An Unpardonable Liar | Page 6

where on the hill the lights of the Tempe hotel showed, and a man
and woman, his arm round her, could be seen pacing among the trees.
Telford turned away from this, ground his heel into the turf and said: "I
wish I could see who she is. Her voice? It's impossible." He edged
close to the window, where a light showed at the edge of the curtains.
Suddenly he pulled up.
"No. Whoever she is I shall know in time. Things come round. It's

almost uncanny as it stands, but then it was uncanny--it has all been so
since the start." He turned to the window again, raised his hat to it,
walked quickly out into the road and made his way to the View hotel.
As he came upon the veranda Mildred Margrave passed him. He saw
the shy look of interest in her face, and with simple courtesy he raised
his hat. She bowed and went on. He turned and looked after her; then,
shaking his head as if to dismiss an unreasonable thought, entered and
went to his room.
About this time the party at Hagar's rooms was breaking up. There had
been more singing by Mrs. Detlor. She ransacked her memory for half
remembered melodies--whimsical, arcadian, sad--and Hagar sat
watching her, outwardly quiet and appreciative, inwardly under an
influence like none he had ever felt before. When his guests were ready,
he went with them to their hotel. He saw that Mrs. Detlor shrank from
the attendance of the Prince, who insisted on talking of the "stranger in
the greenroom." When they arrived at the hotel, he managed, simply
enough, to send the lad on some mission for Mrs. Detlor, which, he was
determined, should be permanent so far as that evening was concerned.
He was soon walking alone with her on the terrace. He did not force the
conversation, nor try to lead it to the event of the evening, which, he
felt, was more important than others guessed. He knew also that she did
not care to talk just then. He had never had any difficulty in
conversation with her--they had a singular rapport. He had traveled
much, seen more, remembered everything, was shy to austerity with
people who did not interest him, spontaneous with those that did, and
yet was never--save to serve a necessary purpose--a hail fellow with
any one. He knew that he could be perfectly natural with this
woman--say anything that became a man. He was an artist without
affectations, a diplomatic man, having great enthusiasm and some outer
cynicism. He had started life terribly in earnest before the world. He
had changed all that. In society he was a nervous organism gone cold, a
deliberate, self-contained man. But insomuch as he was chastened of
enthusiasm outwardly he was boyishly earnest inwardly.
He was telling Mrs. Detlor of some incident he had seen in South
Africa when sketching there for a London weekly, telling it graphically,
incisively--he was not fluent. He etched in speech; he did not paint. She
looked up at him once or twice as if some thought was running parallel

with his story. He caught the look. He had just come to the close of his
narrative. Presently she put out her hand and touched his arm.
"You have great tact," she said, "and I am grateful."
"I will not question your judgment," he replied, smiling. "I am glad that
you think so, and humbled too."
"Why humbled?" she laughed softly. "I can't imagine that."
"There are good opinions which make us vain, others which make us
anxious to live up to them, while we are afraid we can't."
"Few men know that kind of fear. You are a vain race."
"You know best. Men show certain traits to women most."
"That is true. Of the most real things they seldom speak to each other,
but to women they often speak freely, and it makes one shudder--till
one knows the world, and gets used to it."
"Why shudder?" He guessed the answer, but he wanted, not from mere
curiosity, to hear her say it.
"The business of life they take seriously--money, position, chiefly
money. Life itself--home, happiness, the affections, friendship--is an
incident, a thing to juggle with."
"I do not know you in this satirical mood," he answered. "I need time to
get used to it before I can reply."
"I surprise you? People do not expect me ever to be either serious
or--or satirical, only look to me to be amiable and merry. 'Your only
jig-maker,' as Hamlet said--a sprightly Columbine. Am I rhetorical?"
"I don't believe you are really satirical, and please don't think me
impertinent if I say I do not like your irony. The other character suits
you, for, by nature, you are--are you