passion. But why irritate him for no reason? Thinking “I am always angling for sympathy; I must stop myself,” he hurried onward to the Union.
He found his guests half way up the stairs, reading the advertisements of coaches for the Long Vacation. He heard Mrs. Lewin say, “I wonder what he’ll end by doing.” A little overacting his part, he apologized nonchalantly for his lateness.
“It’s always the same,” cried Agnes. “Last time he forgot I was coming altogether.” She wore a flowered muslin—something indescribably liquid and cool. It reminded him a little of those swift piercing streams, neither blue nor green, that gush out of the dolomites. Her face was clear and brown, like the face of a mountaineer; her hair was so plentiful that it seemed banked up above it; and her little toque, though it answered the note of the dress, was almost ludicrous, poised on so much natural glory. When she moved, the sunlight flashed on her ear-rings.
He led them up to the luncheon-room. By now he was conscious of his limitations as a host, and never attempted to entertain ladies in his lodgings. Moreover, the Union seemed less intimate. It had a faint flavour of a London club; it marked the undergraduate’s nearest approach to the great world. Amid its waiters and serviettes one felt impersonal, and able to conceal the private emotions. Rickie felt that if Miss Pembroke knew one thing about him, she knew everything. During this visit he took her to no place that he greatly loved.
“Sit down, ladies. Fall to. I’m sorry. I was out towards Coton with a dreadful friend.”
Mrs. Lewin pushed up her veil. She was a typical May-term chaperon, always pleasant, always hungry, and always tired. Year after year she came up to Cambridge in a tight silk dress, and year after year she nearly died of it. Her feet hurt, her limbs were cramped in a canoe, black spots danced before her eyes from eating too much mayonnaise. But still she came, if not as a mother as an aunt, if not as an aunt as a friend. Still she ascended the roof of King’s, still she counted the balls of Clare, still she was on the point of grasping the organization of the May races. “And who is your friend?” she asked.
“His name is Ansell.”
“Well, now, did I see him two years ago—as a bedmaker in something they did at the Foot Lights? Oh, how I roared.”
“You didn’t see Mr. Ansell at the Foot Lights,” said Agnes, smiling.
“How do you know?” asked Rickie.
“He’d scarcely be so frivolous.”
“Do you remember seeing him?”
“For a moment.”
What a memory she had! And how splendidly during that moment she had behaved!
“Isn’t he marvellously clever?”
“I believe so.”
“Oh, give me clever people!” cried Mrs. Lewin. “They are kindness itself at the Hall, but I assure you I am depressed at times. One cannot talk bump-rowing for ever.”
“I never hear about him, Rickie; but isn’t he really your greatest friend?”
“I don’t go in for greatest friends.”
“Do you mean you like us all equally?”
“All differently, those of you I like.”
“Ah, you’ve caught it!” cried Mrs. Lewin. “Mr. Elliot gave it you there well.”
Agnes laughed, and, her elbows on the table, regarded them both through her fingers—a habit of hers. Then she said, “Can’t we see the great Mr. Ansell?”
“Oh, let’s. Or would he frighten me?”
“He would frighten you,” said Rickie. “He’s a trifle weird.”
“My good Rickie, if you knew the deathly dullness of Sawston— every one saying the proper thing at the proper time, I so proper, Herbert so proper! Why, weirdness is the one thing I long for! Do arrange something.”
“I’m afraid there’s no opportunity. Ansell goes some vast bicycle ride this afternoon; this evening you’re tied up at the Hall; and tomorrow you go.”
“But there’s breakfast tomorrow,” said Agnes. “Look here, Rickie, bring Mr. Ansell to breakfast with us at Buoys.”
Mrs. Lewin seconded the invitation.
“Bad luck again,” said Rickie boldly; “I’m already fixed up for breakfast. I’ll tell him of your very kind intention.”
“Let’s have him alone,” murmured Agnes.
“My dear girl, I should die through the floor! Oh, it’ll be all right about breakfast. I rather think we shall get asked this evening by that shy man who has the pretty rooms in Trinity.”
“Oh, very well. Where is it you breakfast, Rickie?”
He faltered. “To Ansell’s, it is—” It seemed as if he was making some great admission. So self-conscious was he, that he thought the two women exchanged glances. Had Agnes already explored that part of him that did not belong to her? Would another chance step reveal the part that did? He asked them abruptly what they would like to do after lunch.
“Anything,” said Mrs. Lewin,—“anything in the world.”
A walk? A boat? Ely? A drive? Some objection was raised to each. “To tell the truth,” she said at last, “I do feel a wee bit tired, and what occurs to me is this. You and Agnes shall leave me here and have no more bother. I shall be perfectly happy snoozling in one of these delightful drawing-room chairs. Do what you like, and then pick me up after it.”
“Alas, it’s against regulations,” said Rickie. “The Union won’t trust lady visitors on its premises alone.”
“But who’s to know I’m alone? With a lot of men in the drawing-room, how’s each to know that I’m not with the others?”
“That would shock Rickie,” said Agnes, laughing. “He’s frightfully high-principled.”
“No, I’m not,” said Rickie, thinking of his recent shiftiness over breakfast.
“Then come for a walk with me. I want exercise. Some connection of ours was once rector of Madingley. I shall walk out and see the church.”
Mrs. Lewin was accordingly left in the Union.
“This is jolly!” Agnes exclaimed as she strode along the somewhat depressing road that leads out of Cambridge past the observatory. “Do I go too fast?”
“No, thank you. I get stronger every year. If it wasn’t for the look of the thing, I should be quite happy.”
“But you don’t care for the look of the thing. It’s only ignorant people who do that, surely.”
“Perhaps. I care. I like people who are well-made and beautiful. They are of some use in the world. I understand why they are there. I cannot understand why the ugly and crippled are there, however healthy they may feel inside. Don’t you know how Turner spoils his pictures
