Part 20 (1/2)
”And you like it?”
”It's heavenly! How good this soup is. But what a waste it seems to put all that ice round the champagne. Ice is so dreadfully expensive. You get hardly any for fourpence at our fishmongers.”
But it was the mayonnaise with its elaborate decoration that intrigued her most.
Words failed at the luscious sight and it was a sheer joy to watch her.
”Oh, what a pig I am!” she said, after her second helping, with her flas.h.i.+ng, radiant smile, ”but it was too perfectly sweet for anything.”
The champagne and excitement had tinted her cheeks exquisitely, it was as though a few drops of red wine had been poured into a gla.s.s of clear crystal water. With little appet.i.te himself, Lothian watched her eat with intense pleasure in her youth and health. His depression had gone, he seemed to draw vitality from her, to be informed with something of her own pulsing youth. He became quite at his best, and how good that was, not very many people knew.
It was his hour, his moment, every sense was flattered and satisfied.
He was dining with the prettiest girl in the room, people turned to look at her. She hung on his words and was instantly appreciative. A full flask of poison was by his side, he could help himself without let or hindrance. Her innocence of what he was doing--of what it was necessary for him to do to remain at concert-pitch--was supreme. No one else knew or would have cared twopence if they did.
He was witty, in a high courtly way. The hour of freakish fun was over, and his shrewd insight into life, his poetic and illuminating method of statement, the grace and kindliness of it all held the girl spellbound.
And well it might. His nerves, cleared and tempered, telegraphed each message to his brilliant, lambent brain with absolute precision.
There was an entire co-ordination of all the reflexes.
And Rita knew well that she was hearing what many people would have given much to hear, knew that Lothian was exerting himself to a manifestation of the highest power of his brain--for her.
For her! It was an incredible triumph, wonderfully sweet. The dominant s.e.x-instinct awoke. Unconsciously she was now responding to him as woman to man. Her eyes, her lips showed it, everything was quite different from what it had been before.
In all that happened afterwards, neither of them ever forgot that night. For the girl it was Illumination.
... She had mentioned a writer of beautiful prose whom she had recently discovered in the library and who had come as a revelation to her.
”Nothing else I have ever read produces the same impression,” she said.
”There are very few writers in prose that can.”
”It is magic.”
”But to be understood. You see, some of his chapters--the pa.s.sages on Leonardo da Vinci for instance, are intended to be musical compositions as it were, in which words have to take the place and perform the functions of notes. It has been pointed out that they are impa.s.sioned, not so much in the sense of expressing any very definite sentiment, but because, from the combination and structure of the sentences, they harmonise with certain phases of emotion.”
She understood. The whole mechanism and intention of the writer were revealed to her in those lucent words.
And then a statement of his philosophy.
”In telling me of your reading just now, you spoke of that progress of the soul that each new horizon in literature seems to stimulate and ensure for you. And you quoted some hackneyed and beautiful lines of Longfellow. Cling always to that idea of progress, but remember that we don't really rise to higher things upon the stepping stones of our dead selves so much as on the stepping stones of our dead opinions. That is Progress. _Progress means the capability of seeing new forms of beauty._”
”But there are places where one wants to linger.”
”I know, but it's dangerous. You were splendidly right when you bade me move from that garden just now. The road was waiting. It is so with states of the soul. The limpet is the lowest of organisms. Movement is everything. One life may seem to be like sunlight moving over sombre ground and another like the shadow of a cloud traversing a sunlit s.p.a.ce. But both have meaning and value. Never strike an average and imagine you have found content. The average life is nothing but a pudding in a fog!”
Lothian had been talking very earnestly, his eyes full of light, fixed on her eyes. And now, in a moment, he saw what had been there for many minutes, he saw what he had roused.
He was startled.