style="font-size:15px;"> “No. We are friends. I have known him for a good many years.”
A tiny Burmese gong rang out from the hall. She came across the room towards me, smiling pleasantly.
“Shall we go and have some tea? I always want tea so much after a thunderstorm. I will show you some more of my Penates, if you like afterwards.”
I followed her into the hall, and took my tea from the hands of a prim little maid servant. With the Dresden cup between my fingers a sudden thought flashed into my mind. If only Lady Naselton could see me. Unconsciously my lips parted, and I laughed outright.
“Do forgive me,” I begged. “Something came into my mind. It was too funny. I could not help laughing.”
“To be able to laugh at one’s thoughts is a luxury,” she answered. “I know a man who lived through a terrible illness solely because of his sense of humor. There are so many things to laugh at in the world, if only one sees them in the right light. Let me give you some more tea.”
I set down my cup. “No more, thanks. That has been delicious. I wonder whether I might ask you a question?” I added. “I should like to if I might.”
“Well, you certainly may,” she answered, good-humoredly.
“Mr. Deville spoke of your work,” I continued; “and of course I could see you had been writing. Do you write fiction? I think it is so delightful for women to do anything for themselves—any real work, I mean. Do you mind my asking?”
“I do not write fiction as a rule,” she said, slowly. “I write for the newspapers. I was a correspondent for several years for one of the dailies. I write more now for a purpose. I am one of the ‘abhorred tribe,’ you know—a Socialist, or what people understand as a Socialist. Are you horrified?”
“Not in the least,” I answered her; “only I should like to know more about it. From what I have heard about Socialism I should never have dreamed of associating it with—well, with Dresden cups and saucers, for instance,” I laughed, motioning to her own.
Her eyes twinkled. “Poor child,” she said, “you have all the old-fashioned ideas about us and our beliefs, I suppose. I am not sure that, if you were a properly regulated young lady, you would not get up and walk out of the house.”
A shadow had fallen across the open doorway, and a familiar voice, stern, but tremulous with passion, took up her words.
“That is precisely what my daughter will do, madam! At once, and without delay! Do you hear, Kate?”
I rose to my feet dumb with amazement. My father’s tall figure, drawn to its utmost height, stood out with almost startling vividness against the sunlit space beyond. A deep red flush was on his pale cheeks. His eyes seemed on fire with anger. My hostess rose to her feet with dignity.
“Your daughter is at liberty to remain or go at any time,” she said, coolly. “I presume that I am addressing Mr. Ffolliot?”
She looked over my shoulder towards my father, and their eyes met. I looked from one to the other, conscious that something was passing outside my knowledge—something between those two. Her eyes had become like dull stones. Her face had grown strangely hard and cold. There was a brief period of intense silence, broken only by a slow, monotonous ticking of the hall clock and the flutter of the birds’ wings from amongst the elm trees outside. A breath of wind brought a shower of rain drops down on to the gravel path. A sparrow flew twittering into the hall and out again. Then it came to an end.
“Marcia!”
His single cry rang out like a pistol shot upon the intense silence. He took a quick step across the threshold. She held out both her hands in front of her, and he stopped short.
“You had better go,” she said. “You had better go quickly.”
I went out and took my father’s arm. He let me lead him away without a word; but he would have fallen several times if it had not been for my support. When we reached home he turned at once into the library.
“Go away, Kate,” he said, wearily. “I must be alone. See that I am not disturbed.”
I hesitated, but he insisted. I shut the door and left him. I, too, wanted to be alone. My brain was in a whirl. What was this past whose ghosts seemed rising up one by one to confront us? First there had been Mr. Deville, and now the woman whom my father had called Marcia. What were they to him? What had he to do with them? Where had their lives touched? I pressed my hot forehead against the window-pane, and looked across at the Yellow House. The sunlight was flashing and glistening upon its damp, rain-soaked front. In the doorway a woman was standing, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking across the park. I followed her gaze, and saw for whom she was waiting. Bruce Deville was walking swiftly towards her. I saw him leap a fence to save a few yards, and he was taking huge and rapid strides. I turned away from my window and hid my face in my hands.
CHAPTER V
A SOUTH AMERICAN LETTER
Naturally I expected that some time that night my father would have spoken to me concerning the strange meeting at the house of the woman whom he had called Marcia. In a sense I feared what he might have to say. Already I was beginning to reckon those few hours as an epoch in my life. Never had I met any one whom in so short a time had attracted me so much. I found myself thinking of her continually, and the more I thought the more I scoffed at the idea of connecting in any way with her those things at which Lady Naselton had hinted. There seemed something almost grossly incongruous in any such idea. The more I thought of her the more resolute I became in putting all such thoughts behind me. And, apart from my judgment, which was altogether on her side, I was conscious of a vague personal attraction, almost a fascination, which had a wonderful effect on me. The manner of her life, her surroundings, that air of quiet, forcible elegance, which seemed to assert itself alike in her house, her dress, and her conversation, were a revelation to me. She was original too, obviously intellectual, a woman who held her life well within control, and lived it fearlessly and self-reliantly. I had never met any one like it before, and I longed to see more of her. My one fear was lest my father should lay some stern embargo upon my association with her. In that case I had made up my mind not to yield without a struggle. I would be quite sure that it was not a matter of merely prejudice before I consented to give up what promised to be the most delightful friendship I had ever known.
But, rather to my surprise, and a little to my relief, my father ignored our afternoon’s adventure when I saw him again. He came in to dinner as usual, carefully dressed, and ate and drank with his customary fine care that everything of which he partook should be of the best of its kind. After he had left the table we saw no more of him. He went straight to his study, and I heard the door shut and the key turned—a sign that he was on no account to be disturbed; and though I sat in the drawing room until long after my usual time for retiring, and afterwards remained in my room till the small hours commenced to chime, his door remained locked. Yet in the morning he was down before us. He was standing at the window when I came into the breakfast room, and the clear morning light fell mercilessly on his white face, pallid and lined with the marks of his long vigil. It seemed to me that he greeted us both more quietly than usual.
During breakfast time I made a few remarks to him, but they passed unnoticed, or elicited only
