LITMIR.BIZ

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about our lettuce.” George laughed in much confusion at her pun on my sister’s name.

      “I believe you,” he said, with pompous gallantry.

      “Think of that!” cried Alice. “Our Georgie believes me. Oh, I am so, so pleased!”

      He smiled painfully. His hand was resting on the table, the thumb tucked tight under the fingers, his knuckles white as he nervously gripped his thumb. At last supper was finished, and he picked up his serviette from the floor and began to fold it. Lettie also seemed ill at ease. She had teased him till the sense of his awkwardness had become uncomfortable. Now she felt sorry, and a trifle repentant, so she went to the piano, as she always did to dispel her moods. When she was angry she played tender fragments of Tchaikovsky, when she was miserable, Mozart. Now she played Handel in a manner that suggested the plains of heaven in the long notes, and in the little trills as if she were waltzing up the ladder of Jacob’s dream like the damsels in Blake’s pictures. I often told her she flattered herself scandalously through the piano; but generally she pretended not to understand me, and occasionally she surprised me by a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. For George’s sake, she played Gounod’s “Ave Maria”, knowing that the sentiment of the chant would appeal to him, and make him sad, forgetful of the petty evils of this life. I smiled as I watched the cheap spell working. When she had finished, her fingers lay motionless for a minute on the keys, then she spun round, and looked him straight in the eyes, giving promise of a smile. But she glanced down at her knee.

      “You are tired of music,” she said.

      “No,” he replied, shaking his head.

      “Like it better than salad?” she asked with a flash of raillery.

      He looked up at her with a sudden smile, but did not reply. He was not handsome; his features were too often in a heavy repose; but when he looked up and smiled unexpectedly, he flooded her with an access of tenderness.

      “Then you’ll have a little more,” said she, and she turned again to the piano. She played soft, wistful morsels, then suddenly broke off in the midst of one sentimental plaint, and left the piano, dropping into a low chair by the fire. There she sat and looked at him. He was conscious that her eyes were fixed on him, but he dared not look back at her, so he pulled his moustache.

      “You are only a boy, after all,” she said to him quietly. Then he turned and asked her why.

      “It is a boy that you are,” she repeated, leaning back in her chair, and smiling lazily at him.

      “I never thought so,” he replied seriously.

      “Really?” she said, chuckling.

      “No,” said he, trying to recall his previous impressions. She laughed heartily, saying:

      “You’re growing up.”

      “How?” he asked.

      “Growing up,” she repeated, still laughing.

      “But I’m sure I was never boyish,” said he.

      “I’m teaching you,” said she, “and when you’re boyish you’ll be a very decent man. A mere man daren’t be a boy for fear of tumbling off his manly dignity, and then he’d be a fool, poor thing.”

      He laughed, and sat still to think about it, as was his way. “Do you like pictures?” she asked suddenly, being tired of looking at him.

      “Better than anything,” he replied.

      “Except dinner, and a warm hearth and a lazy evening,” she said.

      He looked at her suddenly, hardening at her insult, and biting his lips at the taste of this humiliation. She repented, and smiled her plaintive regret to him.

      “I’ll show you some,” she said, rising and going out of the room. He felt he was nearer her. She returned, carrying a pile of great books.

      “Jove — you’re pretty strong!” said he.

      “You are charming in your compliment,” she said. He glanced at her to see if she were mocking.

      “That’s the highest you could say of me, isn’t it?” she insisted.

      “Is it?” he asked, unwilling to compromise himself.

      “For sure,” she answered — and then, laying the books on the table, “I know how a man will compliment me by the way he looks at me”— she kneeled before the fire. “Some look at my hair, some watch the rise and fall of my breathing, some look at my neck, and a few — not you among them — look me in the eyes for my thoughts. To you, I’m a fine specimen, strong! Pretty strong! You primitive man!”

      He sat twisting his fingers; she was very contrary.

      “Bring your chair up,” she said, sitting down at the table and opening a book. She talked to him of each picture, insisting on hearing his opinion. Sometimes he disagreed with her and would not be persuaded. At such times she was piqued.

      “If,” said she, “an ancient Briton in his skins came and contradicted me as you do, wouldn’t you tell him not to make an ass of himself?”

      “I don’t know,” said he.

      “Then you ought to,” she replied. “You know nothing.”

      “How is it you ask me then?” he said.

      She began to laugh.

      “Why — that’s a pertinent question. I think you might be rather nice, you know.”

      “Thank you,” he said, smiling ironically.

      “Oh!” she said. “I know, you think you’re perfect, but you’re not, you’re very annoying.”

      “Yes,” exclaimed Alice, who had entered the room again, dressed ready to depart. “He’s so blooming slow! Great whizz! Who wants fellows to carry cold dinners? Shouldn’t you like to shake him, Lettie?”

      “I don’t feel concerned enough,” replied the other calmly. “Did you ever carry a boiled pudding, Georgie?” asked Alice with innocent interest, punching me slyly.

      “Me! — why? — what makes you ask?” he replied, quite at a loss.

      “Oh, I only wondered if your people needed any indigestion mixture — Pa mixes it — 1/1½ a bottle.”

      “I don’t see —” he began.

      “Ta — ta, old boy, I’ll give you time to think about it. Good night, Lettie. Absence makes the heart grow fonder — Georgie — of someone else. Farewell. Come along, Sybil love, the moon is shining — Good night all, good night!”

      I escorted her home, while they continued to look at the pictures. He was a romanticist. He liked Copley, Fielding, Cattermole and Birket Foster; he could see nothing whatsoever in Girtin or David Cox. They fell out decidedly over George Clausen.

      “But,” said Lettie, “he is a real realist, he makes common things beautiful, he sees the mystery and magnificence that envelops us even when we work menially. I do know and I can speak. If I hoed in the fields beside you —” This was a very new idea for him, almost a shock to his imagination, and she talked unheeded. The picture under discussion was a water-colour —“Hoeing” by Clausen.

      “You’d be just that colour in the sunset,” she said, thus bringing him back to the subject, “and if you looked at the ground you’d find there was a sense of warm gold fire in it, and once you’d perceived the colour, it would strengthen till you’d see nothing else. You are blind; you are only half-born; you are gross with good living and heavy sleeping. You are a piano which will only play a dozen common notes. Sunset is nothing to you — it merely happens anywhere. Oh, but you make me feel as if I’d like to make you suffer. If you’d ever been sick; if you’d ever been born into a home where there was something oppressed you, and you couldn’t understand; if ever you’d believed, or even doubted, you might have been a man

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