Whats Bred In The Bone | Page 4

and beautiful; his scales so glistened! At
last she stretched out one dainty gloved hand to pet the spotted neck.
"Take care," the painter cried, in a warning voice; "don't be frightened

if he springs at you. He's vicious at times. But his fangs are drawn; he
can't possibly hurt you."
The warning, however, was quite unnecessary. Sardanapalus, instead of
springing, seemed to recognise a friend. He darted out his forked
tongue in rapid vibration, and licked her neat grey glove respectfully.
Then, lifting his flattened head with serpentine deliberation, he coiled
his great folds slowly, slowly, with sinuous curves, round the girl's soft
arm till he reached her neck in long, winding convolutions. There he
held up his face, and trilled his swift, sibilant tongue once more with
evident pleasure. He knew his place. He was perfectly at home at once
with the pretty, olive-skinned lady. His master looked on in profound
surprise.
"Why, you're a perfect snake-charmer," he cried at last, regarding her
with open eyes of wonder. "I never saw Sardanapalus behave like that
with a stranger before. He's generally by no means fond of new
acquaintances. You must be used to snakes. Perhaps you've kept one?
You're accustomed of old to their ways and manners?"
"No, indeed," Elma cried, laughing in spite of herself, a clear little
laugh of feminine triumph; for she had made a conquest, she saw, of
Sardanapalus; "I never so much as touched one in all my life before.
And I thought I should hate them. But this one seems quite tame and
tractable. I'm not in the least afraid of him. He is so soft and smooth,
and his movements are all so perfectly gentle."
"Ah, that's the way with snakes, always," Cyril Waring put in, with an
admiring glance at the pretty, fearless brunette and her strange
companion. "They know at once whether people like them or not, and
they govern themselves accordingly. I suppose it's instinct. When they
see you're afraid of them, they spring and hiss; but when they see you
take to them by nature, they make themselves perfectly at home in a
moment. They don't wait to be asked. They've no false modesty. Well,
then, you see," he went on, drawing imaginary lines with his ticket on
the sketch he was holding up, "I shall work in Sardanapalus just there,
like that, coiled round in a spire. You catch the idea, don't you?"
As he spoke, Elma's eye, following his hand while it moved, chanced to
fall suddenly on the name of the station printed on the ticket with
which he was pointing. She gave a sharp little start.
"Warnworth!" she cried, flushing up, with some slight embarrassment

in her voice; "why, that's ever so far back. We're long past Warnworth.
We ran by it three or four stations behind; in fact, it's the next place to
Chetwood, where I got in at."
Cyril Waring looked up with a half-guilty smile as embarrassed as her
own.
"Oh yes," he said quietly. "I knew that quite well. I'm down here often.
It's half-way between Chetwood and Warnworth I'm painting. But I
thought--well, if you'll excuse me saying it, I thought I was so
comfortable and so happy where I was, that I might just as well go on a
station or two more, and then pay the difference, and take the next train
back to Warnworth. You see," he added, after a pause, with a still more
apologetic and penitent air, "I saw you were so interested in--well, in
snakes, you know, and pictures."
Gentle as he was, and courteous, and perfectly frank with her, Elma,
nevertheless, felt really half inclined to be angry at this queer avowal.
That is to say, at least, she knew it was her bounden duty, as an English
lady, to seem so; and she seemed so accordingly with most Britannic
severity. She drew herself up in a very stiff style, and stared fixedly at
him, while she began slowly and steadily to uncoil Sardanapalus from
her imprisoned arm with profound dignity.
"I'm sorry I should have brought you so far out of your way," she said,
in a studied cold voice--though that was quite untrue, for, as a matter of
fact, she had enjoyed their talk together immensely. "And besides,
you've been wasting your valuable time when you ought to have been
painting. You'll hardly get any work done now at all this morning. I
must ask you to get out at the very next station."
The young man bowed with a crestfallen air. "No time could possibly
be wasted," he began, with native politeness, "that was spent--" Then
he broke off quite suddenly. "I shall certainly get out wherever you
wish," he went on, more slowly, in an altered voice; "and I