Part 56 (1/2)

After a while, as she did not move or speak, he ventured to busy himself with collecting his brushes, odds and ends of studio equipment. He sc.r.a.ped several palettes, scrubbed up some palette-knives, screwed the tops on a dozen tubes of colour, and fussed and messed about until there seemed to be nothing further to do. So he came back and seated himself, and, looking up, saw the big tears stealing from under her closed lids.

He endured it as long as he could. Nothing was said. He leaned nearer and laid his hand over hers; and at the contact she slipped from the chair, slid to her knees, and laid her head on the couch beside him, both hands covering her face, which had turned dead white.

Minute after minute pa.s.sed with no sound, no movement except as he pa.s.sed his hand over her forehead and hair. He knew what to do when those who were adrift floated into Port Mallett. And sometimes he did more than was strictly required, but never less. Toward sundown she began to feel blindly for her handkerchief. He happened to possess a fresh one and put it into her groping hand.

When she was ready to rise she did so, keeping her back toward him and standing for a while busy with her swollen eyes and disordered hair.

”Before we go we must have tea together again,” he said with perfectly matter-of-fact cordiality.

”Y-yes.” The voice was very, very small.

”And in town, too, Sylvia. I had no idea what a companionable girl you are--how much we have in common. You know silence is the great test of mutual confidence and understanding. You'll let me see you in town, won't you?”

”Yes.”

”That will be jolly. I suppose now that you and I ought to be thinking about dressing for dinner.”

She a.s.sented, moved away a step or two, halted, and, still with her back turned, held out her hand behind her. He took it, bent and kissed it.

”See you at dinner,” he said cheerfully.

And she went out very quietly, his handkerchief pressed against her eyes.

He came back into the studio, swung nervously toward the couch, turned and began to pace the floor.

”Oh, Lord,” he said; ”the rottenness of it all--the utter rottenness.”

Dinner that night was not a very gay function; after coffee had been served, the small group seemed to disintegrate as though by some prearrangement, Rosalie and Grandcourt finding a place for themselves in the extreme western shadow of the terrace parapet, Kathleen returning to the living-room, where she had left her embroidery.

Scott, talking to Sylvia and Duane, continued to cast restless glances toward the living-room until he could find the proper moment to get away. And in a few minutes Duane saw him seated, one leg crossed over the other, a huge volume on ”Scientific Conservation of Natural Resources” open on his knees, seated as close to Kathleen as he could conveniently edge, perfectly contented, apparently, to be in her vicinity.

From moment to moment, as her pretty hands performed miracles in tinted silks, she lifted her eyes and silently inspected the boy who sat absorbed in his book. Perhaps old memories of a child seated in the schoolroom made tender the curve of her lips as she turned again to her embroidery; perhaps a sentiment more recent made grave the beautiful lowered eyes.

Sylvia, seated at the piano, idly improvising, had unconsciously drifted into the ”Menuet d'Exaudet,” and Duane's heart began to quicken as he stood listening and looking out through the open windows at the stars.

How long he stood there he did not know; but when, at length, missing the sound of the piano, he looked around, Sylvia was already on the stairs, looking back at him as she moved upward.

”Good-night,” she called softly; ”I am very tired,” and paused as he came forward and mounted to the step below where she waited.

”Good-night, Miss Quest,” he said, with that nice informality that women always found so engaging. ”If you have nothing better on hand in the morning, let's go for a climb. I've discovered a wild-boar's nest under the Golden Dome, and if you'd like to get a glimpse of the little, furry, striped piglings, I think we can manage it.”

She thanked him with her eyes, held out her thin, graceful hand of a schoolgirl, then turned slowly and continued her ascent.

As he descended, Kathleen, looking up from her embroidery, made him a sign, and he stood still.

”Where are you going?” asked Scott, as she rose and pa.s.sed him.

”I'm coming back in a moment.”

Scott restlessly resumed his book, raising his head from time to time as though listening for her return, fidgeting about, now examining the embroidery she had left on the lamp-lit table, now listlessly running over the pages that had claimed his close attention while she had been near him.

Across the hall, in the library, Duane stood absently twisting an unlighted cigar, and Kathleen, her hand on his shoulder, eyes lifted in sweet distress, was searching for words that seemed to evade her.