This astonished him. He hadn’t expected any objection. He felt suddenly
desolate and unhappy; he felt that he was not Rosaleen’s own particular
friend, who could be permitted all privileges; she was treating him as
she would any man; he was simply one of a crowd....
But he went, that same evening. The studio was crowded with people, most
of whom he had seen there before. But there was one man whom he did not
know, but whom he knew must be the gentlemanly illustrator. A
well-dressed, nice-looking young chap, with a silent air of observing,
not too favourably, all that went on before him. And his eyes followed
Rosaleen all the time, and for her and her only he had a quick and
subtle smile.
A feeling which he refused to recognise took possession of Landry, a
rage that shook the very foundation of his self-control. He went over to
the corner where they stood talking.
“You promised to talk to me alone!” he said, with a manner he had never
used before in his life--an outrageous insolence. “Come out and walk
round the park, will you?”
Brindell looked at him, at first astonished, and then very angry.
“Who the devil is _this_?” he asked, turning to Rosaleen.
“An old, old friend,” said Rosaleen, hastily. “Excuse me, please, Mr.
Brindell, just for a few minutes?”
“Come on! Put on your hat and coat!” said Landry.
Rosaleen shook her head.
“No; we can talk in here,” she said, and led him into the back room.
“Mr. Landry, what made you so rude?”
“Do you borrow money from that--popinjay?” he demanded.
He was glad to see the shocked colour that rose in her thin face; he
wanted and intended to be outrageous.
“You--haven’t any right to talk like that!” she cried. “I----”
“I have. I’ve lent you money. You’re under obligations to me.... I
_won’t have_ you doing this! Haven’t you any pride? Any self-respect?”
“Hush! Don’t talk so loud!... Oh, Mr. Landry, how _can_ you!”
“Haven’t you any decency?” he went on, furiously. “You’re common talk,
you and your ‘friends.’ I’m ashamed of you!”
“Mr. Landry!” she cried, amazed. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m disgusted!” he said. “I’m....”
He looked at her, standing before him, the harassed and solitary
creature who had endured so much, who suffered such indignities without
being overwhelmed. There she was, in her mountebank costume, her red
smock, her bronze slippers, with her pale and anxious face.... He
thought of the complexity, the mystery of these dealings she had had
with men, and he hated her.
“I’m _through_ with you!” he said.
He pulled down his hat from the hook where he always left it, and opened
the door into the hall.
“No!... Mr. Landry!” she whispered, clutching at his coat. “Don’t!
Please don’t go like this!”
But he looked at her with a glance so scornful and full of loathing that
she dropped her hands hastily.
But before he had got to the street door, she came running down the
stairs after him; he heard the clop-clop of her slippers, which were too
large and left her foot at every step.
“Mr. Landry!” she cried. “Please!... I don’t want you to misjudge me....
I thought you would understand!”
“I don’t!” he said, briefly.
“But what else can I do? How can we live?”
“Does your husband know that you do--this?”
“Of course!” she cried, astonished. “He’s the one who--he asks me to.”
They were standing outside the door of what had been Lawrence’s old
studio; the hall was entirely dark; he couldn’t see her at all. That
made her voice seem quite different; it reached him a disembodied sound,
miraculously sad.
“I never meant to tell anyone,” she said. “But now I’d like to tell you.
It’s wrong. It’s weak. I ought just to do what I think right and not
care if I _am_ misunderstood. But I can’t.”
She was still a moment.
“Let’s go into the tea room downstairs. Miss Gosorkus is upstairs and I
don’t think there’ll be anyone there.”