"Or with a country cousin, didn't you tell me? I'm the country cousin!" she continued over her shoulder to Paul as their friend drew her toward a hansom to which he had signalled. The young man watched them get in; he returned, as he stood there, the friendly wave of the hand with which, ensconced in the vehicle beside her, St. George took leave of him. He even lingered to see the vehicle start away and lose itself in the confusion of Bond Street. He followed it with his eyes; it put to him embarrassing things.
"She's not for ME!" the great novelist had said emphatically at Summersoft; but his manner of conducting himself toward her appeared not quite in harmony with such a conviction. How could he have behaved differently if she HAD been for him? An indefinite envy rose in Paul Overt's heart as he took his way on foot alone; a feeling addressed alike strangely enough, to each of the occupants of the hansom. How much he should like to rattle about London with such a girl! How much he should like to go and look at "types"with St. George!
The next Sunday at four o'clock he called in Manchester Square, where his secret wish was gratified by his finding Miss Fancourt alone. She was in a large bright friendly occupied room, which was painted red all over, draped with the quaint cheap florid stuffs that are represented as coming from southern and eastern countries, where they are fabled to serve as the counterpanes of the peasantry, and bedecked with pottery of vivid hues, ranged on casual shelves, and with many water-colour drawings from the hand (as the visitor learned) of the young lady herself, commemorating with a brave breadth the sunsets, the mountains, the temples and palaces of India. He sat an hour - more than an hour, two hours -and all the while no one came in. His hostess was so good as to remark, with her liberal humanity, that it was delightful they weren't interrupted; it was so rare in London, especially at that season, that people got a good talk. But luckily now, of a fine Sunday, half the world went out of town, and that made it better for those who didn't go, when these others were in sympathy. It was the defect of London - one of two or three, the very short list of those she recognised in the teeming world-city she adored - that there were too few good chances for talk; you never had time to carry anything far.
"Too many things - too many things!" Paul said, quoting St.
George's exclamation of a few days before.
"Ah yes, for him there are too many - his life's too complicated.""Have you seen it NEAR? That's what I should like to do; it might explain some mysteries," her visitor went on. She asked him what mysteries he meant, and he said: "Oh peculiarities of his work, inequalities, superficialities. For one who looks at it from the artistic point of view it contains a bottomless ambiguity."She became at this, on the spot, all intensity. "Ah do describe that more - it's so interesting. There are no such suggestive questions. I'm so fond of them. He thinks he's a failure -fancy!" she beautifully wailed.
"That depends on what his ideal may have been. With his gifts it ought to have been high. But till one knows what he really proposed to himself - ? Do YOU know by chance?" the young man broke off.
"Oh he doesn't talk to me about himself. I can't make him. It's too provoking."Paul was on the point of asking what then he did talk about, but discretion checked it and he said instead: "Do you think he's unhappy at home?"She seemed to wonder. "At home?"
"I mean in his relations with his wife. He has a mystifying little way of alluding to her.""Not to me," said Marian Fancourt with her clear eyes. "That wouldn't be right, would it?" she asked gravely.
"Not particularly; so I'm glad he doesn't mention her to you. To praise her might bore you, and he has no business to do anything else. Yet he knows you better than me.""Ah but he respects YOU!" the girl cried as with envy.
Her visitor stared a moment, then broke into a laugh. "Doesn't he respect you?""Of course, but not in the same way. He respects what you've done - he told me so, the other day."Paul drank it in, but retained his faculties. "When you went to look at types?""Yes - we found so many: he has such an observation of them! He talked a great deal about your book. He says it's really important.""Important! Ah the grand creature!" - and the author of the work in question groaned for joy.
"He was wonderfully amusing, he was inexpressibly droll, while we walked about. He sees everything; he has so many comparisons and images, and they're always exactly right. C'est d'un trouve, as they say.""Yes, with his gifts, such things as he ought to have done!" Paul sighed.
"And don't you think he HAS done them?"
Ah it was just the point. "A part of them, and of course even that part's immense. But he might have been one of the greatest.
However, let us not make this an hour of qualifications. Even as they stand," our friend earnestly concluded, "his writings are a mine of gold."To this proposition she ardently responded, and for half an hour the pair talked over the Master's principal productions. She knew them well - she knew them even better than her visitor, who was struck with her critical intelligence and with something large and bold in the movement in her mind. She said things that startled him and that evidently had come to her directly; they weren't picked-up phrases - she placed them too well. St. George had been right about her being first-rate, about her not being afraid to gush, not remembering that she must be proud. Suddenly something came back to her, and she said: "I recollect that he did speak of Mrs. St. George to me once. He said, apropos of something or other, that she didn't care for perfection.""That's a great crime in an artist's wife," Paul returned.
"Yes, poor thing!" and the girl sighed with a suggestion of many reflexions, some of them mitigating. But she presently added: "Ah perfection, perfection - how one ought to go in for it! I wish Icould."
"Every one can in his way," her companion opined.
