When he came back, after dinner, she was again in one of the public
rooms; she explained that a lot of the things for the ship were spread
out in her own parlours: there was no space to sit down. Raymond was
highly gratified by this fact; it offered an opportunity for strolling
away a little with Dora, especially as, after he had been there ten
minutes, other people began to come in. They were entertained by the
rest, by Effie and Tishy, who was allowed to sit up a little, and by
Mademoiselle Bourde, who besought every visitor to indicate her a remedy
that was _really_ effective against the sea--some charm, some philter,
some potion or spell. 'Never mind, ma'm'selle, I've got a remedy,' said
Cousin Maria, with her cheerful decision, each time; but the French
instructress always began afresh.
As the young man was about to be parted for an indefinite period from
the girl whom he was ready to swear that he adored, it is clear that he
ought to have been equally ready to swear that she was the fairest of
her species. In point of fact, however, it was no less vivid to him than
it had been before that he loved Dora Temperly for qualities which had
nothing to do with straightness of nose or pinkness of complexion. Her
figure was straight, and so was her character, but her nose was not, and
Philistines and other vulgar people would have committed themselves,
without a blush on their own flat faces, to the assertion that she was
decidedly plain. In his artistic imagination he had analogies for her,
drawn from legend and literature; he was perfectly aware that she struck
many persons as silent, shy and angular, while his own version of her
peculiarities was that she was like a figure on the _predella_ of an
early Italian painting or a mediaeval maiden wandering about a lonely
castle, with her lover gone to the Crusades. To his sense, Dora had but
one defect--her admiration for her mother was too undiscriminating. An
ardent young man may well be slightly vexed when he finds that a young
lady will probably never care for him so much as she cares for her
parent; and Raymond Bestwick had this added ground for chagrin, that
Dora had--if she chose to take it--so good a pretext for discriminating.
For she had nothing whatever in common with the others; she was not of
the same stuff as Mrs. Temperly and Effie and Tishy.
She was original and generous and uncalculating, besides being full of
perception and taste in regard to the things _he_ cared about. She knew
nothing of conventional signs or estimates, but understood everything
that might be said to her from an artistic point of view. She was formed
to live in a studio, and not in a stiff drawing-room, amid upholstery
horribly new; and moreover her eyes and her voice were both charming. It
was only a pity she was so gentle; that is, he liked it for himself, but
he deplored it for her mother. He considered that he had virtually
given that lady his word that he would not make love to her; but his
spirits had risen since his visit of three or four hours before. It
seemed to him, after thinking things over more intently, that a way
would be opened for him to return to Paris. It was not probable that in
the interval Dora would be married off to a prince; for in the first
place the foolish race of princes would be sure not to appreciate her,
and in the second she would not, in this matter, simply do her mother's
bidding--her gentleness would not go so far as that. She might remain
single by the maternal decree, but she would not take a husband who was
disagreeable to her. In this reasoning Raymond was obliged to shut his
eyes very tight to the danger that some particular prince might not be
disagreeable to her, as well as to the attraction proceeding from what
her mother might announce that she would 'do.' He was perfectly aware
that it was in Cousin Maria's power, and would probably be in her
pleasure, to settle a handsome marriage-fee upon each of her daughters.
He was equally certain that this had nothing to do with the nature of
his own interest in the eldest, both because it was clear that Mrs.
Temperly would do very little for _him_, and because he didn't care how
little she did.
Effie and Tishy sat in the circle, on the edge of rather high chairs,
while Mademoiselle Bourde surveyed in them with complacency the results
of her own superiority. Tishy was a child, but Effie was fifteen, and
they were both very nice little girls, arrayed in fresh travelling
dresses and deriving a quaintness from the fact that Tishy was already
armed, for foreign adventures, with a smart new reticule, from which
she could not be induced to part, and that Effie had her finger in her
'place' in a fat red volume of _Murray_. Raymond knew that in a general
way their mother would not have allowed them to appear in the
drawing-room with these adjuncts, but something was to be allowed to the
fever of anticipation. They were both pretty, with delicate features and
blue eyes, and would grow up into worldly, conventional young ladies,
just as Dora had not done. They looked at Mademoiselle Bourde for
approval whenever they spoke, and, in addressing their mother
alternately with that accomplished woman, kept their two languages
neatly distinct.
