The Grey Wig. Israel Zangwill

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СКАЧАТЬ was afraid to confess my own greediness," he said, laughing. He beckoned the waitress. "Two more."

      "We haven't got any more strawberries," was her unexpected reply. "There's been such a run on them to-day."

      Winifred's face grew overcast. "Oh, nonsense!" she pouted. To John the moment seemed tragic.

      "Won't you have another kind?" he queried. He himself liked any kind, but he could scarcely eat a second ice without her.

      Winifred meditated. "Coffee?" she queried.

      The waitress went away and returned with a face as gloomy as Winifred's. "It's been such a hot day," she said deprecatingly. "There is only one ice in the place and that's Neapolitan."

      "Well, bring two Neapolitans," John ventured.

      "I mean there is only one Neapolitan ice left."

      "Well, bring that. I don't really want one."

      He watched Mrs. Glamorys daintily devouring the solitary ice, and felt a certain pathos about the parti-coloured oblong, a something of the haunting sadness of "The Last Rose of Summer." It would make a graceful, serio-comic triolet, he was thinking. But at the last spoonful, his beautiful companion dislocated his rhymes by her sudden upspringing.

      "Goodness gracious," she cried, "how late it is!"

      "Oh, you're not leaving me yet!" he said. A world of things sprang to his brain, things that he was going to say—to arrange. They had said nothing—not a word of their love even; nothing but cakes and ices.

      "Poet!" she laughed. "Have you forgotten I live at Hampstead?" She picked up her parasol. "Put me into a hansom, or my husband will be raving at his lonely dinner-table."

      He was so dazed as to be surprised when the waitress blocked his departure with a bill. When Winifred was spirited away, he remembered she might, without much risk, have given him a lift to Paddington. He hailed another hansom and caught the next train to Oxford. But he was too late for his own dinner in Hall.

III

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      He was kept very busy for the next few days, and could only exchange a passionate letter or two with her. For some time the examination fever had been raging, and in every college poor patients sat with wet towels round their heads. Some, who had neglected their tutor all the term, now strove to absorb his omniscience in a sitting.

      On the Monday, John Lefolle was good-naturedly giving a special audience to a muscular dunce, trying to explain to him the political effects of the Crusades, when there was a knock at the sitting-room door, and the scout ushered in Mrs. Glamorys. She was bewitchingly dressed in white, and stood in the open doorway, smiling—an embodiment of the summer he was neglecting. He rose, but his tongue was paralysed. The dunce became suddenly important—a symbol of the decorum he had been outraging. His soul, torn so abruptly from history to romance, could not get up the right emotion. Why this imprudence of Winifred's? She had been so careful heretofore.

      "What a lot of boots there are on your staircase!" she said gaily.

      He laughed. The spell was broken. "Yes, the heap to be cleaned is rather obtrusive," he said, "but I suppose it is a sort of tradition."

      "I think I've got hold of the thing pretty well now, sir." The dunce rose and smiled, and his tutor realised how little the dunce had to learn in some things. He felt quite grateful to him.

      "Oh, well, you'll come and see me again after lunch, won't you, if one or two points occur to you for elucidation," he said, feeling vaguely a liar, and generally guilty. But when, on the departure of the dunce, Winifred held out her arms, everything fell from him but the sense of the exquisite moment. Their lips met for the first time, but only for an instant. He had scarcely time to realise that this wonderful thing had happened before the mobile creature had darted to his book-shelves and was examining a Thucydides upside down.

      "How clever to know Greek!" she exclaimed. "And do you really talk it with the other dons?"

      "No, we never talk shop," he laughed. "But, Winifred, what made you come here?"

      "I had never seen Oxford. Isn't it beautiful?"

      "There's nothing beautiful here," he said, looking round his sober study.

      "No," she admitted; "there's nothing I care for here," and had left another celestial kiss on his lips before he knew it. "And now you must take me to lunch and on the river."

      He stammered, "I have—work."

      She pouted. "But I can't stay beyond to-morrow morning, and I want so much to see all your celebrated oarsmen practising."

      "You are not staying over the night?" he gasped.

      "Yes, I am," and she threw him a dazzling glance.

      His heart went pit-a-pat. "Where?" he murmured.

      "Oh, some poky little hotel near the station. The swell hotels are full."

      He was glad to hear she was not conspicuously quartered.

      "So many people have come down already for Commem," he said. "I suppose they are anxious to see the Generals get their degrees. But hadn't we better go somewhere and lunch?"

      They went down the stone staircase, past the battalion of boots, and across the quad. He felt that all the windows were alive with eyes, but she insisted on standing still and admiring their ivied picturesqueness. After lunch he shamefacedly borrowed the dunce's punt. The necessities of punting, which kept him far from her, and demanded much adroit labour, gradually restored his self-respect, and he was able to look the uncelebrated oarsmen they met in the eyes, except when they were accompanied by their parents and sisters, which subtly made him feel uncomfortable again. But Winifred, piquant under her pink parasol, was singularly at ease, enraptured with the changing beauty of the river, applauding with childish glee the wild flowers on the banks, or the rippling reflections in the water.

      "Look, look!" she cried once, pointing skyward. He stared upwards, expecting a balloon at least. But it was only "Keats' little rosy cloud," she explained. It was not her fault if he did not find the excursion unreservedly idyllic.

      "How stupid," she reflected, "to keep all those nice boys cooped up reading dead languages in a spot made for life and love."

      "I'm afraid they don't disturb the dead languages so much as you think," he reassured her, smiling. "And there will be plenty of love-making during Commem."

      "I am so glad. I suppose there are lots of engagements that week."

      "Oh, yes—but not one per cent come to anything."

      "Really? Oh, how fickle men are!"

      That seemed rather question-begging, but he was so thrilled by the implicit revelation that she could not even imagine feminine inconstancy, that he forebore to draw her attention to her inadequate logic.

      So childish and thoughtless indeed was she that day that nothing would СКАЧАТЬ