Part 32 (1/2)

Suddenly an exclamation from her aroused and thrilled him.

”Isn't it wonderful how happy they are, and with what simple pleasures they are satisfied! I often come over here on Sat.u.r.days and Sundays, just to talk to them.”

”Talk to them!” he echoed stupidly. ”In their own languages?”

”Oh, I know a little German and Italian, though I can't lay claim to Czech,” she answered gayly. ”Why are you so surprised that I should possess such modest accomplishments?”

”It's not the accomplishments.” He hesitated.

”No. You are surprised that I should be interested in humanity.”

She stood facing him. ”Well, I am,” she said, half humorously, half defiantly. ”I believe I am more interested in human beings than in anything else in the world--when they are natural, as these people are and when they will tell one their joys and their troubles and their opinions.”

”Enthusiasm, self-a.s.sertion, had as usual, transformed her, and he saw the colour glowing under her olive skin. Was she accusing him of a lack of frankness?

”And why,” he asked, collecting himself, ”did you think--” he got no further.

”It's because you have an idea that I'm a selfish Epicurean, if that isn't tautology--because I'm interested in a form of art, the rest of the world can go hang. You have a prejudice against artists. I wish I really were one, but I'm not.”

This speech contained so many surprises for him that he scarcely knew how to answer it.

”Give me a little time,” he begged, ”and perhaps I'll get over my prejudices. The worst of them, at any rate. You are helping me to do so.” He tried to speak lightly, but his tone was more serious in the next sentence. ”It seems to me personally that you have proved your concern for your fellow-creatures.”

Her colour grew deeper, her manner changed.

”That gives me the opportunity to say something I have hoped to say, ever since I saw you. I hoped I should see you again.”

”You are not going away soon?” he exclaimed.

The words were spoken before he grasped their significance.

”Not at once. I don't know how long I shall stay,” she answered hurriedly, intent upon what was in her mind. ”I have thought a great deal about what I said to you that afternoon, and I find it more than ever difficult to excuse myself. I shan't attempt to. I merely mean to ask you to forgive me.”

”There is nothing to forgive,” he a.s.sured her, under the influence of the feeling she had aroused.

”It's nice of you to say so, and to take it as you did--nicer than I can express. I am afraid I shall never learn to appreciate that there may be other points of view toward life than my own. And I should have realized and sympathized with the difficulties of your position, and that you were doing the best under the circ.u.mstances.”

”No,” he exclaimed, ”don't say that! Your other instinct was the truer one, if indeed you have really changed it--I don't believe you have.” He smiled at her again. ”You didn't hurt my feelings, you did me a service.

I told you so at the time, and I meant it. And, more than that, I understood.”

”You understood--?”

”You were not criticizing me, you were--what shall I say?--merely trying to iron out some of the inconsistencies of life. Well, you helped me to iron out some of the inconsistencies of my own. I am profoundly grateful.”

She gazed at him, puzzled. But he did not, he could not enlighten her.

Some day she would discover what he meant.

”If so, I am glad,” she said, in a low voice.