Part 13 (1/2)

Now and then Rawson-Clew had observed in his acquaintance with Julia, she said things which had a way of lighting him up to himself; this was one of the occasions. ”Possibly you are right,” he said, with faint amus.e.m.e.nt. ”How do you take yours? Let us consider yours; I am sure it would be a great deal more interesting.”

”There would be more variety in it,” she said significantly.

”What is your opinion about half-truths?” he inquired, with grave mimicry of her.

”'Half a truth, however small, Is better than no truth at all,'”

she quoted. ”That is so; it is better, safer to deal with--to explain away if it is found out, to deceive with if it is not. But it is not half so easy as the whole truth; that is the easiest thing in the world; it takes no ingenuity, no brains, no courage, no acting, no feeling the pulse of your people, no bolstering up or watching or remembering. If I wanted to teach the beauty of truth, I would set my pupils to do a little artistic white lying on their own account, to make things look four times as good as they really were, and not to forget to make them square together, that would teach them the advantage of truth.”

”Do you think so?” Rawson-Clew said. ”It is not the usual opinion; fools and cowards are generally supposed to be the great dealers in deceit and subterfuge.”

”May be,” Julia allowed; ”but I don't happen to have come across that sort much; the other I have, and I am just about sick of it--I am sick of pretending and shamming and double-dealing, of saying one thing and implying another, and meaning another still--you don't know what it feels like, you have never had to do it; you wouldn't, of course; very likely you couldn't, even. I am weary of it; I am weary of the whole thing.”

Rawson-Clew screwed the gla.s.s into his eye carefully but did not look at her; he had an idea she would rather not. ”What is it?” he asked kindly. ”What has gone wrong to-night? Too much pudding again?”

”No,” she answered, with a quick, if partial, recovery; ”too much humbug, too much self. I have seen a great deal of myself lately, and it's hateful.”

”I cannot agree with you.”

”Do you like having a lot of yourself?”

”No; I like yourself.”

She laughed a little; in her heart she was pleased, but she only said, ”I don't; I know what it really is.”

”And I do not?”

”No,” she answered; then, with a sudden determination to tell him the worst, and to deal in this newly admired honesty, she said, ”I will tell you, though. You remember my father? You may have politely forgotten him, or smoothed out your recollections of him--remember him now; he is just about what you thought him.”

”Indeed?” the tone was that one of polite interest, which she had come to know so well. ”Your shoe is unfastened; may I tie it for you? The question is,” he went on, as he stooped to her shoe, ”what did I think of your father? I'm sure I don't know, and I hardly think you are in a position to, either.”

She moved impatiently, so that the shoelace slipped out of his hand, and he had to begin all over again. It was a very shabby shoe; at another time she might have minded about it, and even refused to have it fastened on that account; to-night she did not care, which was perhaps as well, for Rawson-Clew knew long ago all about the shabbiness--the only thing he did not know before was the good shape of the foot inside.

”I know perfectly well what you thought my father,” she said; ”if you have forgotten, I will remind you. You did not think him an adventurer, I know; of course, you saw he had not brains enough.”

But here the shoe tying was finished, and Rawson-Clew intimated politely that he was not anxious to be reminded of things he had forgotten. ”You began by saying you would tell me about yourself,” he said; ”will you not go on?”

”I have more brains than my father,” she said, ”and no more principles.”

”_Ergo_--you succeed where he falls short; in fact, you are an adventuress--is that it? My dear child, you neither are, nor ever could be; believe me, I really do know, though, as you have indicated, my morality is rather mechanical and my experience much as other men's. You see, I, too, have graduated in the study of humanity in the university of cosmopolis; I don't think my degree is as high as yours, and I certainly did not take it so young, but I believe I know an adventuress when I see one. You will never do in that walk of life; I don't mean to insinuate that you haven't brains enough, or that you would ever lose your head; it isn't that you would lose, it's your heart.”

”I haven't;” Julia cried hotly. ”I have not lost my heart; that has nothing to do with it.”

”I did not say that you had,” Rawson-Clew reminded her; ”of course not, you have not lost it, and could not easily. I did not mean that; I only meant that it would interfere with your success as an adventuress.”

”It would not,” Julia persisted; ”I don't care about people a bit; it isn't that, it is simply that I am sick of deception, that is why I am telling you the truth. And as for the other thing--the daffodil”--she forgot that he did not know about it--”I couldn't take it from any one so silly, so childish, so trusting.”

”Of course not,” Rawson-Clew said. ”I don't know what the daffodil thing is, nor from whom you could not take it--please don't tell me; I never take the slightest interest in other people's business, it bores me. But, you see, you bear out what I say; you are of those strong who are merciful; you would make no success as an adventuress. Besides, your tastes are too simple; I have some recollections of your mentioning corduroy--er--trousers and a diet of onions as the height of your ambition.”

Julia laughed in spite of herself. ”That is only when I retire,” she said. ”I haven't retired yet; until I do I am--”

”The incarnation of the seven deadly sins?” Rawson-Clew finished for her, with a smile in his eyes. ”No doubt of it; I expect that is what makes you good company.”