The Girl Philippa. Chambers Robert William

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      He laughed:

      "You'll have to ask others that question, Philippa."

      "Why? Don't you know whether you are distinguished?"

      "I've had some success," he admitted, amused.

      She thought a moment, then leaned forward toward the Louvain table.

      "Mr. Halkett," she called in English. "Is Mr. Warner a distinguished American painter?"

      Halkett laughed.

      "One of the most celebrated American painters of the day!"

      The Louvain students, understanding, rose as a man, waved their glasses, and cheered for Warner, the "grand peintre Américain." Which embarrassed and annoyed him so that his face grew brighter than the paint on Philippa's lips.

      "I'm sorry," she said, noticing his annoyance. "I did not mean to make you conspicuous."

      Everybody in the café was now looking at him; on every side he gazed into amused and smiling faces, saw glasses lifted, heard the cries of easily aroused Gallic enthusiasm.

      "Vive le grand peintre Américain! Vive l'Amérique du Nord!"

      "This is tiresome!" exclaimed Philippa. "Let us walk down to the river and sit in one of our boats. I should really like to talk to you sensibly – unless you are too much annoyed with me."

      She beckoned a waiter to bring her apron; and she put it on.

      "When you are ready, Monsieur," she said serenely.

      So they rose; Warner paid the bill, and, with a whimsical smile at Halkett, walked out beside Philippa through one of the rear doors, and immediately found himself in brightest sunshine, amid green trees and flower beds.

      Here, under the pitiless sky, the girl's face became ghastly under its rouged mask – the more shocking, perhaps, because her natural skin, if pale, appeared to be smooth and clear; and the tragic youth of her seemed to appeal to all out of doors from the senseless abuse it was enduring.

      To see her there in the freshness of the open breeze, sunshine and shadow dappling the green under foot, the blue overhead untroubled by a cloud, gave Warner a slightly sick sensation.

      "The air is pleasant," she remarked, unconscious of the effect she had on him.

      He nodded. They walked down the grassy slope to the river bank, where rows of boats lay moored. A few were already in use out on the calm stream; young men in their shirt sleeves splashed valiantly at the oars; young women looked on under sunshades of flamboyant tints.

      There was a white punt there called the Lys. Philippa stepped into it, drew a key from her apron pocket, unlocked the padlock. Then, lifting the pole from the grass, she turned and invited Warner with a gesture.

      He had not bargained for this; but he tossed the chain aboard, stepped in, and offered to take the pole.

      But Philippa evidently desired to do the punting herself; so he sat back, watching her sometimes and sometimes looking at the foliage, where they glided swiftly along under overhanging branches and through still, glimmering reaches of green water, set with scented rushes where dragon flies glittered and midges danced in clouds, and the slim green frogs floated like water sprites, partly submerged, looking at them out of golden goblin eyes that never blinked.

      "The town is en fête," remarked Philippa presently. "Why should I not be too?"

      Warner laughed:

      "Do you call this a fête?"

      "For me, yes." … After a moment, turning from her pole: "Do you not find it agreeable?"

      "Certainly. What little river is this?"

      "The Récollette."

      "It flows by Saïs, too. I did not recognize it for the same. The Récollette is swifter and shallower below Saïs."

      "You know Saïs, then?"

      "I live there in summer."

      "Oh. And in winter?"

      "Paris."

      An unconscious sigh of relief escaped her, that it was not necessary to play the spy with this man. It was the other man who interested Wildresse.

      The girl poled on in silence for a while, then deftly guided the Lys into the cool green shadow of a huge oak which overhung the water, the lower branches touching it.

      "The sun is warm," she observed, driving in the pole and tying the white punt so that it could swing with the current.

      She came and seated herself by Warner, smiled frankly.

      "Do you know," she said, "I've never before done this for pleasure."

      "What haven't you done for pleasure?" he inquired, perplexed.

      "This – what I am doing."

      "You mean you never before went out punting with a customer?"

      "Not for the pleasure of it – only for business reasons."

      He hesitated to understand, refused to, because, for all her careless freedom and her paint, he could not believe her to be merely a fille de cabaret.

      "Business reasons," he repeated. "What is your business?"

      "Cashier, of course."

      "Well, does your business ever take you boating with customers? Is it part of your business to dance with a customer and drink grenadine with him?"

      "Yes, but you wouldn't understand – " And suddenly she comprehended his misunderstanding of her and blushed deeply.

      "I am not a cocotte. Did you think I meant that?"

      "I know you are not. I didn't know what you meant."

      There was a silence; the color in her cheeks cooled under the rouge.

      "It happened this way," she said quietly. "I didn't want to make it a matter of business with you. Even in the beginning I didn't… You please me… After all, the town is en fête… After all, a girl has a right to please herself once in her life… And business is a very lonely thing for the young… Why shouldn't I amuse myself for an hour with a client who pleases me?"

      "Are you doing it?"

      "Yes. I never before knew a distinguished painter – only noisy boys from the schools, whose hair is uncut, whose conversation is blague, and whose trousers are too baggy to suit me. They smoke soldier's tobacco, and their subjects of discussion are not always convenable."

      He said, curiously:

      "As for that, you must hear much that is not convenable in the cabaret."

      "Oh, yes. I don't notice it when it is not addressed to me… Please tell me what you paint – if I am permitted to ask."

      "Soldiers."

      "Only СКАЧАТЬ