François opened the door, and Evie walked hesitatingly into the lobby.
Ronnie was at his table and he was writing. He got up at once and
came to meet her with outstretched hand.
"It was good of you to come, Evie."
She started. His voice was so changed--his expression, too.
Something had come into his face that was not there before. A
vitality, an eagerness, a good humor. She was startled into
beginning on a personal note.
"Why, Ronnie, dear, you have changed!"
She did not recognize how far she had departed from a certain program
and agenda she had drawn up. Item number one was "not to call
Ronnie, 'dear'."
"Have I?" He flashed a smile at her as he pushed a chair forward and
put a cushion at her back.
"Your voice even, have you had a cold?"
"No. I am getting old," he chuckled at the jest. Ronnie did not as
a rule laugh at himself. "I had your letter about Lola. I thought
it best that you should come. Yes, Evie, all that was in the paper
was true. I know Lola."
"And she has been--all that you said, to you?"
"Yes." His voice was a little dreary. "Yes--all that."
She sat tight-lipped, trying to feel more angry than she did, ("Be
very angry" was item two on the agenda).
"I'm sorry that you had to know, you are so young and these things
are very shocking to a good woman. Lola has gone back to her people.
Naturally, I did not wish to appear in a police court, but there was
a conspiracy to send this girl to prison. A late friend of mine was
in it. I had to go to the court and tell the truth."
"I think it was very fine of you," she echoed Christina's words, but
was wanting in Christina's enthusiasm.
"Fine? I don't know. It was a great nuisance. I have an unpleasant
feeling about courts."
He rubbed his chin; Evie saw nothing remarkable in the gesture.
"Of course, Ronnie," she began, laboring under the disadvantage of
calmness, for she could not feel angry, "this makes a difference. I
was prepared to sacrifice everything--my good name and what people
thought about me--it was horrible of you, Ronnie--to take that girl
into the country when--when you knew me. I can't forgive that,
Ronnie."
He stood by his table, his white hand drumming silently.
"Did you come alone?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"No, I brought a friend. A gentleman. I used to know him when I was
a child."
Ronnie looked at her searchingly. His eyes were soft and kind.
"Evie, I will tell you something. From the day I first met you I
intended no good to you. When I arranged that we should go to Italy,
to Palermo, I knew in my wicked mind that you would grow tired of me."
He put it that way, though he was loath to tell even so small a lie.
"Since--since I saw you last, I have been thinking of you, thinking
very tenderly of you, Evie. I have always liked you; Christina and I
have discussed you by the hour--"
"But you have never seen Christina until this week, Ronnie!"
Ronnie's hand went to his chin.
"Haven't I?" He was troubled. "I thought--let me say I have dreamed
of these discussions. I dream a great deal nowadays. Queer ugly
dreams. I woke this morning when the clock was striking nine--I felt
so sad."
He seemed to forget her presence, for he did not speak for a time.
He had seated himself on the edge of the desk, one polished boot
swinging, and he was looking past her with an intensity of gaze that
made her turn to see the thing that attracted him.
Her movement roused him, and he stammered his apologies.
Taking courage from his confusion, Evie delivered herself of the
predication which she had not had the courage to rehearse.
"Ronnie, I think we've both made a great mistake. I like you
awfully. I don't think I could like a friend more. But I don't
feel--well, you can see for yourself that we're not the same way of
thinking. Don't imagine I'm a prude. I'm very broad-minded about
that sort of thing, but you can see for yourself--"
He saw very clearly for himself and held out his hand.
"Friends?" he asked.
She experienced a thrill of one who creditably performs a great
renunciation without any distress to herself.
"Friends!" she said solemnly.
Ronnie walked round to his writing chair and sat down. She found
satisfaction in the tremor of the hand that opened a portfolio on his
desk.
"And you're not hurt?" he asked anxiously.
"No, Ronnie."
"Thank God for that," said Ronald Morelle. He was looking in the
black case: presently he pulled out half a dozen photographs and
passed them across to her.
"How perfectly lovely!" she said.
"Yes; in some respects more lovely than Palermo. And there are no
earthquakes and no rumblings from old Etna."
She was looking at the photographs of a white villa that seemed to be
built on the side of a hill. One picture showed a riotous garden,
another a lawn with great shady trees and deep basket chairs.
"That is my house at Beaulieu," said Ronnie, "I want you to help me
with that."
She looked at him, ready to reprove.
"Your mother is the very woman to run that house and the garden was
made for Christina."
Her mouth opened.
"Not you!" she gasped, "you aren't the man who wants a housekeeper.
Oh, Ronnie!"
"I haven't photographs of the Palermo villa. I have sent for some.
An ideal place for a honeymoon, Evie."
He came round to the back of her chair and dropped his hand on her
shoulder lightly.
"When you marry a nice man, you shall go there for your honeymoon.
God love you!"
She took his hand and laid it against her cheek.