'No, you mightn't. You've liked to come here and talk to me.'
'Because I like books. And you talk like a book.'
'That was before I fell in love. I didn't talk like a book just now.'
'When you took my hand! More like a book than ever. I've read it all-lots of times.'
'Oh, Eil-Miss O'Keeffe-you are very cruel.'
Eileen smiled. 'I am not-I'm very kind-I threw you back into the water.'
He gasped, as though out of it again. 'Do you mean I am not grown enough?'
She flushed and improvised on his theme. 'Not quite that. You hooked yourself, as you threatened to do. But suppose I had landed you. You know the next step-hot water. What a lot you would have got into, too!'
'You are thinking of my mother?'
'Yes, raising Cain, I think you said once. Oh, dear, swim about and be thankful.' And a vision of Mrs. Maper's amazement twitched the corners of her lips and made them more enchanting.
'I'm not so cold-blooded as all that. But if you do throw me back, let it be with the promise to take me again, when I
'Indigestible, do you mean?'
'Oh, please let us drop that metaphor! Metaphors can never go on all fours.'
'Certainly not when they have fins.'
'Don't jest, Eil-Miss O'Keeffe! Let me redeem you from your sordid life.'
'Why is it sordid? You said work was divine.'
'You can work in a higher sphere.'
'And this is the Socialist! I really thought you'd want me to turn factory lass.'
'You are laughing at me.'
'I am perfectly serious. I won't drag you down from Socialism, and a head-shawl wouldn't become me.'
'Why, you'd look sweet in it. Dear, dear, Miss O'Keeffe-'
'Good-by.'
'No, you shan't go.' He barred her way. Her airiness had given him new hope.
'If you don't behave sensibly, I'll go altogether-give notice.'
'Then I'll follow you to your next place.'
'No followers allowed. Seriously, I'll leave if you are foolish.'
'Very well,' he said abruptly. 'Let's go on reading Plato,' and he turned to the book.
'No, no more Dialogues, in or out of Plato.'
She was smiling but stern. He opened the library door and bowed as she passed out.
'Remember,' he said. 'I will remain foolish for ever.'
'You have too long an opinion of yourself,' was Eileen's parting flash.
IX.
The next evening she sat in the drawing-room before dinner, softly playing an accompaniment to her thoughts. Why didn't she feel anything about Robert Maper except a mild irritation at the destruction of so truly platonic a converse? In a book, of which his proposal savoured, she would have found him quite a romantic person. In the actuality she felt as frigid as if his marble forehead was chilling her, and what she remembered most acutely was his fishlike gasping. Then, too, the contradictoriness of his social attitude, his desire to make her a rich drone, his shame at his mother, his reclusive shyness-all the weaknesses of the man-came to obscure her sense of his literary idealism, if not, indeed, to reveal it as a mere coquetry with fine ideas and coarse clothes. And then for a moment the humour of being Mrs. Maper's daughter-in-law appealed to her, and she laughed to herself in soft duet with the music.
And in the middle of the duet Mrs. Maper herself burst in, with her bodice half hooked and her hair half done.
'What's this I hear, Miss Hirish Himpudence, of your goings-on with my son?'
Eileen swung round on her stool. 'I beg your pardon,' she said.
'Oh, you can't get out of it by beggin' my pardon, creepin' into the library like a mouse-and it's a nice sly mouse you are, too, but there's never a mouse without its cat-'
'She'd have done better to do your hair and mind her business,' said Eileen, calmly.
Mrs. Maper's forefinger shot heavenwards. 'It was you as ought to have minded your business. I didn't pay you like a lady and feed you like a duchess to set your cap at your betters. But I told Mr. Maper what 'ud come of it if we let you heat with us, though I didn't dream what a sly little mouse-'
The torrent went on and on. Eileen as in a daze watched the theatric forefinger-now pointed at the floor as if to the mouse-hole, now leaping ceilingwards like the cat,-and her main feeling was professional. She was watching her pupil, storing up in her memory the mispronunciations and vulgarisms for later insinuative improvement. Only a tithe of her was aware of the impertinence. But suddenly she heard herself interrupting quietly.
'I shall not sleep under your roof another night.' Mrs. Maper paused so abruptly that her forefinger fell limp. She was not sure she meant to give her companion notice, and have the trouble of training another, and she certainly did not wish to be dismissed instead of dismissing.
'Silly chit!' she said in more conciliatory tones. 'And where will you sleep?'
But Eileen now felt she must obey her own voice-the voice of her outraged pride, perhaps even of Brian Boru himself. 'Good-by. I'll take some things in a handbag and send for my box in the morning.'
Mrs. Maper's hand pointed to the ceiling. 'And is that the way you treat a lady-you're no lady, I tell you that. I demand a month's notice or I shall summons you.'
At this juncture it occurred to Eileen that this might have been her mother-in-law, and a smile danced into her eyes.
'Himpudent Hirish hussy! Oh, but I'll have the lore of you. Don't forget I'm the wife of a Justice of the Peace.'
'Very well; you get Justice, I want Peace.' And Eileen fled to her room.
She had hardly begun packing her handbag when she heard the door locked from the outside with a savage snap and a cry of, 'I'll learn you who's mistress here, my lady.'
Eileen smiled. She was only on the second floor, and captivity revived all her girlish prankishness. She now began to enjoy the whole episode. That she was out of place, out of character, out of lodging even, was nothing beside the humour of this incursion into real life of the melodrama she had mocked at. Was she not the innocent heroine entrapped by the villain? Fortunately, she would not need the hero to rescue her. She went on packing. When her handbag was ready she looked about for means to escape. She opened her windows and studied the drop and the odd bits of helpful rainpipe. Descent was not so easy as she had imagined. Short of tearing the sheets into strips (and that might really bring her within the J.P.'s purview) or of picking the lock (which seemed even more burglarious, not to mention more difficult) she might really remain trapped. However, there would be time to think properly when she had packed her big box. Half an hour passed cheerfully in the folding of dresses to an underplay of planned escapes, and she had just locked the box, when Mrs. Maper's voice pierced the door panel.
'Well, are you ready to come to supper?'
The governess's instinct corrected 'dinner.' Mrs. Maper when excited was always tripping into this betrayal of auld lang syne, but she preserved a disdainful silence.
'Eileen, why don't you hanser?'
Still silence. The key grated in the lock.
Eileen looked round desperately. The thought of meeting Mrs. Maper again was intolerable. The mirrored door of the rifled wardrobe stood ajar, revealing an enticing emptiness. Snatching up her handbag and her hat, she crept inside and closed the door noiselessly upon herself. 'The wardrobe mouse,' she thought, smiling.
'Well, my lady!' Mrs. Maper dashed through the door, in her dinner-gown and diamonds, her forefinger hovering, balanced, between earth and heaven. She saw nothing but an answering figure ribboned and jewelled, that dashed at her and pointed its forefinger menacingly.
The appearance of this figure as from behind the glass shut out from her mind the idea of another figure behind it. The packed box, neat and new-labelled, the absence of the handbag and of any sign of occupancy, the open windows, the silence, all told their lying tale.
