"Yet they seem to have quite a definite aim--to get pleasure out of
life."
[Illustration: Alathea (Harriet Hammond) disguised with colored glasses
and plain clothes arrives to take up her duties as secretary to Sir
Nicholas (Lew Cody). (A scene from Elinor Glyn's production "Man and
Maid" for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer)]
"To 'grasshopper' does not prevent pleasure to the grasshopper.--It is
only fatiguing to the listener. You can have no continued sensible
conversation with any of these women--they force you to enjoy only their
skins--"
"Can the Contessa talk?"
"She has the languour of the South--She does not jump from one subject
to another, she is frankly only interested in love."
"Honestly, George--do you believe there is such a thing as real love?"
"We have discussed this before, Nicholas--You know my views--but I am
hoping Violetta will change them. She has just begun to ask daily if I
love her"--
"Why do women always do that--even one's little friends continually
murmur the question?"
"It is the working of their subconscious minds----Damn good cigars
these, my dear boy--pre-war eh?----Yes it is to justify their
surrender--They want to be assured _in words_ that you adore
them--because you see the actions of love really prove nothing of love
itself. A stranger who has happened to appeal to the senses can call
them forth quite as successfully as the lady of one's heart!"
"It is logical of women then to ask that eternal question?"
"Quite--I make a point of answering them always without irritation."
----I wonder--if Miss Sharp loved anyone would she?----but I am
determined not to speculate further about her--.
When Colonel Harcourt had gone--I deliberately rang my bell--and when
she came into the room I found I was not sure what I had rung for--It is
the most exasperating fact that Miss Sharp keeps me in a continual state
of nervous consciousness.
Her manner was indifferently expectant, if one can use such a
paradoxical description--.
"I--I--wondered if you played the piano?--"I blurted out.
She looked surprised--if one can ever say she looks anything, with the
expression of her eyes completely hidden. She answered as usual with one
word--.
"Yes."
"I suppose you would not play to me?--er--it might give me an
inspiration for the last chapter--"
She went and opened the lid of the instrument.
"What sort of music do you like?" she asked.
"Play whatever you think I would appreciate."
She began a Fox trot, she played it with unaccountable spirit and taste,
so that the sound did not jar me--but the inference hurt a little. I
said nothing, however. Then she played "Smiles," and the sweet
commonplace air said all sorts of things to me--Desire to live again,
and dance, and enjoy foolish pleasures--How could this little iceberg of
a girl put so much devilment into the way she touched the keys? If it
had not been for the interest this problem caused me, the longing the
sounds aroused in me to be human again, would have driven me mad.
No one who can play dance music with that lilt can be as cold as a
stone--.
From this she suddenly turned to Debussy--she played a most difficult
thing of his--I can't remember its name--then she stopped.
"Do you like Debussy?" I asked.
"No, not always."
"Then why did you play it?"
"I supposed you would."
"If you had said in plain words, 'I think you are a rotter who wants
first dance music, then an unrestful modern decadent, brilliantly clever
set of disharmonies,' you could not have expressed your opinion of me
more plainly."
She remained silent--I could have boxed her ears.
I leaned back in my chair, perhaps I gave a short harsh sigh--if a sigh
can be harsh--I was conscious that I had made some explosive sound.
She turned back to the piano again and began "Waterlily" and then
"1812"--and the same strange quivering came over me that I experienced
when I heard the cooing of the child.--My nerves must be in an awful
rotten state--Then a longing to start up and break something shook me,
break the windows, smash the lamp--yell aloud--I started to my one
leg--and the frightful pain of my sudden movement did me good and
steadied me.
Miss Sharp had left the piano and came over to me--.
"I am afraid you did not like that," she said--"I am so sorry"--her
voice was not so cold as usual.
"Yes I did--" I answered--"forgive me for being an awful ass--I--I--love
music tremendously, you see--"
She stood still for a moment--I was balancing myself by the table, my
crutch had fallen. Then she put out her hand.
"Can I help you to sit down again?"--she suggested.
And I let her--I wanted to feel her touch--I have never even shaken
hands with her before. But when I felt her guiding me to the chair, the
maddest desire to seize her came over me--to seize her in my arms to
tear off those glasses, to kiss those beautiful blue eyes they hid--to
hold her fragile scrap of a body tight against my breast, to tell her
that I loved her--and wanted to hold her there, mine and no one else's
in all the world----My God! what am I writing--I must crush this
nonsense--I must be sane--. But--what an emotion! The strongest I have
ever felt about a woman in my life--.
When I was settled in the chair again--things seemed to become blank for
a minute and then I heard Miss Sharp's voice with a tone--could it be of
anxiety? in it? saying "Drink this brandy, please." She must have gone
to the dining-room and fetched the decanter and glass from the case,
and poured it out while I was not noticing events.