Man and Maid. Glyn Elinor

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      "You won't marry then, Suzette?"

      "Marry!" she laughed a shrill laugh—"For why, Nicholas?—A tie-up to one man, hein?—to what good?—and yet who can say—to be an honored wife is the one experience I do not know yet!"—she laughed again—.

      "And who is Georgine—you have not spoken of her before, Suzette?"

      She reddened a little under her new terra cotta rouge.

      "No?—Oh! Georgine is my little first mistake—but I have her beautifully brought up, Nicholas—with the Holy Mother at St. Brieux. I am then her Aunt—so to speak—the wife of a small shop keeper in Paris, you must know—She adores me—and I give all I can to St. Georges-des-Près—. Georgine will be a lady and marry the Mayor's son—one day—."

      Something touched me infinitely. This queer little demi-mondaine mother—her thoughts set on her child's purity, and the conventional marriage for her—in the future. Her plebeian, insolent little round face so kindly in repose.

      I respect Suzette far more than my friends of the world—.

      When she left—it was perhaps in bad taste, but I gave her a quite heavy four figure cheque.

      "For the education of Georgine—Suzette."

      She flung her arms round my neck and kissed me frankly on both cheeks, and tears were brimming over in her merry black eyes.

      "Thou hast after all a heart, and art after all a gentleman, Nicholas—Va!—"—and she ran from the room.

VI

       Table of Contents

      For two days after I last wrote, I tried not to see Miss Sharp—I gave short moments to my book—and she answered a number of business letters. She knows most of my affairs now—Burton transmits all the bills and papers to her.—I can hear them talking through the thin door. The excitement of that time I was so rude seems to have used up my vitality, an utter weariness is upon me, I have hardly stirred from my chair.

      The ancient guardsman, George Harcourt, came to lunch yesterday. He was as cynically whimsical as ever—He has a new love—an Italian—and until now she has refused all his offers of presents, so he is taking a tremendous interest in her—.

      "In what an incredible way the minds of women work, Nicholas!" he said—"They have frequently a very definite aim underneath, but they 'grasshopper'—."

      I looked puzzled I suppose—.

      "To 'grasshopper' is a new verb!" he announced—"Daisy Ryven coined it.—It means just as you alight upon a subject and begin tackling it, you spring to another one—These lovely American war workers 'grasshopper' continuously.—It is impossible to keep pace with them."

      I laughed.

      "Yet they seem to have quite a definite aim—to get pleasure out of life."

      

Alathea (Harriet Hammond) disguised with colored glasses and plain clothes arrives to take up her duties as secretary to Sir Nicholas (Lew Cody). (A scene from Elinor Glyn's production "Man and Maid" for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer)

      "To 'grasshopper' does not prevent pleasure to the grasshopper.—It is only fatiguing to the listener. You can have no continued sensible conversation with any of these women—they force you to enjoy only their skins—"

      "Can the Contessa talk?"

      "She has the languour of the South—She does not jump from one subject to another, she is frankly only interested in love."

      "Honestly, George—do you believe there is such a thing as real love?"

      "We have discussed this before, Nicholas—You know my views—but I am hoping Violetta will change them. She has just begun to ask daily if I love her"—

      "Why do women always do that—even one's little friends continually murmur the question?"

      "It is the working of their subconscious minds——Damn good cigars these, my dear boy—pre-war eh?——Yes it is to justify their surrender—They want to be assured in words that you adore them—because you see the actions of love really prove nothing of love itself. A stranger who has happened to appeal to the senses can call them forth quite as successfully as the lady of one's heart!"

      "It is logical of women then to ask that eternal question?"

      "Quite—I make a point of answering them always without irritation."

      ——I wonder—if Miss Sharp loved anyone would she?——but I am determined not to speculate further about her—.

      When Colonel Harcourt had gone—I deliberately rang my bell—and when she came into the room I found I was not sure what I had rung for—It is the most exasperating fact that Miss Sharp keeps me in a continual state of nervous consciousness.

      Her manner was indifferently expectant, if one can use such a paradoxical description—.

      "I—I—wondered if you played the piano?—"I blurted out.

      She looked surprised—if one can ever say she looks anything, with the expression of her eyes completely hidden. She answered as usual with one word—.

      "Yes."

      "I suppose you would not play to me?—er—it might give me an inspiration for the last chapter—"

      She went and opened the lid of the instrument.

      "What sort of music do you like?" she asked.

      "Play whatever you think I would appreciate."

      She began a Fox trot, she played it with unaccountable spirit and taste, so that the sound did not jar me—but the inference hurt a little. I said nothing, however. Then she played "Smiles," and the sweet commonplace air said all sorts of things to me—Desire to live again, and dance, and enjoy foolish pleasures—How could this little iceberg of a girl put so much devilment into the way she touched the keys? If it had not been for the interest this problem caused me, the longing the sounds aroused in me to be human again, would have driven me mad.

      No one who can play dance music with that lilt can be as cold as a stone—.

      From this she suddenly turned to Debussy—she played a most difficult thing of his—I can't remember its name—then she stopped.

      "Do you like Debussy?" I asked.

      "No, not always."

      "Then why did you play it?"

      "I СКАЧАТЬ