Overt walked with her into the gallery, and they strolled to the end of it, looking at the pictures, the cabinets, the charming vista, which harmonised with the prospect of the summer afternoon, resembling it by a long brightness, with great divans and old chairs that figured hours of rest. Such a place as that had the added merit of giving those who came into it plenty to talk about. Miss Fancourt sat down with her new acquaintance on a flowered sofa, the cushions of which, very numerous, were tight ancient cubes of many sizes, and presently said: Im so glad to have a chance to thank you.
To thank me? He had to wonder.
I liked your book so much. I think it splendid.
She sat there smiling at him, and he never asked himself which book she meant; for after all he had written three or four. That seemed a vulgar detail, and he wasnt even gratified by the idea of the pleasure she told himher handsome bright face told himhe had given her. The feeling she appealed to, or at any rate the feeling she excited, was something larger, something that had little to do with any quickened pulsation of his own vanity. It was responsive admiration of the life she embodied, the young purity and richness of which appeared to imply that real success was to resemble that, to live, to bloom, to present the perfection of a fine type, not to have hammered out headachy fancies with a bent back at an ink-stained table. While her grey eyes rested on himthere was a wideish space between these, and the division of her rich-coloured hair, so thick that it ventured to be smooth, made a free arch above themhe was almost ashamed of that exercise of the pen which it was her present inclination to commend. He was conscious he should have liked better to please her in some other way. The lines of her face were those of a woman grown, but the child lingered on in her complexion and in the sweetness of her mouth. Above all she was naturalthat was indubitable now; more natural than he had supposed at first, perhaps on account of her æsthetic toggery, which was conventionally unconventional, suggesting what he might have called a tortuous spontaneity. He had feared that sort of thing in other cases, and his fears had been justified; for, though he was an artist to the essence, the modern reactionary nymph, with the brambles of the woodland caught in her folds and a look as if the satyrs had toyed with her hair, made him shrink not as a man of starch and patent leather, but as a man potentially himself a poet or even a faun. The girl was really more candid than her costume, and the best proof of it was her supposing her liberal character suited by any uniform. This was a fallacy, since if she was draped as a pessimist he was sure she liked the taste of life. He thanked her for her appreciationaware at the same time that he didnt appear to thank her enough and that she might think him ungracious. He was afraid she would ask him to explain something he had written, and he always winced at thatperhaps too timidlyfor to his own ear the explanation of a work of art sounded fatuous. But he liked her so much as to feel a confidence that in the long run he should be able to show her he wasnt rudely evasive. Moreover she surely wasnt quick to take offence, wasnt irritable; she could be trusted to wait. So when he said to her, Ah dont talk of anything Ive done, dont talk of it here; theres another man in the house whos the actuality!when he uttered this short sincere protest it was with the sense that she would see in the words neither mock humility nor the impatience of a successful man bored with praise.
You mean Mr. St. Georgeisnt he delightful?
Paul Overt met her eyes, which had a cool morning-light that would have half-broken his heart if he hadnt been so young. Alas I dont know him. I only admire him at a distance.
Oh you must know himhe wants so to talk to you, returned Miss Fancourt, who evidently had the habit of saying the things that, by her quick calculation, would give people pleasure. Paul saw how she would always calculate on everythings being simple between others.
I shouldnt have supposed he knew anything about me, he professed.
He does theneverything. And if he didnt I should be able to tell him.
To tell him everything? our friend smiled.
You talk just like the people in your book! she answered.
Then they must all talk alike.
She thought a moment, not a bit disconcerted. Well, it must be so difficult. Mr. St. George tells me it isterribly. Ive tried tooand I find it so. Ive tried to write a novel.
Mr. St. George oughtnt to discourage you, Paul went so far as to say.
You do much morewhen you wear that expression.
Well, after all, why try to be an artist? the young man pursued. Its so poorso poor!
I dont know what you mean, said Miss Fancourt, who looked grave.
I mean as compared with being a person of actionas living your works.
But whats art but an intense lifeif it be real? she asked. I think its the only oneeverything else is so clumsy! Her companion laughed, and she brought out with her charming serenity what next struck her. Its so interesting to meet so many celebrated people.
So I should thinkbut surely it isnt new to you.
Why Ive never seen any oneany one: living always in Asia.
The way she talked of Asia somehow enchanted him. But doesnt that continent swarm with great figures? Havent you administered provinces in India and had captive rajahs and tributary princes chained to your car?
It was as if she didnt care even should he amuse himself at her cost. I was with my father, after I left school to go out there. It was delightful being with himwere alone together in the world, he and Ibut there was none of the society I like best. One never heard of a picturenever of a book, except bad ones.
Never of a picture? Why, wasnt all life a picture?
She looked over the delightful place where they sat. Nothing to compare to this. I adore England! she cried.
It fairly stirred in him the sacred chord. Ah of course I dont deny that we must do something with her, poor old dear, yet.
She hasnt been touched, really, said the girl.
Did Mr. St. George say that?
There was a small and, as he felt, harmless spark of irony in his question; which, however, she answered very simply, not noticing the insinuation. Yes, he says England hasnt been touchednot considering all there is, she went on eagerly. Hes so interesting about our country. To listen to him makes one want so to do something.
It would make me want to, said Paul Overt, feeling strongly, on the instant, the suggestion of what she said and that of the emotion with which she said it, and well aware of what an incentive, on St. Georges lips, such a speech might be.
Oh youas if you hadnt! I should like so to hear you talk together, she added ardently.
Thats very genial of you; but hed have it all his own way. Im prostrate before him.
She had an air of earnestness. Do you think then hes so perfect?
Far from it. Some of his later books seem to me of a queerness!
Yes, yeshe knows that.
Paul Overt stared. That they seem to me of a queerness!
Well yes, or at any rate that theyre not what they should be. He told me he didnt esteem them. He has told me such wonderful thingshes so interesting.