The Common Law. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      "Yes. There's a dumb-waiter. I'll ring for the card."

      "I'd like to," she said, "but do you think I had better?"

      "Why not?"

      "You mean—take lunch with you?"

      "Why not?"

      "Is it customary?"

      "No, it isn't."

      "Then I think I will go out to lunch somewhere—"

      "I'm not going to let you get away," he said, laughing. "You're too good to be real; I'm worried half to death for fear that you'll vanish in a golden cloud, or something equally futile and inconsiderate. No, I want you to stay. You don't mind, do you?"

      He was aiding her to descend from her eyrie, her little white hand balanced on his arm. When she set foot on the floor she looked up at him gravely:

      "You wouldn't let me do anything that I ought not to, would you, Mr. Kelly—I mean Mr. Neville?" she added in confusion.

      "No. Anyway I don't know what you ought or ought not to do. Luncheon is a simple matter of routine. It's sole significance is two empty stomachs. I suppose if you go out you will come back, but—I'd rather you'd remain."

      "Why?"

      "Well," he admitted with a laugh, "it's probably because I like to hear myself talk to you. Besides, I've always the hope that you'll suddenly become conversational, and that's a possibility exciting enough to give anybody an appetite."

      "But I have conversed with you," she said.

      "Only a little. What you said acted like a cocktail to inspire me for a desire for more."

      "I am afraid that you were not named Kelly in vain."

      "You mean blarney? No, it's merely frankness. Let me get you some bath-slippers—"

      "Oh—but if I am to lunch here—I can't do it this way!" she exclaimed in flushed consternation.

      "Indeed you must learn to do that without embarrassment, Miss West. Tie up your robe at the throat, tuck up your sleeves, slip your feet into a nice pair of brand-new bath-slippers, and I'll ring for luncheon."

      "I—don't—want to—" she began; but he went away into the hall, rang, and presently she heard the ascending clatter of a dumb-waiter. From it he took the luncheon card and returned to where she was sitting at a rococo table. She blushed as he laid the card before her, and would have nothing to do with it. The result was that he did the ordering, sent the dumb-waiter down with his scribbled memorandum, and came wandering back with long, cool glances at his canvas and the work he had done on it.

      "I mean to make a stunning thing of it," he remarked, eying the huge chassis critically. "All this—deviltry—whatever it is inside of me—must come out somehow. And that canvas is the place for it." He laughed and sat down opposite her:

      "Man is born to folly, Miss West—born full of it. I get rid of mine on canvas. It's a safer outlet for original sin than some other ways."

      She lay back in her antique gilded chair, hands extended along the arms, looking at him with a smile that was still shy.

      "My idea of you—of an artist—was so different," she said.

      "There are all kinds, mostly the seriously inspired and humourless variety who makes a mystic religion of a very respectable profession. This world is full of pale, enraptured artists; full of muscular, thumb-smearing artists; full of dreamy weavers of visions, usually deficient in spinal process; full of unwashed little inverts to whom the world really resembles a kaleidoscope full of things that wiggle—"

      They began to laugh, he with a singular delight in her comprehension of his idle, irresponsible chatter, she from sheer pleasure in listening and looking at this man who was so different from anybody she had ever known—and, thank God!—so young.

      And when the bell rang and the clatter announced the advent of luncheon, she settled in her chair with a little shiver of happiness, blushing at her capacity for it, and at her acquiescence in the strangest conditions in which she had ever found herself in all her life,—conditions so bizarre, so grotesque, so impossible that there was no use in trying to consider them—alas! no point in blushing now.

      Mechanically she settled her little naked feet deep into the big bath-slippers, tucked up her white wool sleeves to the dimpled elbow, and surveyed the soup which he had placed before her to serve.

      "I know perfectly well that this isn't right," she said, helping him and then herself. "But I am wondering what there is about it that isn't right."

      "Isn't it demoralising!" he said, amused.

      "I—wonder if it is?"

      He laughed: "Such ideas are nonsense, Miss West. Listen to me: you and I—everybody except those with whom something is physically wrong—are born with a full and healthy capacity for demoralisation and mischief. Mischief is only one form of energy. If lightning flies about unguided it's likely to do somebody some damage; if it's conducted properly to a safe terminal there's no damage done and probably a little good."

      "Your brushes are your lightning-rods?" she suggested, laughing.

      "Certainly. I only demoralise canvas. What outlet have you for your perfectly normal deviltry?"

      "I haven't any."

      "Any deviltry?"

      "Any outlet."

      "You ought to have."

      "Ought I?"

      "Certainly. You are as full of restless energy as I am."

      "Oh, I don't think I am."

      "You are. Look at yourself! I never saw anybody so sound, so superbly healthy, so"—he laughed—"adapted to dynamics. You've got to have an outlet. Or there'll be the deuce to pay."

      She looked at her fruit salad gravely, tasted it, and glanced up at him:

      "I have never in all my life had any outlet—never even any outlook, Mr. Neville."

      "You should have had both," he grumbled, annoyed at himself for the interest her words had for him; uneasy, now that she had responded, yet curious to learn something about this fair young girl, approximately his intellectual equal, who came to his door looking for work as a model. He thought to himself that probably it was some distressing tale which he couldn't help, and the recital of which would do neither of them any good. Of stories of models' lives he was tired, satiated. There was no use encouraging her to family revelations; an easy, pleasant footing was far more amusing to maintain. The other hinted of intimacy; and that he had never tolerated in his employees.

      Yet, looking now across the table at her, a not unkind curiosity began to prod him. He could easily have left matters where they were, maintained the status quo indefinitely—or as long as he needed her services.

      "Outlets are necessary," he said, cautiously. "Otherwise we go to the bow-wows."

      "Or—die."

      "What?" sharply.

      She looked up without a trace of self-consciousness СКАЧАТЬ