An Unpardonable Liar | Page 6

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 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