Mrs. Bowen took Colville home to dinner; Mr. Morton was coming, she said, and he must come too. At table the young clergyman made her his compliment on her look of health, and she said, Yes; she had been driving, and she believed that she needed nothing but to be in the air a little more, as she very well could, now the spring weather was really coming. She said that they had been talking all winter of going to Fiesole, where Imogene had never been yet; and upon comparison it appeared that none of them had yet been to Fiesole except herself. Then they must all go together, she said; the carriage would hold four very comfortably.
“Ah! that leaves me out,” said Colville, who had caught sight of Effie’s fallen countenance.
“Oh no. How is that? It leaves Effie out.”
“It’s the same thing. But I might ride, and Effie might give me her hand to hold over the side of the carriage; that would sustain me.”
“We could take her between us, Mrs. Bowen,” suggested Imogene. “The back seat is wide.”
“Then the party is made up,” said Colville, “and Effie hasn’t demeaned herself by asking to go where she wasn’t invited.”
The child turned inquiringly toward her mother, who met her with an indulgent smile, which became a little flush of grateful appreciation when it reached Colville; but Mrs. Bowen ignored Imogene in the matter altogether.
The evening passed delightfully. Mr. Morton had another book which he had brought to show Imogene, and Mrs. Bowen sat a long time at the piano, striking this air and that of the songs which she used to sing when she was a girl: Colville was trying to recall them. When he and Imogene were left alone for their adieux, they approached each other in an estrangement through which each tried to break.
“Why don’t you scold me?” she asked. “I have neglected you the whole evening.”
“How have you neglected me?”
“How? Ah! if you don’t know—”
“No. I dare say I must be very stupid. I saw you talking with Mr. Morton, and you seemed interested. I thought I’d better not intrude.”
She seemed uncertain of his intention, and then satisfied of its simplicity.
“Isn’t it pleasant to have Mrs. Bowen in the old mood again?” he asked.
“Is she in the old mood?”
“Why, yes. Haven’t you noticed how cordial she is?”
“I thought she was rather colder than usual.”
“Colder!” The chill of the idea penetrated even through the density of Colville’s selfish content. A very complex emotion, which took itself for indignation, throbbed from his heart. “Is she cold with you, Imogene?”
“Oh, if you saw nothing—”
“No; and I think you must be mistaken. She never speaks of you without praising you.”
“Does she speak of me?” asked the girl, with her honest eyes wide open upon him.
“Why, no,” Colville acknowledged. “Come to reflect, it’s I who speak of you. But how—how is she cold with you?”
“Oh, I dare say it’s a delusion of mine. Perhaps I’m cold with her.”
“Then don’t be so, my dear! Be sure that she’s your friend—true and good. Good night.”
He caught the girl in his arms, and kissed her tenderly. She drew away, and stood a moment with her repellent fingers on his breast.
“Is it all for me?” she asked.
“For the whole obliging and amiable world,” he answered gaily.
XIX
The next time Colville came he found himself alone with Imogene, who asked him what he had been doing all day.
“Oh, living along till evening. What have you?”
She did not answer at once, nor praise his speech for the devotion implied in it. After a while she said: “Do you believe in courses of reading? Mr. Morton has taken up a course of reading in Italian poetry. He intends to master it.”
“Does he?”
“Yes. Do you think something of the kind would be good for me?”
“Oh, if you thirst for conquest. But I should prefer to rest on my laurels if I were you.”
Imogene did not smile. “Mr. Morton thinks I should enjoy a course of Kingsley. He says he’s very earnest.”
“Oh, immensely. But aren’t you earnest enough already, my dear?”
“Do you think I’m too earnest?”
“No; I should say you were just right.”
“You know better than that. I wish you would criticise me sometimes.”
“Oh, I’d rather not.”
“Why? Don’t you see anything to criticise in me? Are you satisfied with me in every way? You ought to think. You ought to think now. Do you think that I am doing right in all respects? Am I all that I could be to you, and to you alone? If I am wrong in the least thing, criticise me, and I will try to be better.”
“Oh, you might criticise back, and I shouldn’t like that.”
“Then you don’t approve of a course of Kingsley?” asked the girl.
“Does that follow? But if you’re going in for earnestness, why don’t you take up a course of Carlyle?”
“Do you think that would be better than Kingsley?”
“Not a bit. But Carlyle’s so earnest that he can’t talk straight.”
“I can’t make out what you mean. Wouldn’t you like me to improve?”
“Not much,” laughed Colville. “If you did, I don’t know what I should do. I should have to begin to improve too, and I’m very comfortable as I am.”
“I should wish to do it to—to be more worthy of you,” grieved the girl, as if deeply disappointed at his frivolous behaviour.
He could not help laughing,
