The Collected Works of George Bernard Shaw: Plays, Novels, Articles, Letters and Essays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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СКАЧАТЬ she was tendering him her empty teacup. He took it, and replaced it on the table in confusion.

      “And so,” she said, when he was again seated near her, “you have succeeded in none of your professions.”

      This sudden return to a dropped subject put him out still more. “I — you mean my — ?”

      “Your metiers — whatever you call them. I am not surprised, Monsieur Charles. You have no patience.”

      “I can be patient enough when I like.”

      “Do you ever like?”

      “Sometimes. When you play, for instance, I could listen for a year without getting tired.”

      “You would get very hungry. And I should get very tired of playing. Besides—”

      “A thud, followed by babyish screams, interrupted her. She listened for a moment, and left the room, followed by her mother. Mary and Adrian, accustomed to such incidents, did not stir. Charlie, reassured by their composure, took up the book of sketches.

      Adrian,” said Mary in a low voice: “do you think Mrs Herbert is annoyed with me?”

      “No.Why”

      “I mean, was she annoyed — to-day — in the studio?”

      “I should not think so. N — no. Why should she annoyed with you?”

      “Not perhaps with me particularly. But with both of us. You must know what I mean, Adrian. I felt in an excessively false position when she came in. I do not mean exactly that she might be jealous: but —

      “Reassure yourself, Mary,” he replied, with a sad smile. She is not jealous. I wish she were.”

      “You wish it!”

      “Yes. It would be proof of love. I doubt if she is capable of jealousy.

      “I hope not. She must have thought it very odd; and, of course, we looked as guilty as possible. Innocent people always do. Hush! here she is. Have you restored peace to the nursery, Mrs Herbert?

      “My mother is doing so.” said Aurélie. “It is a very unlucky child. It is impossible to find a cot that it cannot fall out of. But do not rise. Is it it possible that you are going?”

      Mary, who in spite of Herbert’s assurance was not comfortable, invented unanswerable reasons for returning home at once. Charlie had to go with her. He tried to bid Aurélie good night unconcernedly, but failed. Mary remarked to Herbert, who accompanied them to the door, that Charlie had behaved himself much 1ess akwardly a boy than he did now as a man. Adrian assented; let them out; stood for a moment to admire the beauty of the evening; and returned to the drawingroom, where Aurélie was sitting on an ottoman, apparently deep in thought.

      “Come!” he said spiritedly: “does not Mrs Hoskyn improve on acquaintance? Is she not a nice woman?”

      Aurélie looked at him dreamily for a moment, and then said, “Charming.”

      “I knew you would like her. That was a happy thought of yours to ask her to dinner. I am very glad you did.”

      “I owed you some reparation, Adrian.”

      “What for?” he said, instinctively feeling damped.”

      “For interrupting your tete-a-tete.”

      He laughed. “Yes,” he said. “But you owe me no reparation for that. You came most opportunely.”

      “That is quite what I thought. Ah, my friend, how much more I admire you when you are in love with Mrs. Hoskyn than when you are in love with me! You are so much more manly and thoughtful. And you abandoned her to marry me! What folly!”

      Adrian stood openmouthed, not only astonished, but anxious that she should perceive his astonishment. “Aurélie,” he exclaimed: “is it possible — it is hardly conceivable — that you are jealous?”

      “N — no,” replied she, after some consideration. “I do not think I am jealous. Perhaps Mr. Hoskyn will be, if he happens upon another tete-a-tete. But you do not fight in England, so it does not matter.”

      “Aurélie: are you serious?”

      “Wherefore should I not be serious?” she said, rousing herself a little.

      “Because,” he answered, gravely, “your words imply that you have a vile opinion of Mrs. Hoskyn and of me.”

      “Oh, no, no,” she said, carelessly reassuring him. “I not think that you arc a wicked gallant, like Don Juan. I know you would both think that a great English sin. I suspect you of nothing except what I saw in your face when you had her hands clasped in yours. You could not look at me so.”

      “What do you mean?” said he, indignantly.

      “I will shew you,” she replied calmly, rising and approaching him. “Give me your hands.”

      “Aurélie: this is chil—”

      “Both your hands. Give them to me.”

      She took them as she spoke, he looking foolish meanwhile.

      “Now, she aid. taking a step back so that they were nearly at arms length. “behold what I mean. Look into my eyes as you looked at hers, if you can.” She waited; but his face expressed nothing bn1 confusion. “You cannot,” she added, attempting to loose his hands. But he grasped her tightly, drew her towards him, and kissed her. “Ah,” she said, disengaging herself quietly, “I did not see that part of it. I was only at the door for a moment before I spoke.”

      “Nonsense, Aurélie‚ I do not mean that I kissed Mrs. Hoskyn.”

      “Then you should have. When a woman gives you both her hands, that is what she expects.”

      “But I pledge you my word that you are mistaken. We were simply shaking hands on a bargain: the commonnest thing possible in England.”

      “A bargain?”

      “An agreement — a species of arrangement between us.”

      “Eh bien! And what was this agreement that called such a light into your eyes?”

      Adrian, about to reply confidently, hesitated when he realized the impression which his words would probably convey. “It is rather difficult to explain,” he began.

      “Then do not explain it; for it is very easy to understand. I know. I know. My poor Adrian: you are in love without knowing it. Ah! I envy Mrs Hoskyn.”

      “If you really mean that,” he said eagerly, “I will forgive you all the rest.”

      “I envy her the power to be in love,” rejoined Aurélie, sitting down again, and speaking meditatively. “I cannot love. I can feel it in the music — in the romance — in the poetry; but in real life — it is impossible. I am fond of mamman, fond of the bambino, fond of you sometimes; but this is not love — not such love as you used to feel for me — as she feels now СКАЧАТЬ