“I don’t see why a fellow isn’t to amuse himself, eh, Boulger, old boy?” Boulger winked and grinned, and said that some amusements were dangerous.
“I don’t think that there is any danger there,” said Johnny. “I don’t believe she is thinking of that kind of thing herself;—not with me at least. What she likes is the pretence of a mystery; and as it is amusing I don’t see why a fellow shouldn’t indulge her.” But that determination was pronounced after two mutton chops at “The Cock,” between one and two o’clock in the morning. On the next day he was cooler and wiser. Greek he thought might be tedious as he discovered that he would have to begin again from the very alphabet. He would therefore abandon that idea. Greek was not the thing for him, but he would take up the sanitary condition of the poor in London. A fellow could be of some use in that way. In the meantime he would keep his appointment with Miss Demolines, simply because it was an appointment. A gentleman should always keep his word to a lady!
He did keep his appointment with Miss Demolines, and was with her almost precisely at the hour she had named. She received him with a mysterious tranquillity which almost perplexed him. He remembered, however, that the way to enjoy the society of Miss Demolines was to take her in all her moods with perfect seriousness, and was therefore very tranquil himself. On the present occasion she did not rise as he entered the room, and hardly spoke as she tendered to him the tips of her fingers to be touched. As she said almost nothing, he said nothing at all, but sank into a chair and stretched his legs out comfortably before him. It had been always understood between them that she was to bear the burden of the conversation.
“You’ll have a cup of tea?” she said.
“Yes;—if you do.” Then the page brought the tea, and John Eames amused himself with swallowing three slices of very thin bread and butter.
“None for me—thanks,” said Madalina. “I rarely eat after dinner, and not often much then. I fancy that I should best like a world in which there was no eating.”
“A good dinner is a very good thing,” said John. And then there was again silence. He was aware that some great secret was to be told to him during this evening, but he was much too discreet to show any curiosity upon that subject. He sipped his tea to the end, and then, having got up to put his cup down, stood on the rug with his back to the fire. “Have you been out today?” he asked.
“Indeed I have.”
“And you are tired?”
“Very tired!”
“Then perhaps I had better not keep you up.”
“Your remaining will make no difference in that respect. I don’t suppose that I shall be in bed for the next four hours. But do as you like about going.”
“I am in no hurry,” said Johnny. Then he sat down again, stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable.
“I have been to see that woman,” said Madalina after a pause.
“What woman?”
“Maria Clutterbuck—as I must always call her; for I cannot bring myself to pronounce the name of that poor wretch who was done to death.”
“He blew his brains out in delirium tremens,” said Johnny.
“And what made him drink?” said Madalina with emphasis. “Never mind. I decline altogether to speak of it. Such a scene as I have had! I was driven at last to tell her what I thought of her. Anything so callous, so heartless, so selfish, so stone-cold, and so childish, I never saw before! That Maria was childish and selfish I always knew;—but I thought there was some heart—a vestige of heart. I found today that there was none—none. If you please we won’t speak of her any more.”
“Certainly not,” said Johnny.
“You need not wonder that I am tired and feverish.”
“That sort of thing is fatiguing, I dare say. I don’t know whether we do not lose more than we gain by those strong emotions.”
“I would rather die and go beneath the sod at once, than live without them,” said Madalina.
“It’s a matter of taste,” said Johnny.
“It is there that that poor wretch is so deficient. She is thinking now, this moment, of nothing but her creature comforts. That tragedy has not even stirred her pulses.”
“If her pulses were stirred ever so, that would not make her happy.”
“Happy! Who is happy? Are you happy?”
Johnny thought of Lily Dale and paused before he answered. No; certainly he was not happy. But he was not going to talk about his unhappiness to Miss Demolines! “Of course I am;—as jolly as a sandboy,” he said.
“Mr. Eames,” said Madalina raising herself on her sofa, “if you can not express yourself in language more suitable to the occasion and to the scene than that, I think that you had better—”
“Hold my tongue.”
“Just so;—though I should not have chosen myself to use words so abruptly discourteous.”
“What did I say;—jolly as a sandboy? There is nothing wrong in that. What I meant was, that I think that this world is a very good sort of world, and that a man can get along in it very well, if he minds his p’s and q’s.”
“But suppose it’s a woman?”
“Easier still.”
“And suppose she does not mind her p’s and q’s?”
“Women always do.”
“Do they? Your knowledge of women goes as far as that, does it? Tell me fairly;—do you think you know anything about women?” Madalina as she asked the question, looked full into his face, and shook her locks and smiled. When she shook her locks and smiled, there was a certain attraction about her of which John Eames was fully sensible. She could throw a special brightness into her eyes, which, though it probably betokened nothing truly beyond ill-natured mischief, seemed
