Part 17 (1/2)
One Sunday he came to her radiant.
”She really does,” said he, ”seem interested in what I say.”
”What did you talk about?”
”The influence of Christianity on woman. Was that good?”
”Very good.”
”I didn't know very much about it, but I got her to tell me things.”
”That,” said Edith, ”was still better.”
”But she sticks to it that she doesn't understand me. That's bad.”
”No,” said Edith, ”that's best of all. It shows she's thinking of you.
She wants to understand. Believe me, the affair marches.”
He meditated on that.
In the evening, the better to meditate, he withdrew to his study. It was not long before Anne came to him of her own accord. She asked if she might read aloud to him.
”I should be honoured,” he replied stiffly.
She chose Emerson, ”On Compensation.” And Majendie did not care for Emerson.
But Anne had a charming voice; a voice with tones that penetrated like pain, that thrilled like a touch, that clung delicately like a shy caress; tones that were as a funeral bell for sadness; tones that rose to pa.s.sion without ever touching it; clear, cool tones that were like water to pa.s.sion's flame. Majendie closed his eyes and let her voice play over him.
”Did you like it?” she asked gravely.
”Like it? I love it.”
”So do I. I _hoped_ you would.”
”My dear, I didn't understand one word of it.”
”You can't make me believe you loved it then.”
He looked at her.
”I loved the sound of your voice, dear.”
”Oh,” said she coldly, ”is that all?”
”Yes,” he said, ”isn't it enough?”
”I'd rather--” she began and hesitated.