you again to-night, Marshall . . . Good-night! . . . Ring for the waiter, please, as you go past. I want these things cleared away.”
She remained sitting bolt upright in her chair, waiting for the servant to come and go, when it was her intention, not to read — she had changed her mind at the very moment of expressing it — but to play. These wretched misunderstandings over nothing at all always left her with an unpleasant taste in her mouth, which she could only rid herself of by entering that other world of pure and lofty idealism.
The two younger people walked slowly downstairs, Isbel slightly leading the way.
“Shall we see if we can get a game of billiards?” asked Marshall, in a somewhat subdued voice.
“If you like.”
As they passed by the drawing-room the door was wide open; the room was empty.
“Let’s come in here,” said the girl.
They did so. She shut the door after them; both remained on their feet.
“May I ask,” began Isbel, and a spot of colour came into her cheeks, “if it is your intention to keep confidences from me? I wish to know.”
“My dear Isbel —”
“Yes or no?” Her tone was quietly menacing. Marshall felt that the shaping of his whole future very likely depended on the next few words addressed by him to this tranquil, dangerous-mannered girl in black.
He reflected before answering.
“Of course, if you put it in that way, Isbel, I mean to keep nothing from you. I gave my word to Judge, it’s true, but I quite see that perhaps I had no right to give it. I fully realise that personal secrets vitiate the whole meaning of marriage.”
“Then we’ll say no more about it. I’m glad. If we held different views on the subject, it would be rather ominous, wouldn’t it? . . . But what really is your compact wit this man — what does he want you to do exactly? He’s quite a stranger, isn’t he?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Then tell me. I shan’t talk.”
“I know that. In any case, the affair isn’t one of national importance. The truth is, this chap Judge once had — or thought he had — a succession of marvellous experiences in one of the rooms at Runhill; an attic on the top storey which rejoices in the name of the East Room. It happened just after he’d moved into the house, eight years ago, and apparently it’s been weighing on his mind ever since. For some unknown reason, it pleases him to imagine that I possess an average quantum of common sense, on which account he has invited my assistance in clearing up the mystery. In a soft moment I agreed — and that’s all there is to it.”
“But I don’t understand. Why you? What made him fix on you?”
“I really can’t say. It just resulted from a casual friendly conversation on board ship, coming home. We happened to be discussing the Fourth Dimension, and all that sort of thing.”
“What were these marvellous experiences of his, then?”
“A species of delusion, I take it. Every morning, for a week on end, a flight of stairs used to appear to him in that room, leading up out of a blank wall. He avers that he not only saw them, but used to go up them, but he hasn’t the vaguest recollection of what took place on top.”
“What an extraordinary fancy!”
“Eventually his wife found hi out at it — that is, of course she saw nothing, but it frightened him off. He had the room locked, and no one has set foot in it from that day to this. Now she’s dead, he appears to think there’s no longer the same necessity for secrecy.”
“Does he look mad?”
“Not in the least. Far from it.”
“And you actually promised to investigate?”
“My dear girl, what could I do? I couldn’t tell the man to his face that he was a lunatic, could I? There was no way out of it . . . It will be an excuse for a run in the car, anyway.”
“So you agreed, simply to spare his feelings?”
“We’ll put it that way.”
“I think it was rather fine of you, Marshall . . . I’m glad you’ve told me.. I must know all your affairs. You see that, don’t you?”
“Of course I see it.”
Having gained her point, she swiftly took him in both arms, and lifted her lips to be kissed. They both laughed . . . Marshall, however, remained uneasy. After they had separated again — for obviously it was no place for love-making — he thoughtfully scrutinised her powdered face, with its steady, indecipherable eyes.
“While we’re by ourselves, perhaps you’ll tell me, Isbel — what exactly did you mean just now by that remark about selling yourself to the highest bidder in love: were you serious, or pulling my leg?”
“Yes, I must have love,” said the girl quietly.
“I don’t contest it. But the point is, you seem to regard love as a sort of jam, to be taken in a spoon. There’s no such thing as love independent of a person. It appears to be a matter of indifference to you who that person is, so long as he makes it sufficiently sweet for you.”
“Don’t let’s quarrel. I didn’t say it to vex you. It isn’t sweetness that I want.”
“What then?”
Isbel was silent for a moment. She turned half-away from him, feeling the back of her hair with her white, tapering fingers.
“I don’t know . . . Love must be stronger than that . . . I mean, one girl might be content with mere placid affection, and another might ask for nothing better than a thick sentimental syrup. It depends on character. My character is tragic, I fancy.”
“I hope not.” He stood looking rather puzzled . . . “Tell me one thing, Isbel — you’re not by any chance finding our engagement . . . monotonous, are you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Sure?”
“Quite sure. But isn’t it a rather extraordinary question?”
Marshall, gazing at her quietly mocking smile, grew suddenly inflamed.
“I suppose you realise in your heart of hearts that you can do what you like with me, and that’s why you are so contemptuous. It’s a feeble thing to say, but I’d rather go on struggling for your good opinion all my life, Isbel, than be worshipped by any other woman without an effort on my part.”
“You will always have my good opinion, if that’s all you want.”
He flushed up, and took a step towards her. As she awaited him with the same smile, the handle of the door turned noisily from the outside. They started guiltily away from each other.
“Then we’ll see if we
