stared and laughed.
“No, that’s rather out of my line. I’m not really a collector, you see; I simply like to have good editions of the books I am fond of.”
She made a slight grimace. “And Americana are horribly dull, I suppose?”
“I should fancy so—except to the historian. But your real collector values a thing for its rarity. I don’t suppose the buyers of Americana sit up reading them all night—old Jefferson Gryce certainly didn’t.”
She was listening with keen attention. “And yet they fetch fabulous prices, don’t they? It seems so odd to want to pay a lot for an ugly badly-printed book that one is never going to read! And I suppose most of the owners of Americana are not historians either?”
“No; very few of the historians can afford to buy them. They have to use those in the public libraries or in private collections. It seems to be the mere rarity that attracts the average collector.”
He had seated himself on an arm of the chair near which she was standing, and she continued to question him, asking which were the rarest volumes, whether the Jefferson Gryce collection was really considered the finest in the world, and what was the largest price ever fetched by a single volume.
It was so pleasant to sit there looking up at her, as she lifted now one book and then another from the shelves, fluttering the pages between her fingers, while her drooping profile was outlined against the warm background of old bindings, that he talked on without pausing to wonder at her sudden interest in so unsuggestive a subject. But he could never be long with her without trying to find a reason for what she was doing, and as she replaced his first edition of La Bruyere and turned away from the bookcases, he began to ask himself what she had been driving at. Her next question was not of a nature to enlighten him. She paused before him with a smile which seemed at once designed to admit him to her familiarity, and to remind him of the restrictions it imposed.
“Don’t you ever mind,” she asked suddenly, “not being rich enough to buy all the books you want?”
He followed her glance about the room, with its worn furniture and shabby walls.
“Don’t I just? Do you take me for a saint on a pillar?”
“And having to work—do you mind that?”
“Oh, the work itself is not so bad—I’m rather fond of the law.”
“No; but the being tied down: the routine—don’t you ever want to get away, to see new places and people?”
“Horribly—especially when I see all my friends rushing to the steamer.”
She drew a sympathetic breath. “But do you mind enough—to marry to get out of it?”
Selden broke into a laugh. “God forbid!” he declared.
She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate.
“Ah, there’s the difference—a girl must, a man may if he chooses.” She surveyed him critically. “Your coat’s a little shabby—but who cares? It doesn’t keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don’t make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop—and if we can’t keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership.”
Selden glanced at her with amusement: it was impossible, even with her lovely eyes imploring him, to take a sentimental view of her case.
“Ah, well, there must be plenty of capital on the lookout for such an investment. Perhaps you’ll meet your fate tonight at the Trenors’.”
She returned his look interrogatively.
“I thought you might be going there—oh, not in that capacity! But there are to be a lot of your set—Gwen Van Osburgh, the Wetheralls, Lady Cressida Raith—and the George Dorsets.”
She paused a moment before the last name, and shot a query through her lashes; but he remained imperturbable.
“Mrs. Trenor asked me; but I can’t get away till the end of the week; and those big parties bore me.”
“Ah, so they do me,” she exclaimed.
“Then why go?”
“It’s part of the business—you forget! And besides, if I didn’t, I should be playing bezique with my aunt at Richfield Springs.”
“That’s almost as bad as marrying Dillworth,” he agreed, and they both laughed for pure pleasure in their sudden intimacy.
She glanced at the clock.
“Dear me! I must be off. It’s after five.”
She paused before the mantelpiece, studying herself in the mirror while she adjusted her veil. The attitude revealed the long slope of her slender sides, which gave a kind of wild-wood grace to her outline—as though she were a captured dryad subdued to the conventions of the drawingroom; and Selden reflected that it was the same streak of sylvan freedom in her nature that lent such savour to her artificiality.
He followed her across the room to the entrance-hall; but on the threshold she held out her hand with a gesture of leave-taking.
“It’s been delightful; and now you will have to return my visit.”
“But don’t you want me to see you to the station?”
“No; good bye here, please.”
She let her hand lie in his a moment, smiling up at him adorably.
“Good bye, then—and good luck at Bellomont!” he said, opening the door for her.
On the landing she paused to look about her. There were a thousand chances to one against her meeting anybody, but one could never tell, and she always paid for her rare indiscretions by a violent reaction of prudence. There was no one in sight, however, but a char-woman who was scrubbing the stairs. Her own stout person and its surrounding implements took up so much room that Lily, to pass her, had to gather up her skirts and brush against the wall. As she did so, the woman paused in her work and looked up curiously, resting her clenched red fists on the wet cloth she had just drawn from her pail. She had a broad sallow face, slightly pitted with small-pox, and thin straw-coloured hair through which her scalp shone unpleasantly.
“I beg your pardon,” said Lily, intending by her politeness to convey a criticism of the other’s manner.
The woman, without answering, pushed her pail aside, and continued to stare as Miss Bart swept by with a murmur of silken linings. Lily felt herself flushing under the look. What did the creature suppose? Could one never do the simplest, the most harmless thing, without subjecting one’s self to some odious conjecture? Half way down the next flight, she smiled to think that a char-woman’s stare should so perturb her. The poor thing was probably dazzled by such an unwonted apparition. But WERE such apparitions unwonted on Selden’s stairs? Miss Bart was not familiar with the moral code of bachelors’ flat-houses, and her colour rose again as it occurred to her that the woman’s persistent gaze implied a groping among past associations.
