"It was just, Sir Nicholas."
"No, it was not, Burton--If she did not work here, she was out of pocket
not working anywhere else. You will please add the wretched sum to this
week's salary."
Burton nodded stubbornly, so I spoke to Miss Sharp myself.
"It was my business as to whether I worked or did not work for a
week--therefore you are owed payment in any case--that is logic----."
A queer red came into her transparent skin, her mouth shut firmly--I
knew that I had convinced her, and that yet for some reason she hated
having to take the money.
She did not even answer, just bowed with that strange aloofness that is
not insolent. Her manner is never like a person of the lower classes,
trying to show she thinks she is an equal. It has exactly the right
note--perfectly respectful as one who is employed, but with the serene
unselfconsciousness that only breeding gives. Shades of manner are very
interesting to watch. Somehow I _know_ that Miss Sharp, in her washed
cotton, with her red little hands, is a lady.
I have not seen my dear Duchesse lately--she has been down to one of her
country places--where she sends her convalescents, but she is returning
soon. She gives me pleasure--.
* * * * *
_August 30th_--The interest in the book has flagged lately--I could not
think of a thing, so I proposed to Miss Sharp to have a holiday. She
accepted the fortnight without enthusiasm. Now she is back and we have
begun again--Still I have no _flair_--Why do I stick to it?--Just
because I have said to the Duchesse that I _will_ finish it?----I
have an uneasy feeling that I do not want to probe my real reason--I
would like to lie even to this Journal. Lots of fellows have been upon
the five days' leave lately, things are going better--they jolly one,
and I like to see them, but after they go I feel more of a rotten beast
than ever. The only times I forget are when Maurice brings the fluffies
to dine with me--when they rush up to Paris from Deauville. We drink
champagne--(they love to know how much it costs) and I feel gay as a
boy--and then in the night I have once or twice reached out for my
revolver. They have all gone back to Deauville now.
Perhaps it is Miss Sharp who irritates me with her eternal
diligence--What is her life--who are her family? I would like to know
but I will not ask--I sit and think and think what to write about in my
book. I have almost come to the end of grinding out facts about Walnut
and ball fringe--and she sits taking it all down in short-hand, never
raising her head, day after day--.
Her hair is pretty--that silky sort of nut brown with an incipient wave
in it--her head is set on most gracefully, I must admit, and the
complexion is very pale and transparent--But what a firm mouth!--Not
cold though--only firm. I have never seen her smile. The hands are well
shaped really--awfully well shaped, if one watches them--How long would
it take to get them white again I wonder? She has got good feet, too,
thin like the hands--. How worn her clothes look--does she never have a
new dress--?
Yes Burton, I will see Madame de Clerté--.
* * * * *
Solonge de Clerté is a philosopher--she has her own aims--but I do not
know them.
"Writing a book, Nicholas?" There was the devil of a twinkle in her
eye--"There is a poor boy wounded in the leg who would make a perfect
secretary if you are not satisfied."