Raymond had but a vague idea of who the people were who had come to bid
Cousin Maria farewell, and he had no wish for a sharper one, though she
introduced him, very definitely, to the whole group. She might make
light of him in her secret soul, but she would never put herself in the
wrong by omitting the smallest form. Fortunately, however, he was not
obliged to like all her forms, and he foresaw the day when she would
abandon this particular one. She was not so well made up in advance
about Paris but that it would be in reserve for her to detest the period
when she had thought it proper to 'introduce all round.' Raymond
detested it already, and tried to make Dora understand that he wished
her to take a walk with him in the corridors. There was a gentleman with
a curl on his forehead who especially displeased him; he made childish
jokes, at which the others laughed all at once, as if they had rehearsed
for it--jokes _a la portee_ of Effie and Tishy and mainly about them.
These two joined in the merriment, as if they followed perfectly, as
indeed they might, and gave a small sigh afterward, with a little
factitious air. Dora remained grave, almost sad; it was when she was
different, in this way, that he felt how much he liked her. He hated, in
general, a large ring of people who had drawn up chairs in the public
room of an hotel: some one was sure to undertake to be funny.
He succeeded at last in drawing Dora away; he endeavoured to give the
movement a casual air. There was nothing peculiar, after all, in their
walking a little in the passage; a dozen other persons were doing the
same. The girl had the air of not suspecting in the least that he could
have anything particular to say to her--of responding to his appeal
simply out of her general gentleness. It was not in her companion's
interest that her mind should be such a blank; nevertheless his
conviction that in spite of the ministrations of Mademoiselle Bourde she
was not falsely ingenuous made him repeat to himself that he would still
make her his own. They took several turns in the hall, during which it
might still have appeared to Dora Temperly that her cousin Raymond had
nothing particular to say to her. He remarked several times that he
should certainly turn up in Paris in the spring; but when once she had
replied that she was very glad that subject seemed exhausted. The young
man cared little, however; it was not a question now of making any
declaration: he only wanted to be with her. Suddenly, when they were at
the end of the corridor furthest removed from the room they had left, he
said to her: 'Your mother is very strange. Why has she got such an idea
about Paris?'
'How do you mean, such an idea?' He had stopped, making the girl stand
there before him.
'Well, she thinks so much of it without having ever seen it, or really
knowing anything. She appears to have planned out such a great life
there.'
'She thinks it's the best place,' Dora rejoined, with the dim smile that
always charmed our young man.
'The best place for what?'
'Well, to learn French.' The girl continued to smile.
'Do you mean for her? She'll never learn it; she can't.'
'No; for us. And other things.'
'You know it already. And _you_ know other things,' said Raymond.
'She wants us to know them better--better than any girls know them.'
'I don't know what things you mean,' exclaimed the young man, rather
impatiently.
'Well, we shall see,' Dora returned, laughing.
He said nothing for a minute, at the end of which he resumed: 'I hope
you won't be offended if I say that it seems curious your mother should
have such aspirations--such Napoleonic plans. I mean being just a quiet
little lady from California, who has never seen any of the kind of thing
that she has in her head.'
'That's just why she wants to see it, I suppose; and I don't know why
her being from California should prevent. At any rate she wants us to
have the best. Isn't the best taste in Paris?'
'Yes; and the worst.' It made him gloomy when she defended the old lady,
and to change the subject he asked: 'Aren't you sorry, this last night,
to leave your own country for such an indefinite time?'
It didn't cheer him up that the girl should answer: 'Oh, I would go
anywhere with mother!'
'And with _her_?' Raymond demanded, sarcastically, as Mademoiselle
Bourde came in sight, emerging from the drawing-room. She approached
them; they met her in a moment, and she informed Dora that Mrs. Temperly
wished her to come back and play a part of that composition of
Saint-Saens--the last one she had been learning--for Mr. and Mrs.
Parminter: they wanted to judge whether their daughter could manage it.
'I don't believe she can,' said Dora, smiling; but she was moving away
to comply when her companion detained her a moment.