When they had made the round of the rooms Mrs. Fleming was not at the window where she had left Imogene; the girl detected the top of her bonnet still in the next room.
“The chaperone is never there when you come back with the protégée,” said Colville. “It seems to be the nature of the chaperone.”
Imogene turned very grave. “I think I ought to go to her,” she murmured.
“Oh no; she ought to come to you; I stand out for protégée’s rights.”
“I suppose she will come directly.”
“She sees me with you; she knows you are safe.”
“Oh, of course,” said the girl. After a constraint which she marked by rather a long silence, she added, “How strange a roomful of talking sounds, doesn’t it? Just like a great cauldron boiling up and bubbling over. Wouldn’t you like to know what they’re all saying?”
“Oh, it’s quite bad enough to see them,” replied Colville frivolously.
“I think a company of gentlemen with their hats off look very queer, don’t you?” she asked, after another interval.
“Well, really,” said Colville, laughing, “I don’t know that the spectacle ever suggested any metaphysical speculations to me. I rather think they look queerer with their hats on.”
“Oh yes.”
“Though there is not very much to choose. We’re a queer-looking set, anyway.”
He got himself another cup of tea, and coming back to her, allowed her to make the efforts to keep up the conversation, and was not without a malicious pleasure in her struggles. They interested him as social exercises which, however abrupt and undexterous now, were destined, with time and practice, to become the finesse of a woman of society, and to be accepted, even while they were still abrupt and undexterous, as touches of character. He had broken up that coldness with which she had met him at first, and now he let her adjust the fragments as she could to the new situation. He wore that air of a gentleman who has been talking a long time to a lady, and who will not dispute her possession with a newcomer.
But no one came, though, as he cast his eyes carelessly over the company, he found that it had been increased by the accession of eight or ten young fellows, with a refreshing light of originality in their faces, and little touches of difference from the other men in their dress.
“Oh, there are the Inglehart boys!” cried the girl, with a flash of excitement.
There was a sensation of interest and friendliness in the company as these young fellows, after their moment of social intimidation, began to gather round the pictures, and to fling their praise and blame about, and talk the delightful shop of the studio.
The sight of their fresh young faces, the sound of their voices, struck a pang of regret that was almost envy to Colville’s heart.
Imogene followed them with eager eyes. “Oh,” she sighed, “shouldn’t you like to be an artist?”
“I should, very much.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon; I forgot. I knew you were an architect.”
“I should say I used to be, if you hadn’t objected to my perfects and preterits.”
What came next seemed almost an accident.
“I didn’t suppose you cared for my objections, so long as I amused you.” She suddenly glanced at him, as if terrified at her own words.
“Have you been trying to amuse me?” he asked.
“Oh no. I thought—”
“Oh, then,” said Colville sharply, “you meant that I was amusing myself with you?” She glanced at him in terror of his divination, but could not protest. “Has anyone told you that?” he pursued, with sudden angry suspicion.
“No, no one,” began Imogene. She glanced about her, frightened. They stood quite alone where they were; the people had mostly wandered off into the other rooms. “Oh, don’t—I didn’t mean—I didn’t intend to say anything—”
“But you have said something—something that surprises me from you, and hurts me. I wish to know whether you say it from yourself.”
“I don’t know—yes. That is, not—Oh, I wish Mrs. Fleming—”
She looked as if another word of pursuit would put it beyond her power to control herself.
“Let me take you to Mrs. Fleming,” said Colville, with freezing hauteur; and led the way where the top of Mrs. Fleming’s bonnet still showed itself. He took leave at once, and hastily parting with his host, found himself in the street, whirled in many emotions. The girl had not said that from herself, but it was from some woman; he knew that by the directness of the phrase and its excess, for he had noticed that women who liked to beat about the bush in small matters have a prodigious straightforwardness in more vital affairs, and will even call grey black in order clearly to establish the presence of the black in that colour. He could hardly keep himself from going to Palazzo Pinti.
But he contrived to go to his hotel instead, where he ate a moody dinner, and then, after an hour’s solitary bitterness in his room, went out and passed the evening at the theatre. The play was one of those fleering comedies which render contemptible for the time all honest and earnest intention, and which surely are a whiff from the bottomless pit itself. It made him laugh at the serious strain of self-question that had mingled with his resentment; it made him laugh even at his resentment, and with its humour in his thoughts, sent him off to sleep in a sottish acceptance of whatever was trivial in himself as the only thing that was real and lasting.
He slept late, and when Paolo brought up his breakfast, he brought with it a letter which he said had been left with the porter an hour before. A faint appealing perfume of violet exhaled from the note, and mingled with the steaming odours
