interest, and for the first time associated it with the literary memory of Charlotte Brontë.
The restaurant was noisy and festive, as it was the scene of a public banquet to celebrate a reunion of Danish compatriots. Georgia was a thrilled spectator as she watched the guests exchange, by gradual stages, formality and silence for a babel of voices and gales of laughter. They were still drinking toasts and shouting choruses when she joined the Count in the lounge, where the orchestra was playing complimentary national music.
The pervading gaiety was as welcome to her as a bone-dry garment after the sodden misery of her day at Bruges.
She had returned feeling mildewed with decay and chilled with the threat of eternal parting; but instead of loneliness she had encountered fraternal goodfellowship.
The Count, too, was in excellent spirits as he related the strategy by which he had managed to give his relatives the slip.
"I believe you will laugh at death," said Georgia.
"Certainly, unless I've lockjaw," he promised. "I have decided my funeral shall be a joke, for I have attended too many grim affairs. There will be unlimited booze and every one must get drunk, to comply with my last wishes. And on my memorial card will be printed my favourite uncensored story, so that whenever they look at it afterwards they will laugh."
"I shouldn't laugh," said Georgia quickly.
"No, I really believe you would cry a little. You are so serious and so tender."
His own face sobered as he added, "But I am not always gay. Most of my time I am serious. I like best to be alone, with no one in sight, to breathe my air."
"Isn't that rather difficult?"
"Not for me. I have an island of my own. It is far from any coast. You can walk around it and see nothing but miles of sea. You would love it."
His yearning voice became suddenly practical as he began to describe his house with minute and unromantic domestic detail.
"It is a woman's paradise," he assured her. "Every modern convenience, labour-saving, artistic decorations. I suppose you know that it is possible to buy gas in cylinders? Or perhaps you prefer electric fires? You do? Good. We have our own plant."
He continued to show so much deference to her taste that she began to acquire a proprietorial interest.
"There is one room which is crying out for a celebrated author to write in it," he said. "Part of it is glass, and it is built out over the sea, so that you can look out of the window and see the surf dashing over the sunken rocks below. When it is very rough, the spray beats on the glass like rain."
"Don't tell me any more," implored Georgia. "You are making me envious."
"I want to make you envious. And then, perhaps, I can persuade you to stay with me. Stay for a very long time."
His eyes held such meaning that in spite of her own desires her nerves stampeded.
"Tell me about the cost of installing the heating-system," she said quickly. "I live in the wilds, too."
"Of course. I've told you about my country cottage. Tell me about yours."
"It's very nice. Nearly modern—built in 1893. We burn oil and coal, but we have company water. We are very proud to possess a bathroom, although it is not tiled. Recently I've built on two rooms, as my mother lives with us."
As he looked at her small composed face, the Count found it impossible to decide whether she spoke from bravado or with genuine simplicity. She bore no trace of the years when she had hoisted her world upon her frail shoulders and he knew instinctively that she had neither complained of her efforts nor advertised her achievement.
For the first time he received a hint of the secret of her strength. It lay in her silence.
"Was that first year very hard?" he asked.
"Oh, no. I managed to feed my family, and I didn't starve."
As she spoke, Georgia reminded herself that this man, in spite of his glamour, was a total stranger. To marry him would be like diving down into a black abyss in the bed of the ocean. She wanted to make the plunge, but she could not find the courage until she was absolutely sure of his character.
In order to test him she determined to present her financial situation in the aspect most discouraging to a fortune-hunter.
"I'm going to tell you a secret," she said. "I'm very lucky to secure a tiny income in time. I've written myself out."
The Count laughed incredulously.
"Oh, no," he said. "That would be too bad. You mean that you are stale."
"I mean I am drained of ideas. It was bound to happen, for I've never refused a commission."
"But isn't it possible to procure plots?"
"Not for me. A book has to be my very own. I've got to live in it and feel every word of it, or it wouldn't come to life."
For the first time the Count assumed interest in her literary tragedy.
"How will this affect your contracts?" he asked.
"Luckily I've only one book to clear," she explained. "When my publisher knows the circumstances he will not press for delivery. He knows that sub-standard work would only be a flop."
"Still, if I were your agent, I should invent a tale that your investments had crashed and that your children would starve. That would galvanise your lazy brain."
"If you did I should have to find other work. Don't you understand? With me, writing is not a matter of brain. It is imagination. You can't force that. Once it's gone, it's gone."
The Count's face grew thoughtful and he wrinkled his brow as if in deep thought. After a long pause he shrugged his shoulders and repeated her words.
"Yes, it's gone, and good riddance to it." He kissed his hand to an imaginary will-o'-the-wisp. "What a lucky woman you are. No money in the bank. No money here." He touched her forehead lightly. "My dear, no one could possibly wish to marry you for your wealth, like that gentleman with his brides in the bath."
As she listened to his light voice Georgia felt the chill of Bruges.
"I might still appeal," she said. "I have over a thousand on deposit.'
"A thousand?" The Count's eyes were slitted with amusement. "I'm sorry, my dear, but that would only keep me in the style I am accustomed to for about a fortnight."
Later, when Georgia walked slowly up the broad marble staircase she paused on the landing before her reflection in an enormous mirror. She had grown accustomed to greet it with a foolish whisper.
"Good-night, Countess."
The figure in the glass was now revealed as a blatant impostor. Her smile was bitter to match her thoughts.
"I was a fool to imagine he came back for me. He was here when I came and he will be here after I'm gone. The sooner the better."
After
