the price she paid-第34节

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ing　the　nerves　as　the　lullaby　of　a　nurse　soothes　a　baby；　she　was　able　to　put　everything　unpleasant　out　of　mind。　　She　was　resting　her　voice；　was　building　up　her　health；　therefore　the　career　was　being　steadily　advanced　and　no　time　was　being　wasted。　　She　felt　sorry　for　those　who　had　to　do　unpleasant　or　disagreeable　things　in　making　their　careers。　　She　told　herself　that　she　did　not　deserve　her　good　fortune　in　being　able　to　advance　to　a　brilliant　career　not　through　hardship　but　over　the　most　delightful　road　imaginableamusing　herself；　wearing　charming　and　satisfactory　clothes；　swimming　and　dancing；　motoring　and　feasting。　　Without　realizing　it；　she　was　strongly　under　the　delusion　that　she　was　herself　already　richthe　inevitable　delusion　with　a　woman　when　she　moves　easily　and　freely　and　luxuriously　about；　never　bothered　for　money；　always　in　the　company　of　rich　people。　　The　rich　are　fated　to　demoralize　those　around　them。　　The　stingy　rich　fill　their　satellites　with　envy　and　hatred。　　The　generous　rich　fill　them　with　the　feeling　that　the　light　by　which　they　shine　and　the　heat　with　which　they　are　warm　are　not　reflected　light　and　heat　but　their　own。

Never　had　she　been　so　happy。　　She　even　did　not　especially　mind　Donald　Keith；　a　friend　of　Stanley's　and　of　Mrs。　Brindley's；　who；　much　too　often　to　suit　her；　made　one　of　the　party。　　She　had　tried　in　vain　to　discover　what　there　was　in　Keith　that　inspired　such　intense　liking　in　two　people　so　widely　different　as　expansive　and　emotional　Stanley　Baird　and　reserved　and　distinctly　cold　Cyrilla　Brindley。　　Keith　talked　little；　not　only　seemed　not　to　listen　well；　but　showed　plainly；　even　in　tete…a…tete　conversations；　that　his　thoughts　had　been　elsewhere。　He　made　no　pretense　of　being　other　than　he　wasan　indifferent　man　who　came　because　it　did　not　especially　matter　to　him　where　he　was。　　Sometimes　his　silence　and　his　indifference　annoyed　Mildred；　againthanks　to　her　profound　and　reckless　contentmentshe　was　able　to　forget　that　he　was　along。　　He　seemed　to　be　and　probably　was　about　forty　years　old。　　His　head　was　beautifully　shaped；　the　line　of　its　profilefront；　top；　and　backbeing　perfect　in　intellectuality；　strength　and　symmetry。　　He　was　rather　under　the　medium　height；　about　the　same　height　as　Mildred　herself。　　He　was　extremely　thin　and　loosely　built；　and　his　clothes　seemed　to　hang　awry；　giving　him　an　air　of　slovenliness　which　became　surprising　when　one　noted　how　scrupulously　neat　and　clean　he　was。　　His　brown　hair；　considerably　tinged　with　rusty　gray；　grew　thinly　upon　that　beautiful　head。　　His　skin　was　dry　and　smooth　and　dead　white。　This；　taken　with　the　classic　regularity　of　his　features；　gave　him　an　air　of　lifelessness；　of　one　burnt　out　by　the　fire　of　too　much　living；　but　whether　the　living　had　been　done　by　Keith　himself　or　by　his　immediate　ancestors　appearances　did　not　disclose。　　This　look　of　passionless；　motionless　repose；　like　classic　sculpture；　was　sharply　and　startlingly　belied　by　a　pair　of　really　wonderful　eyes　deeply　and　intensely　blue；　brilliant；　all　seeing；　all　comprehending；　eyes　that　seemed　never　to　sleep；　seemed　the　ceaselessly　industrious　servants　of　a　brain　that　busied　itself　without　pause。　　The　contrast　between　the　dead　white　calm　of　his　face；　the　listlessness　of　his　relaxed　figure；　and　these　vivid　eyes；　so　intensely　alive；　gave　to　Donald　Keith's　personality　an　uncanniness　that　was　most　disagreeable　to　Mildred。

