Part 6 (1/2)

It would be more correct to say, perhaps, that Heaton had chosen him, and that he had lacked the energy or the power to shake him off. It was generally true that his sentimental egotism bored Paul excessively, and yet he found something to like in a nature that was so unlike his own; and he was so secretive himself that the artless confidences of Heaton, if a little wearisome, at least relieved him of the necessity of adding to the conversation. Besides this, he was a man who never willingly sought the friends.h.i.+p of others, and the obvious preference that the good-natured idler, who was so many years his elder, had shown for him when they first met at a public dinner, had secretly flattered him not a little, and their acquaintance had grown after that as a matter of course.

”All the same,” resumed Heaton in his ordinary manner, ”an outsider never can do much in these cases. Perhaps it would be better to leave them alone; and yet, if the boy were to come to me for the benefit of my larger experience--”

”Don't you think,” interrupted Paul, ”that we have talked about a couple of children as much as we need? It's all very well for an old reprobate like yourself to spend your time in reviving your lost youth, but I haven't so much leisure as you have, and I want to hear about those shares you mentioned in your letter last week.”

Heaton laughed good-humouredly.

”You don't realise, my dear fellow, how anything like that always interests me. But you wait until your time comes; at present you are too cynical to understand what I mean.”

”Or too romantic,” suggested Paul.

”Oh, no!” said Heaton. ”Romance is only an equivalent for inexperience; I think you're a cold-hearted beggar who lets the best things in life go by, but I shouldn't call you inexperienced. You've got a finished way with women that always appeals to them; women love a little humbug, if it's well done. I'm too obvious for them, too simple-minded, and that always frightens them off.”

”Does it?” smiled Paul.

”Now, you ought to marry,” continued Heaton briskly. ”I believe in marriage, hanged if I don't! and it's been the making of me.

Everything that is good in me I owe to my married life.”

”Did it really take two marriages?” murmured Paul. His companion smiled at the joke against himself, and they stood for a moment in silence, looking over the lawn that had just acquired its fresh bloom of green. Katharine's voice came out to them again through the open window, this time raised in indignant dispute with her aunt.

”She is a curious mixture of hardness and sentiment,” said Paul involuntarily, ”and her surroundings have made her a prig; but she interests me rather.”

”Ah,” said Heaton, ”I quite agree with you. There _is_ a touch of the prig about her. But can you wonder? She is the only bit of life and prettiness about the place, and she never meets her equal. They think a good lot of her, too. And the parson's daughter generally thinks a good lot of herself.”

”She does it rather charmingly,” said Paul, in a dispa.s.sionate tone, ”and she is fairly well read, and knows how to express herself. For a woman, she has quite a sense of criticism.”

”That's bad,” said Heaton decidedly, ”very bad. A woman should have no sense of criticism. That is what makes her a prig. In fact, as I have often said to you before, a prig is made in three ways. First of all, she is made by her own people, if she happens to be clever; and secondly, by the world, if she happens to be successful; and thirdly, by her lover, if she isn't in love with him. But of course if she _is_ in love with him he may be the cause of her unmaking.”

Some one in a light-coloured print frock jumped out of a side window and disappeared in the direction of the summer-house. The two men stood and looked after her without being noticed.

”As you say,” remarked Heaton blandly, ”she does it rather charmingly.”

Paul roused himself with an effort.

”Half-past three,” he said, looking at his watch. ”Didn't you promise to go and look at the Rector's coins some time this afternoon?”

And in another five minutes he had joined Katharine in the summer-house.

CHAPTER V

The summer house was set far back in the shrubbery, and although hidden from the house by laurels and box-trees, was open at the front to a stretch of brightly coloured flower beds and trimly cut gra.s.s. It was a glorious day in May, and spring in its fulness was come. The white fruit blossoms had given place to crumpled green leaves, and the early summer flowers were in bud. Paul Wilton lay on a low basket chair, where he had flung himself down after making his escape from his garrulous friend; and at his feet, with an open book on her lap, sat Katharine. Obviously, a great many poor women had lost a great many babies, since the day she had sat on the chair at the end of his bed and talked about her favourite poets, for the book on her lap was only a pretence to which neither of them paid the least attention, and their conversation was of a purely personal nature, the kind of conversation that has no subject and no epigrams, and is carried on in half-finished sentences.

”I am beginning to understand why you don't paint or write or do things, although you know such a lot about them,” observed Katharine, half closing her eyes and making a picture of the square of sunlit garden as she saw it framed in the woodwork of the summer-house door.

Paul smiled. It was very pleasant to be told by this child of Nature that he knew ”such a lot about things.”

”Tell me why,” was all he said, however.