She looked at him in surprise. “Do I—? Why, of course, yes. How funny of you! What did you think—?”
“I thought maybe the house was divided up into apartments, it’s so big.”
“Well, it might be,” she admitted, sighing. “Sometimes I wish it were. It’s horribly lonely, having it all to myself.” She sighed again. “I hate big houses, don’t you?”
His captivated eyes were still scanning the long vista of rooms. “No; I think they’re great—when they’re like this … all the space and the height and the quietness. …”
She gave a little conscious laugh and instantly adopted his view. “Oh, you like it? I’m so glad; because, you see, these big rooms were really rather my doing. I insisted on the architect’s carrying out my own ideas—giving me all the elbow-room I wanted. They have so little imagination.” The tall young man with the silver buttons presented himself, as if noiselessly summoned, and she dropped her furs on his arm, said: “Yes—tea, I think; and I’m at home to no one,” tossed off her hat, and sank into one of the dove-coloured chairs. The tall young man closed the door behind him, and shut Vance and his hostess into flower-scented privacy. Mrs. Pulsifer turned her anxious eyes on her visitor. “I suppose you were horrified at my telegraphing?”
“Horrified; no, why?”
“I was afraid you thought I oughtn’t to ask you to come here at all, because of that wretched prize; that you were afraid of what people might think. … But I really wanted most desperately to see you about Fynes. You see, practically he has the casting vote; the others just cringe to him. And I knew he’d told you to come and see him about an article or something, and was very huffy because you didn’t; and I wanted to warn you, and to beg you to do whatever he asks. And when you didn’t answer and didn’t come I was perfectly miserable. … I know I’m a goose, I know what you’ll think. … But I can’t help it; I do so want you to get the prize,” she said, suddenly leaning forward and laying her hand on his.
Her touch startled him, for he was still absorbed in contemplation of the room. “Oh, that’s ever so kind of you,” he stammered, feeling he ought to take her hand; but it had already slipped from him, and she had drawn back with one of her uncertain movements. “It’s all wrong, I know,” she insisted. “I oughtn’t to care about it, I oughtn’t to have any opinion; you’d think ever so much better of me if I stood aloof and let the committee decide.” For a moment a wistful smile gave her thin face the contour of youth. “But the first moment I saw you I felt …” She stood up, moving away with her long step. “Should you like to see the rooms? Do you care for pictures?”
Yes, Vance said, he’d like first-rate to look round. He explained eagerly that he’d seen hardly any pictures, and wanted to get hold of some good books on the history of painting … maybe she could lend him some? But he was checked by the perception that Mrs. Pulsifer was no longer listening, and that this was not the sort of thing she wanted to hear. He was dimly aware that he had missed his chance, that had he imprisoned her hand the prize would have been his. “Rauch would never have let her go,” he thought, half amused. But she was too unlike the other women with whom he had exchanged easy caresses. She seemed bloodless, immaterial, as if she were a part of her splendid and unfamiliar setting, and might at any moment recede into one of the great gilt frames at which he stood gazing. She poured out a glib patter about the pictures, her pictures; her Constable, her Rembrandt, her Ver Meer, other names he didn’t catch in his excitement; and then led him to another room to show him her “moderns,” bewildering things with unknown names, but all alluded to in the same proprietary tone, as if the artists, whoever they were, had worked, like her architect, only for her and under her direction. Some painters, not represented on her walls, she spoke of with contempt, said she wouldn’t have them at any price though other people fought for them—she was determined to be herself, to be independent, no matter how hard people tried to influence her. Didn’t he think she was right, she challenged him? Her nervous chatter disturbed his enjoyment of the pictures, and prevented the isolation of soul in which great impressions reached him. What a pity, he thought! His heart was beating and murmuring with new harmonies; but perhaps another day, when he got to know her better, and they felt more at ease with each other, he could ask her to let him come back. And he thought how different it would have been if the woman at his side had been Halo Tarrant, who always made him see beautiful things more clearly instead of blurring them.
“Ah—here’s tea. But you’d rather have a cocktail?” Mrs. Pulsifer said. They had returned to the circular room; by the fire stood a table with cups of thin porcelain around a shining urn. Vance said
