seem to know what they say. That doesn't apply to the master of
the house, who never talked much. He sat there
mostly silent and
looming up three sizes bigger than any of them."
"The ruler of the aviary," I muttered viciously.
"It annoys you that I should talk of that time?" she asked in a
tender voice. "Well, I won't, except for once to say that you must
not make a mistake: in that aviary he was the man. I know because
he used to talk to me afterwards sometimes. Strange! For six
years he seemed to carry all the world and me with it in his hand.
. . . "
"He dominates you yet," I shouted.
She shook her head
innocently as a child would do.
"No, no. You brought him into the conversation yourself. You
think of him much more than I do." Her voice drooped sadly to a
hopeless note. "I hardly ever do. He is not the sort of person to
merely flit through one's mind and so I have no time. Look. I had
eleven letters this morning and there were also five telegrams
before
midday, which have tangled up everything. I am quite
frightened."
And she explained to me that one of them - the long one on the top
of the pile, on the table over there - seemed to
contain ugly
inferences directed at herself in a menacing way. She begged me to
read it and see what I could make of it.
I knew enough of the general situation to see at a glance that she
had misunderstood it
thoroughly and even
amazingly. I proved it to
her very quickly. But her mistake was so
ingenious in its
wrongheadedness and arose so
obviously from the distraction of an
acute mind, that I couldn't help looking at her admiringly.
"Rita," I said, "you are a marvellous idiot."
"Am I? Imbecile," she retorted with an enchanting smile of relief.
"But perhaps it only seems so to you in
contrast with the lady so
perfect in her way. What is her way?"
"Her way, I should say, lies somewhere between her sixtieth and
seventieth year, and I have walked tete-e-tete with her for some
little distance this afternoon."
"Heavens," she whispered,
thunderstruck. "And
meantime I had the
son here. He arrived about five minutes after Rose left with that
note for you," she went on in a tone of awe. "As a matter of fact,
Rose saw him across the street but she thought she had better go on
to you."
"I am
furious with myself for not having guessed that much," I said
bitterly. "I suppose you got him out of the house about five
minutes after you heard I was coming here. Rose ought to have
turned back when she saw him on his way to cheer your solitude.
That girl is
stupid after all, though she has got a certain amount
of low
cunning which no doubt is very useful at times."
"I
forbid you to talk like this about Rose. I won't have it. Rose
is not to be abused before me."
"I only mean to say that she failed in this
instance to read your
mind, that's all."
"This is, without
exception, the most unintelligent thing you have
said ever since I have known you. You may understand a lot about
running contraband and about the minds of a certain class of
people, but as to Rose's mind let me tell you that in comparison
with hers yours is
absolutely infantile, my
adventurous friend. It
would be
contemptible if it weren't so - what shall I call it? -
babyish. You ought to be slapped and put to bed." There was an
extraordinary
earnestness in her tone and when she ceased I
listened yet to the seductive inflexions of her voice, that no
matter in what mood she spoke seemed only fit for
tenderness and
love. And I thought suddenly of Azzolati being ordered to take
himself off from her presence for ever, in that voice the very
anger of which seemed to twine itself
gently round one's heart. No
wonder the poor
wretch could not forget the scene and couldn't
restrain his tears on the plain of Rambouillet. My moods of
resentment against Rita, hot as they were, had no more duration
than a blaze of straw. So I only said:
"Much YOU know about the
management of children." The corners of
her lips stirred quaintly; her
animosity, especially when provoked
by a personal attack upon herself, was always tinged by a sort of
wistful
humour of the most disarming kind.
"Come, amigo George, let us leave poor Rose alone. You had better
tell me what you heard from the lips of the
charming old lady.
Perfection, isn't she? I have never seen her in my life, though
she says she has seen me several times. But she has written to me