warned her.
“Our audience will get bored.”
“I am perfectly aware that Monsieur George is here, and that he has been breathing a very different atmosphere from what he gets in this room. Don’t you find this room extremely confined?” she asked me.
The room was very large but it is a fact that I felt oppressed at that moment. This mysterious quarrel between those two people, revealing something more close in their intercourse than I had ever before suspected, made me so profoundly unhappy that I didn’t even attempt to answer. And she continued:
“More space. More air. Give me air, air.” She seized the embroidered edges of her blue robe under her white throat and made as if to tear them apart, to fling it open on her breast, recklessly, before our eyes. We both remained perfectly still. Her hands dropped nervelessly by her side. “I envy you, Monsieur George. If I am to go under I should prefer to be drowned in the sea with the wind on my face. What luck, to feel nothing less than all the world closing over one’s head!”
A short silence ensued before Mr. Blunt’s drawing-room voice was heard with playful familiarity.
“I have often asked myself whether you weren’t really a very ambitious person, Dona Rita.”
“And I ask myself whether you have any heart.” She was looking straight at him and he gratified her with the usual cold white flash of his even teeth before he answered.
“Asking yourself? That means that you are really asking me. But why do it so publicly? I mean it. One single, detached presence is enough to make a public. One alone. Why not wait till he returns to those regions of space and air—from which he came.”
His particular trick of speaking of any third person as of a lay figure was exasperating. Yet at the moment I did not know how to resent it, but, in any case, Dona Rita would not have given me time. Without a moment’s hesitation she cried out:
“I only wish he could take me out there with him.”
For a moment Mr. Blunt’s face became as still as a mask and then instead of an angry it assumed an indulgent expression. As to me I had a rapid vision of Dominic’s astonishment, awe, and sarcasm which was always as tolerant as it is possible for sarcasm to be. But what a charming, gentle, gay, and fearless companion she would have made! I believed in her fearlessness in any adventure that would interest her. It would be a new occasion for me, a new viewpoint for that faculty of admiration she had awakened in me at sight—at first sight—before she opened her lips—before she ever turned her eyes on me. She would have to wear some sort of sailor costume, a blue woollen shirt open at the throat. . . . Dominic’s hooded cloak would envelop her amply, and her face under the black hood would have a luminous quality, adolescent charm, and an enigmatic expression. The confined space of the little vessel’s quarterdeck would lend itself to her cross-legged attitudes, and the blue sea would balance gently her characteristic immobility that seemed to hide thoughts as old and profound as itself. As restless, too— perhaps.
But the picture I had in my eye, coloured and simple like an illustration to a nursery-book tale of two venturesome children’s escapade, was what fascinated me most. Indeed I felt that we two were like children under the gaze of a man of the world—who lived by his sword. And I said recklessly:
“Yes, you ought to come along with us for a trip. You would see a lot of things for yourself.”
Mr. Blunt’s expression had grown even more indulgent if that were possible. Yet there was something ineradicably ambiguous about that man. I did not like the indefinable tone in which he observed:
“You are perfectly reckless in what you say, Dona Rita. It has become a habit with you of late.”
“While with you reserve is a second nature, Don Juan.”
This was uttered with the gentlest, almost tender, irony. Mr. Blunt waited a while before he said:
“Certainly. . . . Would you have liked me to be otherwise?”
She extended her hand to him on a sudden impulse.
“Forgive me! I may have been unjust, and you may only have been loyal. The falseness is not in us. The fault is in life itself, I suppose. I have been always frank with you.”
“And I obedient,” he said, bowing low over her hand. He turned away, paused to look at me for some time and finally gave me the correct sort of nod. But he said nothing and went out, or rather lounged out with his worldly manner of perfect ease under all conceivable circumstances. With her head lowered Dona Rita watched him till he actually shut the door behind him. I was facing her and only heard the door close.
“Don’t stare at me,” were the first words she said.
It was difficult to obey that request. I didn’t know exactly where to look, while I sat facing her. So I got up, vaguely full of goodwill, prepared even to move off as far as the window, when she commanded:
“Don’t turn your back on me.”
I chose to understand it symbolically.
“You know very well I could never do that. I couldn’t. Not even if I wanted to.” And I added: “It’s too late now.”
“Well, then, sit down. Sit down on this couch.”
I sat down on the couch. Unwillingly? Yes. I was at that stage when all her words, all her gestures, all her silences were a heavy trial to me, put a stress on my resolution, on that fidelity to myself and to her which lay like a leaden weight on my untried heart. But I didn’t sit down very far away from her, though that soft and billowy couch was big enough, God knows! No, not very far from her. Self-control, dignity, hopelessness itself, have their limits. The halo of her tawny hair stirred as I let myself drop by her side. Whereupon she flung one arm round my neck, leaned her temple against my shoulder and began to sob; but that I could only guess from her slight, convulsive movements because in our relative positions I could only see the mass of her tawny hair brushed back, yet with a halo of escaped hair which as I bent my head over her tickled my lips, my cheek, in a maddening manner.
We sat like two venturesome children in an illustration to a tale, scared by their adventure. But not for long. As I instinctively, yet timidly, sought for her other hand I felt a tear strike the back of mine, big and heavy as if fallen from a great height. It was too much for me. I must have given a nervous start. At once I heard a murmur:
