Part 36 (2/2)

”Still, she admires the right thing when she admires Sennier's talent,”

said Claude, with a sort of still decision.

Charmian turned her eyes away from the fire and looked at him.

”How odd you are!” she said, after a little pause.

”Why? In what way am I odd?”

”In almost every way, I think. But it's all right. You ought to be odd.”

”What do you mean, Charmian?”

”Jacques Sennier's odd, extraordinary. People like that always are. You are.”

She was examining him contemplatively, as a woman examines a possession, something that the other women have not. Her look made him feel very restive and intensely reserved.

”I doubt if I am the least like Jacques Sennier,” he said.

”Oh, yes, you are. I know.”

His rather thin and very mobile lips tightened, as if to keep back a rush of words.

”You don't know yourself,” Charmian continued, still looking at him with those contemplative and possessive eyes. ”Men don't notice what is part of themselves.”

”Do women?”

”What does it matter? I am thinking about you, about my man.”

There was a long pause, which Claude filled by getting up and lighting a cigarette. A hideous, undressed sensation possessed him, the undressed sensation of the reserved nature that is being stared at. He said to himself: ”It is natural that she should look at me like this, speak to me like this. It is perfectly natural.” But he hated it. He even felt as if he could not endure it much longer, and would be obliged to do something to stop it.

”Don't sit down again,” said Charmian, as he turned with the cigarette in his mouth.

She got up with lithe ease, like one uncurling.

”Let's go and look at your room, where you're going to begin work to-morrow.”

She put her hand on his arm. And her hand was possessive as her eyes had been.

Claude's workroom was at the back of the house on the floor above the drawing-room. An upright piano replaced the grand piano of Mullion House, now dedicated to the drawing-room. There was a large flat writing-table in front of the window, where curtains of Irish frieze, dark green in color, hung shutting out the night and the ugliness at the back of Kensington Square. The walls were nearly covered with books. At the bottom of the bookcases were large drawers for music. A Canterbury held more music, and was placed beside the writing-table. The carpet was dark green without any pattern. In the fireplace were some curious Morris tiles, representing aeneas carrying Anchises, with Troy burning in the background. There were two armchairs, and a deep sofa covered in dark green. A photograph of Charmian stood on the writing-table. It showed her in evening dress, holding her Conder fan, and looking out with half-shut eyes. There was in it a hint of the a.s.sumed dreaminess which very sharp-witted modern maidens think decorative in photographs, the ”I follow an ideal” expression, which makes men say, ”What a charming girl! Looks as if she'd got something in her, too!”

”It's a dear little room, isn't it, Claude?” said Charmian.

”Yes, very.”

”You really like it, don't you? You like its atmosphere?”

”I think you've done it delightfully. I was saying to Madre only this evening how extraordinarily clever you are in creating prettiness around you.”

<script>