I do not remember what I said, but Sister Virginie said magnificently: “Then I will lie to her for the time being,” and when she had gone I stood at the head of the oaken stairway, thinking how I would like to be very alone for a minute or two. Now and then a nun would pass softly but quickly along the passage behind me, she would seem to be sliding along, and then there came a firmer step, and out of the tail of my eye I saw that man’s great brown coat ballooning towards me.
“Well as can be expected,” he muttered gloomily. I looked at him. “Better, really,” he muttered gloomily. “Ready?”
We went down the oaken stairway, treading on our toes. There was a sickly whisper of incense in the air, and I found that I had a headache.
“But I wish to blazes,” growled that man, “that you hadn’t let that boy go. You could have stopped him. …”
“No,” I said, “I couldn’t. Besides, I didn’t want to.”
“Mm. Well, how did you find her? Wasted, isn’t she?”
“Masters,” I said, “she is lying there terrified!” For that was all I could think about, that and the feel on my fingers of the damp, chill hair that had no waves in it now.
Masters said: “And a very good thing for her she is terrified. Keep her bucked up, that will. But I wish to blazes. …”
“Yes, I heard you,” I said, fumbling with the latch of the great doors.
“Women!” snapped Masters. “Here, let me.”
“I don’t suppose,” I said, “that there are many worse sights than a helpless woman afraid. …”
“You get used to it,” said Masters gloomily, but I was thinking that Napier would not have been at all used to it, and that he had been very wise in his goodbye, for as sure as anything I was that Venice could not have afforded to let Iris have even one more piqûre du cœur. …
“You don’t look so well yourself,” said Masters.
“Growing-pains, Masters. One is always growing up, at other people’s expense. …”
III
I was not to see her again for a while. That man said: “You did her no good the other day. The reverse. She has something on her mind she wants to say to you, and she can’t, and it worries her. Naturally. …”
“Your instructions,” I said. “She will be angry with you, Masters.”
“When she is well,” snapped that captain of men, “she may burst, if I may say so. And so I’ll tell her. But in the meanwhile you will have to wait ten days. Or more.”
It was more, quite a while more, and when I went again into the oak-room of the Saint whose name I forgot to look at Iris met me with accusing eyes. She did not turn her head, she just gave me a sideways, accusing look. Turnings of head were discouraged, she must lie very still, oh for a long time, for that, it seems, is the way of sceptic poisoning. And Masters had said to me in the passage outside: “If she as much as moves a finger, God help you!”
“You should not be in Paris,” she whispered, not without vehemence. “And why are you laughing, please?”
“Why, at your voice! I do believe, Iris, that it’s stronger than you at last.”
“Yes, but you should not be in Paris, that I’m sure of. You have waited to see me,” she complained bitterly, but I protested that never was such nonsense, for why in the name of common sense would I wait to see her? “But, Iris, the very night I arrived in Paris I had an idea for a tale, and I thought I would stay in Paris to write it.”
“You must tell it to me. Oh, at once. Oh, please. …” And the voice expired. And we waited. “I can’t laugh,” she said bitterly, “because it hurts. Everything hurts. …”
“Iris,” I said, “I am so sorry. …”
“Yes.” She gave me a long sideways look.
“Yes,” she said. “But please to tell me your tale. What is it about? What is it called?”
“No, Iris, I mustn’t tell it to you. It was indiscreet of me to mention it, and you only just returned from the valley of death. It is a terrible story. Everyone dies. It is about a man who would not dance with his wife.”
“Yes, but … Oh, why wouldn’t he dance with his wife? What a silly man! You do get some beastly ideas, I do think. …”
“Please, Iris, be still and good! That man said he would fire me out for two pins.” So grey she looked, frail beyond frailty, in the gay afternoon light. It was the fifteenth afternoon of February, as I remember well.
Never moving her head, only her eyes vivid with restless insurgent life, she whispered defiantly: “As long as I lie quiet like this no one can do anything to me or … fire you out or anything. You just … stay where you are. Be brave, child. …”
Now there were queer, funny things in the great eyes of the still head. They were childish, too, and I laughed at them, but she would not laugh, because it hurt her.
We sat in silence, not to tire her. She lay flat on her back, her head on a pillow which was so low as to be only a pillow by courtesy. Her eyes would be fixed on the ceiling, and then she would look sideways at me, and that was when I seemed to see queer, funny things in her eyes. They were as though glistening with bits of things … fear, pride, a sort of childish glee, a sort of childish naughtiness, a