‘‘That's　what　fascinates　me；''　said　Cyrilla；　when　they　were　discussing　him　one　day。

‘‘Fascinates！''　exclaimed　Mildred。　　‘‘He's　tiresome　when　he　isn't　rude。''

‘‘Rude？''

‘‘Not　actively　rude　but；　worse　still；　passively　rude。''

‘‘He　is　the　only　man　I've　ever　seen　with　whom　I　could　imagine　myself　falling　in　love；''　said　Mrs。　Brindley。

Mildred　laughed　in　derision。　　‘‘Why；　he's　a　dead　man！''　cried　she。

‘‘You　don't　understand；''　said　Cyrilla。　　‘‘You've　never　lived　with　a　man。''　　She　forgot　completely；　as　did　Mildred　herself；　so　completely　had　Mrs。　Siddall　returned　to　the　modes　and　thoughts　of　a　girl。　　‘‘At　hometo　live　withyou　want　only　reposeful　things。　　That　is　why　the　Greeks；　whose　instincts　were　unerring；　had　so　much　reposeful　statuary。　　One　grows　weary　of　agitating　objects。　　They　soon　seem　hysterical　and　shallow。　The　same　thing's　true　of　persons。　　For　permanent　love　and　friendship　you　want　reposeful　men　calm；　strong；　silent。　　The　other　kind　either　wear　you　out　or　wear　themselves　out　with　you。''

‘‘You　forget　his　eyes；''　put　in　Stanley。　　‘‘Did　you　ever　see　such　eyes！''

‘‘Yes；　those　eyes　of　his！''　cried　Mildred。　　‘‘You　certainly　can't　call　them　reposeful；　Mrs。　Brindley。''

Mrs。　Brindley　did　not　seize　the　opportunity　to　convict　her　of　inconsistency。　　Said　she：

‘‘I　admit　the　eyes。　　They're　the　eyes　of　the　kind　of　man　a　woman　wants；　or　another　man　wants　in　his　friend。　When　Keith　looks　at　you；　you　feel　that　you　are　seeing　the　rarest　being　in　the　worldan　absolutely　reliable　person。　　When　I　think　of　him　I　think　of　reliable；　just　as　when　you　think　of　the　sun　you　think　of　brightness。''

‘‘I　had　no　idea　it　was　so　serious　as　this；''　teased　Stanley。

‘‘Nor　had　I；''　returned　Cyrilla　easily；　‘‘until　I　began　to　talk　about　him。　　Don't　tell　him；　Mr。　Baird；　or　he　might　take　advantage　of　me。''

The　idea　amused　Stanley。　　‘‘He　doesn't　care　a　rap　about　women；''　said　he。　　‘‘I　hear　he　has　let　a　few　care　about　him　from　time　to　time；　but　he　soon　ceased　to　be　good…natured。　　He　hates　to　be　bored。''

As　he　came　just　then；　they　had　to　find　another　subject。　　Mildred　observed　him　with　more　interest。　　She　had　learned　to　have　respect　for　Mrs。　Brindley's　judgments。　　But　she　soon　gave　over　watching　him。　　That　profound　calm；　those　eyes　concentrating　all　the　life　of　the　man　like　a　burning　glass　　She　had　a　disagreeable　sense　of　being　seen　through；　even　to　her　secretest　thought；　of　being　understood　and　measured　and　weighed　and　found　wanting。　　It　occurred　to　her　for　the　first　time　that　part　of　the　reason　for　her　not　liking　him　was　the　best　of　reasonsthat　he　did　not　like　her。

