Part 74 (1/2)
She closed the door and came in while her brother said to her, ”How in the world did you guess it?”
”I saw it in the _Morning Post_.” And she kept her eyes on their kinsman.
”In the _Morning Post_?” he vaguely echoed.
”I saw there's to be a first night at that theatre, the one you took us to. So I said, 'Oh he'll go there.'”
”Yes, I've got to do that too,” Peter admitted.
”She's going to sit to me again this morning, his wonderful actress--she has made an appointment: so you see I'm getting on,” Nick pursued to his sister.
”Oh I'm so glad--she's so splendid!” The girl looked away from her cousin now, but not, though it seemed to fill the place, at the triumphant portrait of Miriam Rooth.
”I'm delighted you've come in. I _have_ waited for you,” Peter hastened to declare to her, though conscious that this was in the conditions meagre.
”Aren't you coming to see us again?”
”I'm in despair, but I shall really not have time. Therefore it's a blessing not to have missed you here.”
”I'm very glad,” said Biddy. Then she added: ”And you're going to America--to stay a long time?”
”Till I'm sent to some better place.”
”And will that better place be as far away?”
”Oh Biddy, it wouldn't be better then,” said Peter.
”Do you mean they'll give you something to do at home?”
”Hardly that. But I've a tremendous lot to do at home to-day.” For the twentieth time Peter referred to his watch.
She turned to her brother, who had admonished her that she might bid him good-morning. She kissed him and he asked what the news would be in Calcutta Gardens; to which she made answer: ”The only news is of course the great preparations they're making, poor dears, for Peter. Mamma thinks you must have had such a nasty dinner the other day,” the girl continued to the guest of that romantic occasion.
”Faithless Peter!” said Nick, beginning to whistle and to arrange a canvas in antic.i.p.ation of Miriam's arrival.
”Dear Biddy, thank your stars you're not in my horrid profession,”
protested the personage so designated. ”One's bowled about like a cricket-ball, unable to answer for one's freedom or one's comfort from one moment to another.”
”Oh ours is the true profession--Biddy's and mine,” Nick broke out, setting up his canvas; ”the career of liberty and peace, of charming long mornings spent in a still north light and in the contemplation, I may even say in the company, of the amiable and the beautiful.”
”That certainty's the case when Biddy comes to see you,” Peter returned.
Biddy smiled at him. ”I come every day. Anch'io son pittore! I encourage Nick awfully.”
”It's a pity I'm not a martyr--she'd bravely perish with me,” Nick said.
”You are--you're a martyr--when people say such odious things!” the girl cried. ”They do say them. I've heard many more than I've repeated to you.”
”It's you yourself then, indignant and loyal, who are the martyr,”
observed Peter, who wanted greatly to be kind to her.