pulled down
over his swarthy brow.
He didn’t stay long. Once in the street again he turned on Rosaleen with
a scowl.
“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” he thundered, in a voice so loud that all
the passersby turned to stare.
“Tell you what?” Rosaleen asked, frightened.
“What the woman did in there? Why didn’t you tell me what blasphemous
crimes she committed? Good God! The woman should be flayed alive!”
“Oh, don’t!” entreated Rosaleen. “Please don’t talk so loud--and please
don’t say horrible things about Miss Waters!”
“Stop!” he said. “Never mention that name again!”
Rosaleen was glad to escape from him that time, and she never did
mention Miss Waters’ name to him again.