The　first　time　she　was　left　alone　with　him；　after　this　discovery；　she　happened　to　be　in　an　audacious　and　talkative　mood；　and　his　lack　of　response　finally　goaded　her　into　saying：　　‘‘WHY　don't　you　like　me？''　　She　cared　nothing　about　it；　she　simply　wished　to　hear　what　he　would　sayif　he　could　be　roused　into　saying　anything。　He　was　sitting　on　the　steps　leading　from　the　veranda　to　the　seawas　smoking　a　cigarette　and　gazing　out　over　the　waves　like　a　graven　image；　as　if　he　had　always　been　posed　there　and　always　would　be　there；　the　embodiment　of　repose　gazing　in　ineffable　indifference　upon　the　embodiment　of　its　opposite。　　He　made　no　answer。

‘‘I　asked　you　why　you　do　not　like　me；''　said　she。　‘‘Did　you　hear？''

‘‘Yes；''　replied　he。

She　waited；　nothing　further　from　him。　　Said　she：

‘‘Well；　give　me　one　of　your　cigarettes。''

He　rose；　extended　his　case；　then　a　light。　　He　was　never　remiss　in　those　kinds　of　politeness。　　When　she　was　smoking；　he　seated　himself　again　and　dropped　into　the　former　attitude。　　She　eyed　him；　wondering　how　it　could　be　possible　that　he　had　endured　the　incredible　fatigues　and　hardships　Stanley　Baird　had　related　of　himhunting　and　exploring　expeditions　into　tropics　and　into　frozen　regions；　mountain　climbs；　wild　sea　voyages　in　small　boats；　all　with　no　sign　of　being　able　to　stand　anything；　yet　also　with　no　sign　of　being　any　more　disturbed　than　now　in　this　seaside　laziness。　　Stanley　had　showed　them　a　picture　of　him　taken　twenty　years　and　more　ago　when　he　was　in　college；　he　had　looked　almost　the　same　thenperhaps　a　little　older。

‘‘Well；　I　am　waiting；''　persisted　she。

She　thought　he　was　about　to　look　at　hera　thing　he　had　never　done；　to　her　knowledge；　since　they　had　known　each　other。　　She　nerved　herself　to　receive　the　shock；　with　a　certain　flutter　of　expectancy；　of　excitement　even。　　But　instead　of　looking；　he　settled　himself　in　a　slightly　different　position　and　fixed　his　gaze　upon　another　point　in　the　horizon。　　She　noted　that　he　had　splendid　handsideal　hands　for　a　man；　with　the　same　suggestion　of　intense　vitality　and　aliveness　that　flashed　from　his　eyes。　　She　had　not　noted　this　before。　　Next　she　saw　that　he　had　good　feet；　and　that　his　boots　were　his　only　article　of　apparel　that　fitted　him；　or　rather；　that　looked　as　if　made　for　him。

She　tossed　her　cigarette　over　the　rail　to　the　sand。　He　startled　her　by　speaking；　in　his　unemotional　way。　He　said：

‘‘Now；　I　like　you　better。''

‘‘I　don't　understand；''　said　she。

No　answer　from　him。　　The　cigarette　depending　listlessly　from　his　lips　seemedas　usualuncertain　whether　it　would　stay　or　fall。　　She　watched　this　uncertainty　with　a　curious；　nervous　interest。　　She　was　always　thinking　that　cigarette　would　fall；　but　it　never　did。　Said　she：

‘‘Why　did　you　say　you　liked　me　less？''

‘‘Better；''　corrected　he。

‘‘We　used　to　have　a　pump　in　our　back　yard　at　home；''　laughed　she。　　‘‘One　toiled　away　at　the　handle；　but　nothing　ever　came。　　And　it　was　a　promising…looking　pump；　too。''

He　smileda　slow；　reluctant　smile；　but　undeniably　attractive。　　Said　he：

‘‘Because　you　threw　away　your　cigarette。''

‘‘You　object　to　women　smoking？''

‘‘No；''　said　he。　　His　tone　made　her　feel　how　absurd　it　was　to　suspect　him　of　such　provincialism。

‘‘You　object　to　MY　smoking？''　suggested　she；　laugh