An Unpardonable Liar | Page 7

not?--both merry and amiable. The
rest"--
"'The rest is silence.' * * * I can remember when mere living was
delightful. I didn't envy the birds. That sounds sentimental to a man,
doesn't it? But then that is the way a happy girl--a child--feels. I do not
envy the birds now, though I suppose it is silly for a worldly woman to
talk so."
"Whom, then, do you envy?"
There was a warm, frank light in her eyes. "I envy the girl I was then."
He looked down at her. She was turning a ring about on her finger
abstractedly. He hesitated to reply. He was afraid that he might say
something to press a confidence for which she would be sorry

afterward. She guessed what was passing in his mind.
She reached out as if to touch his arm again, but did not, and said: "I
am placing you in an awkward position. Pardon me. It seemed to me
for a moment that we were old friends--old and candid friends."
"I wish to be an old and candid friend," he replied firmly. "I honor your
frankness."
"I know," she added hastily. "One is safe--with some men."
"Not with a woman?"
"No woman is safe in any confidence to any other woman. All women
are more or less bad at heart."
"I do not believe that as you say it."
"Of course you do not--as I say it. But you know what I mean. Women
are creatures of impulse, except those who live mechanically and have
lost everything. They become like priests then."
"Like some priests. Yet, with all respect, it is not a confessional I would
choose, except the woman was my mother."
There was silence for a moment, and then she abruptly said: "I know
you wish to speak of that incident, and you hesitate. You need not. Yet
this is all I can tell you. Whoever the man was he came from Tellaire,
the place where I was born."
She paused. He did not look, but he felt that she was moved. He was
curious as to human emotions, but not where this woman was
concerned.
"There were a few notes in that woodcutter's chant which were added
to the traditional form by one whom I knew," she continued.
"You did not recognize the voice?"
"I cannot tell. One fancies things, and it was all twelve years ago."
"It was all twelve years ago," he repeated musingly after her. He was
eager to know, yet he would not ask.
"You are a clever artist," she said presently. "You want a subject for a
picture. You have told me so. You are ambitious. If you were a
dramatist, I would give you three acts of a play--the fourth is yet to
come; but you shall have a scene to paint if you think it strong enough."
His eyes flashed. The artist's instinct was alive. In the eyes of the
woman was a fire which sent a glow over all her features. In herself she
was an inspiration to him, but he had not told her that. "Oh, yes," was
his reply, "I want it, if I may paint you in the scene."

"You may paint me in the scene," she said quietly. Then, as if it
suddenly came to her that she would be giving a secret into this man's
hands, she added, "That is, if you want me for a model merely."
"Mrs. Detlor," he said, "you may trust me, on my honor."
She looked at him, not searchingly, but with a clear, honest gaze such
as one sees oftenest in the eyes of children, yet she had seen the
duplicities of life backward and said calmly, "Yes, I can trust you."
"An artist's subject ought to be sacred to him," he said. "It becomes
himself, and then it isn't hard--to be silent."
They walked for a few moments, saying nothing. The terrace was
filling with people, so they went upon the veranda and sat down. There
were no chairs near them. They were quite at the end.
"Please light a cigar," she said with a little laugh. "We must not look
serious. Assume your light comedy manner as you listen, and I will
wear the true Columbine expression. We are under the eyes of the
curious."
"Not too much light comedy for me," he said. "I shall look forbidding
lest your admirers bombard us."
They were quiet again.
"This is the story," she said at last, folding her hands before her. "No,
no," she added hastily, "I will not tell you the story, I will try and
picture one scene. And when I have finished, tell me if you don't think I
have a capital imagination." She drew herself up with a little gesture of
mockery. "It is