The Pool in the Desert [57]
as she thought 'He is admirable--and it is all there.'
When they got to the level Mall he kept his hold, which was a perfectly natural and proper thing for him to do, walking alongside; but she still looked at it.
'I have heard your good news,' she said, smiling congratulation at him.
'My good news? Oh, about my wife, of course. Yes, she ought to be here by the end of the month. I thought of writing to tell you when the telegram came, and then I--didn't. The files drove it out of my head, I fancy.'
'Heavy day?'
'Yes,' he said, absently. They went along together in an intimacy of silence, and Madeline was quite aware of the effort with which she said:
'I shall look forward to meeting Mrs. Innes.'
It was plain that his smile was perfunctory, but he put it on with creditable alacrity.
'She will be delighted. My wife is a clever woman,' he went on, 'very bright and attractive. She keeps people well amused.'
'She must be a great success in India, then.'
'I think she is liked. She has a tremendous fund of humour and spirits. A fellow feels terribly dull beside her sometimes.'
Madeline cast a quick glance at him, but he was only occupied to find other matters with which he might commend his wife.
'She is very fond of animals,' he said, 'and she sings and plays well--really extremely well.'
'That must be charming,' murmured Madeline, privately iterating, 'He doesn't mean to damn her--he doesn't mean to damn her.' 'Have you a photograph of her?'
'Quantities of them,' he said, with simplicity.
'You have never shown me one. But how could you?' she added in haste; 'a photograph is always about the size of a door nowadays. It is simply impossible to keep one's friends and relations in a pocketbook as one used to do.'
They might have stopped there, but some demon of persistence drove Madeline on. She besought help from her imagination; she was not for the moment honest. It was an impulse--an equivocal impulse-- born doubtless of the equivocal situation, and it ended badly.
'She will bring something of the spring out to you,' said Madeline-- 'the spring in England. How many years is it since you have seen it? There will be a breath of the cowslips about her, and in her eyes the soft wet of the English sky. Oh, you will be very glad to see her.' The girl was well aware of her insincerity, but only dimly of her cruelty. She was drawn on by something stronger than her sense of honesty and humanity, a determination to see, to know, that swept these things away.
Innes's hand tightened on the rickshaw, and he made at first no answer. Then he said:
'She has been staying in town, you know.'
There was just a quiver of Madeline's eyelid; it said nothing of the natural rapacity behind. This man's testimony was coming out in throes, and yet--it must be said--again she probed.
'Then she will put you in touch again,' she cried; 'you will remember when you see her all the vigour of great issues and the fascination of great personalities. For a little while, anyway, after she comes, you will be in a world--far away from here--where people talk and think and live.'
He looked at her in wonder, not understanding, as indeed how could he?
'Why,' he said, 'you speak of what YOU have done'; and before the truth of this she cast down her eyes and turned a hot, deep red, and had nothing to say.
'No,' he said, 'my wife is not like that.'
He walked along in absorption, from which he roused himself with resentment in his voice.
'I can not leave such a fabric of illusion in your mind. It irritates me that it should be there--about anybody belonging to me. My wife is not in the least what you imagine her. She has her virtues, but she is--like the rest. I can not hope that you will take to her, and she won't like you either--we never care about the same people. And we shall see nothing of you--nothing. I can hardly believe that I am saying this of my own wife, but--I wish that she had stayed in England.'
'Mrs. Mickie!' cried Madeline to a passing rickshaw, 'what
When they got to the level Mall he kept his hold, which was a perfectly natural and proper thing for him to do, walking alongside; but she still looked at it.
'I have heard your good news,' she said, smiling congratulation at him.
'My good news? Oh, about my wife, of course. Yes, she ought to be here by the end of the month. I thought of writing to tell you when the telegram came, and then I--didn't. The files drove it out of my head, I fancy.'
'Heavy day?'
'Yes,' he said, absently. They went along together in an intimacy of silence, and Madeline was quite aware of the effort with which she said:
'I shall look forward to meeting Mrs. Innes.'
It was plain that his smile was perfunctory, but he put it on with creditable alacrity.
'She will be delighted. My wife is a clever woman,' he went on, 'very bright and attractive. She keeps people well amused.'
'She must be a great success in India, then.'
'I think she is liked. She has a tremendous fund of humour and spirits. A fellow feels terribly dull beside her sometimes.'
Madeline cast a quick glance at him, but he was only occupied to find other matters with which he might commend his wife.
'She is very fond of animals,' he said, 'and she sings and plays well--really extremely well.'
'That must be charming,' murmured Madeline, privately iterating, 'He doesn't mean to damn her--he doesn't mean to damn her.' 'Have you a photograph of her?'
'Quantities of them,' he said, with simplicity.
'You have never shown me one. But how could you?' she added in haste; 'a photograph is always about the size of a door nowadays. It is simply impossible to keep one's friends and relations in a pocketbook as one used to do.'
They might have stopped there, but some demon of persistence drove Madeline on. She besought help from her imagination; she was not for the moment honest. It was an impulse--an equivocal impulse-- born doubtless of the equivocal situation, and it ended badly.
'She will bring something of the spring out to you,' said Madeline-- 'the spring in England. How many years is it since you have seen it? There will be a breath of the cowslips about her, and in her eyes the soft wet of the English sky. Oh, you will be very glad to see her.' The girl was well aware of her insincerity, but only dimly of her cruelty. She was drawn on by something stronger than her sense of honesty and humanity, a determination to see, to know, that swept these things away.
Innes's hand tightened on the rickshaw, and he made at first no answer. Then he said:
'She has been staying in town, you know.'
There was just a quiver of Madeline's eyelid; it said nothing of the natural rapacity behind. This man's testimony was coming out in throes, and yet--it must be said--again she probed.
'Then she will put you in touch again,' she cried; 'you will remember when you see her all the vigour of great issues and the fascination of great personalities. For a little while, anyway, after she comes, you will be in a world--far away from here--where people talk and think and live.'
He looked at her in wonder, not understanding, as indeed how could he?
'Why,' he said, 'you speak of what YOU have done'; and before the truth of this she cast down her eyes and turned a hot, deep red, and had nothing to say.
'No,' he said, 'my wife is not like that.'
He walked along in absorption, from which he roused himself with resentment in his voice.
'I can not leave such a fabric of illusion in your mind. It irritates me that it should be there--about anybody belonging to me. My wife is not in the least what you imagine her. She has her virtues, but she is--like the rest. I can not hope that you will take to her, and she won't like you either--we never care about the same people. And we shall see nothing of you--nothing. I can hardly believe that I am saying this of my own wife, but--I wish that she had stayed in England.'
'Mrs. Mickie!' cried Madeline to a passing rickshaw, 'what