LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

flushed with the excitement of attracting so much attention, she was beginning to lose her head a little—just a little. Dysart noticed it in her nervous laughter; in a slight exaggeration of gesture with fan and flowers; in the quick movement of her restless little head, as though it were incumbent upon her to give to every man confronting her his own particular modicum of attention—which was not like a débutante, either; and Dysart realised that she was getting on.

      So he sauntered up, breaking through the circle, and reminded Geraldine of a dance she had not promised him.

      She knew she had not promised, but she was quite ready to give it—had already opened her lips to assent—when a young man, passing, swung around abruptly as though to speak to her, hesitating as Geraldine's glance encountered his without recognition.

      But, as he started to move on, she suddenly knew him; and at the same moment Kathleen's admonition rang in her ears. Her own voice drowned it.

      "Oh, Duane!" she exclaimed, stretching out her hand across Dysart's line of advance.

      "You are Geraldine Seagrave, are you not?" he asked smilingly, retaining her hand in such a manner as practically to compel her to step past Dysart toward him.

      "Of course I am. You might have known me had you been amiable enough to appear at my coming out."

      He laughed easily, still retaining her hand and looking down at her from his inch or two of advantage. Then he casually inspected Dysart, who, not at all pleased, returned his gaze with a careless unconcern verging on offence. Few men cared for Dysart on first inspection—or on later acquaintance; Mallett was no exception.

      Geraldine said, with smiling constraint:

      "It has been so very jolly to see you again." And withdrew her hand, adding: "I hope—some time–"

      "Won't you let me talk to you now for a moment or two? You are not going to dismiss me with that sort of come-back—after all these years—are you?"

      He seemed so serious about it that the girl coloured up.

      "I—that is, Mr. Dysart was going to—to—" She turned and looked at Dysart, who remained planted where she had left him, exceedingly wroth at experiencing the sort of casual treatment he had so often meted out to others. His expression was peevish. Geraldine, confused, began hurriedly:

      "I thought Mr. Dysart meant to ask me to dance."

      "Meant to?" interrupted Mallett, laughing; "I mean to ask for this dance, and I do."

      Once more she turned and encountered Dysart's darkening gaze, hesitated, then with a nervous, gay little gesture to him, partly promise, partly adieu, she took Mallett's arm.

      It was the first glimmer of coquetry she had ever deliberately displayed; and at the same instant she became aware that something new had been suddenly awakened in her—something which stole like a glow through her veins, exciting her with its novelty.

      "Do you know," she said, "that you have taken me forcibly away from an exceedingly nice man?"

      "I don't care."

      "Oh—but might I not at least have been consulted?"

      "Didn't you want to come?" he asked, stopping short. There was something overbearing in his voice and his straight, unwavering gaze.

      She didn't know how to take it, how to meet it. Voice and manner required some proper response which seemed to be beyond her experience.

      She did not answer; but a slight pressure of her bare arm set him in motion again.

      The phenomenon interested her; to see what control over this abrupt young man she really had she ventured a very slight retrograde arm-pressure, then a delicate touch to right, to left, and forward once more. It was most interesting; he backed up, guided right and left, and started forward or halted under perfect control. What had she been afraid of in him? She ventured to glance around, and, encountering a warmly personal interest in his gaze, instantly assumed that cold, blank, virginal mask which the majority of young girls discard at her age.

      However, her long-checked growth in the arts of womanhood had already recommenced. She had been growing fast, feverishly, and was just now passing that period where the desire for masculine admiration innocently rules all else, but where the discovery of it chills and constrains.

      She passed it at that moment. The next time their glances met she smiled a little. A new epoch in her life had begun.

      "Where are you taking me?" she asked. "Are we not going to dance?"

      "I thought we might sit out a dance or two in the conservatory—one or two–"

      "One," she said decidedly. "Here are some palms. Why not sit here?"

      There were a number of people about; she saw them, too, noted his hesitation, understood it.

      "We'll sit here," she said, and stood smilingly regarding him while he lugged up two chairs to the most retired corner.

      Slowly waving her fan, she seated herself and surveyed the room.

      It is quite true that reunion after many years usually ends in constraint and indifference. If she felt slightly bored, she certainly looked it. Neither of them resembled the childish recollections or preconceived notions of the other. They found themselves inspecting one another askance, as though furtively attempting to surprise some familiar feature, some resemblance to a cherished memory.

      But the changes were too radical; their eyes, looking for old comrades, encountered the unremembered eyes of strangers—for they were strangers—this tall young man, with his gray eyes, pleasantly fashioned mouth, and cleanly moulded cheeks; and this long-limbed girl, who sat, knees crossed, one long, slim foot nervously swinging above its shadow on the floor.

      In spite of his youth there was in his manner, if not in his voice, something tinged with fatigue. She thought of what Kathleen had said about him; looked up, instinctively questioning him with curious, uncomprehending eyes; then her gaze wandered, became lost in smiling retrospection as she thought of Dysart, peevish; and she frankly regretted him and his dance.

      Young Mallett stirred, passed a rather bony hand over his shaven upper lip, and said abruptly: "I never expected you'd grow up like this. You've turned into a different kind of girl. Once you were chubby of cheek and limb. Do you remember how you used to fight?"

      "Did I?"

      "Certainly. You hit me twice in the eye because I lost my temper sparring with Scott. Your hands were small but heavy in those days.... I imagine they're heavier now."

      She laughed, clasped both pretty hands over her knee, and tilted back against the palm, regarding him from dark, velvety eyes.

      "You were a curiously fascinating child," he said. "I remember how fast you could run, and how your hair flew—it was thick and dark, with rather sunny high lights; and you were always running—always on the go.... You were a remarkably just girl; that I remember. You were absolutely fair to everybody."

      "I was a very horrid little scrub," she said, watching him over her gently waving fan, "with a dreadful temper," she added.

      "Have you it now?"

      "Yes. I get over it quickly. Do you find Scott very much changed?"

      "Well, not as much as you. Do you find Naïda changed?"

      "Not nearly as much as you."

      They smiled. The slight embarrassment born of polite indifference brightened into amiable interest, tinctured by curiosity.

      "Duane, have you been studying painting all these years?"

      "Yes. What have you been doing all these years?"

      "Nothing." A shadow fell across her face. "It has been lonely—until recently. I began to live yesterday."

      "You used to tell me you were lonely," he nodded.

      "I was. You and Naïda were godsends." Something of the old thrill stirred her recollection. She leaned forward, looking at him curiously; the old memory of him was already lending him something of the forgotten glamour.

      "How tall you are!"

Скачать книгу