New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Psychological fiction; Single women -- Fiction; Social classes -- Fiction
It was the unconscious prolongation of this thought which led her
to say presently, with a laugh: “I have broken two engagements for
you today. How many have you broken for me?”
“None,” said Selden calmly. “My only engagement at Bellomont was
with you.”
She glanced down at him, faintly smiling.
“Did you really come to Bellomont to see me?”
“Of course I did.”
Her look deepened meditatively. “Why?” she murmured, with an accent
which took all tinge of coquetry from the question.
“Because you’re such a wonderful spectacle: I always like to see
what you are doing.”
“How do you know what I should be doing if you were not here?”
Selden smiled. “I don’t flatter myself that my coming has deflected
your course of action by a hair’s breadth.”
“That’s absurd—since, if you were not here, I could obviously not
be taking a walk with you.”
“No; but your taking a walk with me is only another way of making
use of your material. You are an artist and I happen to be the bit
of colour you are using today. It’s a part of your cleverness to be
able to produce premeditated effects extemporaneously.”
Lily smiled also: his words were too acute not to strike her sense
of humour. It was true that she meant to use the accident of his
presence as part of a very definite effect; or that, at least,
was the secret pretext she had found for breaking her promise to
walk with Mr. Gryce. She had sometimes been accused of being too
eager—even Judy Trenor had warned her to go slowly. Well, she would
not be too eager in this case; she would give her suitor a longer
taste of suspense. Where duty and inclination jumped together, it
was not in Lily’s nature to hold them asunder. She had excused
herself from the walk on the plea of a headache: the horrid
headache which, in the morning, had prevented her venturing to
church. Her appearance at luncheon justified the excuse. She looked
languid, full of a suffering sweetness; she carried a scent-bottle
in her hand. Mr. Gryce was new to such manifestations; he wondered
rather nervously if she were delicate, having far-reaching fears
about the future of his progeny. But sympathy won the day, and he
besought her not to expose herself: he always connected the outer
air with ideas of exposure.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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