“Look here, my boy,” he said.
The boy parted his lips, opened his eyes, and answered nothing.
“Here’s sixpence for you, on condition that you don’t again come within twenty yards of my heels, all the way up the valley.”
The boy, who apparently had not known he had been looking at Knight’s heels at all, took the sixpence mechanically, and Knight went on again, wrapt in meditation.
“A nice voice,” Elfride thought; “but what a singular temper!”
“Now we must get indoors before he ascends the slope,” said Mrs. Swancourt softly. And they went across by a shortcut over a stile, entering the lawn by a side door, and so on to the house.
Mr. Swancourt had gone into the village with the curate, and Elfride felt too nervous to await their visitor’s arrival in the drawing-room with Mrs. Swancourt. So that when the elder lady entered, Elfride made some pretence of perceiving a new variety of crimson geranium, and lingered behind among the flower beds.
There was nothing gained by this, after all, she thought; and a few minutes after boldly came into the house by the glass side-door. She walked along the corridor, and entered the drawing-room. Nobody was there.
A window at the angle of the room opened directly into an octagonal conservatory, enclosing the corner of the building. From the conservatory came voices in conversation—Mrs. Swancourt’s and the stranger’s.
She had expected him to talk brilliantly. To her surprise he was asking questions in quite a learner’s manner, on subjects connected with the flowers and shrubs that she had known for years. When after the lapse of a few minutes he spoke at some length, she considered there was a hard square decisiveness in the shape of his sentences, as if, unlike her own and Stephen’s, they were not there and then newly constructed, but were drawn forth from a large store ready-made. They were now approaching the window to come in again.
“That is a flesh-coloured variety,” said Mrs. Swancourt. “But oleanders, though they are such bulky shrubs, are so very easily wounded as to be unprunable—giants with the sensitiveness of young ladies. Oh, here is Elfride!”
Elfride looked as guilty and crestfallen as Lady Teazle at the dropping of the screen. Mrs. Swancourt presented him half comically, and Knight in a minute or two placed himself beside the young lady.
A complexity of instincts checked Elfride’s conventional smiles of complaisance and hospitality; and, to make her still less comfortable, Mrs. Swancourt immediately afterwards left them together to seek her husband. Mr. Knight, however, did not seem at all incommoded by his feelings, and he said with light easefulness:
“So, Miss Swancourt, I have met you at last. You escaped me by a few minutes only when we were in London.”
“Yes. I found that you had seen Mrs. Swancourt.”
“And now reviewer and reviewed are face to face,” he added unconcernedly.
“Yes: though the fact of your being a relation of Mrs. Swancourt’s takes off the edge of it. It was strange that you should be one of her family all the time.” Elfride began to recover herself now, and to look into Knight’s face. “I was merely anxious to let you know my real meaning in writing the book—extremely anxious.”
“I can quite understand the wish; and I was gratified that my remarks should have reached home. They very seldom do, I am afraid.”
Elfride drew herself in. Here he was, sticking to his opinions as firmly as if friendship and politeness did not in the least require an immediate renunciation of them.
“You made me very uneasy and sorry by writing such things!” she murmured, suddenly dropping the mere caqueterie of a fashionable first introduction, and speaking with some of the dudgeon of a child towards a severe schoolmaster.
“That is rather the object of honest critics in such a case. Not to cause unnecessary sorrow, but: ‘To make you sorry after a proper manner, that ye may receive damage by us in nothing,’ as a powerful pen once wrote to the Gentiles. Are you going to write another romance?”
“Write another?” she said. “That somebody may pen a condemnation and ‘nail’t wi’ Scripture’ again, as you do now, Mr. Knight?”
“You may do better next time,” he said placidly: “I think you will. But I would advise you to confine yourself to domestic scenes.”
“Thank you. But never again!”
“Well, you may be right. That a young woman has taken to writing is not by any means the best thing to hear about her.”
“What is the best?”
“I prefer not to say.”
“Do you know? Then, do tell me, please.”
“Well”—(Knight was evidently changing his meaning)—“I suppose to hear that she has married.”
Elfride hesitated. “And what when she has been married?” she said at last, partly in order to withdraw her own person from the argument.
“Then to hear no more about her. It is as Smeaton said of his lighthouse: her greatest real praise, when the novelty of her inauguration has worn off, is that nothing happens to keep the talk of her alive.”
“Yes, I see,” said Elfride softly and thoughtfully. “But of course it is different quite with men. Why don’t you write novels, Mr. Knight?”
“Because I couldn’t write one that would interest anybody.”
“Why?”
“For several reasons. It requires a judicious omission of your real thoughts to make a novel popular, for one thing.”
“Is that really necessary? Well, I am sure you could learn to do that with practice,” said Elfride with an ex-cathedra air, as became a person who spoke from experience in the art. “You would make a great name for certain,” she continued.
“So many people make a name nowadays, that it is more distinguished to remain in obscurity.”
“Tell me seriously—apart from the subject—why don’t you write a volume instead of loose articles?” she insisted.
“Since you are pleased to make me talk of myself, I will tell you seriously,” said Knight, not less amused at this catechism by his young friend than he was interested in her
