Part 12 (2/2)

He had been tempted to confide in Ansell. But to what purpose? He would say, ”I love Miss Pembroke.” and Stewart would reply, ”You a.s.s.” And then. ”I'm never going to tell her.” ”You a.s.s,” again. After all, it was not a practical question; Agnes would never hear of his fall. If his friend had been, as he expressed it, ”labelled”; if he had been a father, or still better a brother, one might tell him of the discreditable pa.s.sion. But why irritate him for no reason? Thinking ”I am always angling for sympathy; I must stop myself,” he hurried onward to the Union.

He found his guests half way up the stairs, reading the advertis.e.m.e.nts of coaches for the Long Vacation. He heard Mrs. Lewin say, ”I wonder what he'll end by doing.” A little overacting his part, he apologized nonchalantly for his lateness.

”It's always the same,” cried Agnes. ”Last time he forgot I was coming altogether.” She wore a flowered muslin--something indescribably liquid and cool. It reminded him a little of those swift piercing streams, neither blue nor green, that gush out of the dolomites. Her face was clear and brown, like the face of a mountaineer; her hair was so plentiful that it seemed banked up above it; and her little toque, though it answered the note of the dress, was almost ludicrous, poised on so much natural glory. When she moved, the sunlight flashed on her ear-rings.

He led them up to the luncheon-room. By now he was conscious of his limitations as a host, and never attempted to entertain ladies in his lodgings. Moreover, the Union seemed less intimate. It had a faint flavour of a London club; it marked the undergraduate's nearest approach to the great world. Amid its waiters and serviettes one felt impersonal, and able to conceal the private emotions. Rickie felt that if Miss Pembroke knew one thing about him, she knew everything. During this visit he took her to no place that he greatly loved.

”Sit down, ladies. Fall to. I'm sorry. I was out towards Coton with a dreadful friend.”

Mrs. Lewin pushed up her veil. She was a typical May-term chaperon, always pleasant, always hungry, and always tired. Year after year she came up to Cambridge in a tight silk dress, and year after year she nearly died of it. Her feet hurt, her limbs were cramped in a canoe, black spots danced before her eyes from eating too much mayonnaise. But still she came, if not as a mother as an aunt, if not as an aunt as a friend. Still she ascended the roof of King's, still she counted the b.a.l.l.s of Clare, still she was on the point of grasping the organization of the May races. ”And who is your friend?” she asked.

”His name is Ansell.”

”Well, now, did I see him two years ago--as a bedmaker in something they did at the Foot Lights? Oh, how I roared.”

”You didn't see Mr. Ansell at the Foot Lights,” said Agnes, smiling.

”How do you know?” asked Rickie.

”He'd scarcely be so frivolous.”

”Do you remember seeing him?”

”For a moment.”

What a memory she had! And how splendidly during that moment she had behaved!

”Isn't he marvellously clever?”

”I believe so.”

”Oh, give me clever people!” cried Mrs. Lewin. ”They are kindness itself at the Hall, but I a.s.sure you I am depressed at times. One cannot talk b.u.mp-rowing for ever.”

”I never hear about him, Rickie; but isn't he really your greatest friend?”

”I don't go in for greatest friends.”

”Do you mean you like us all equally?”

”All differently, those of you I like.”

”Ah, you've caught it!” cried Mrs. Lewin. ”Mr. Elliot gave it you there well.”

Agnes laughed, and, her elbows on the table, regarded them both through her fingers--a habit of hers. Then she said, ”Can't we see the great Mr.

Ansell?”

”Oh, let's. Or would he frighten me?”

”He would frighten you,” said Rickie. ”He's a trifle weird.”

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