Yet, as she spoke, the picture of the child—in spite of her
preoccupation on entering the hotel, her sharp vision had noted the
fairy fragility of the English scrap contrasting with the picturesque
materialism of the fat Chinese nurse—the picture of the child enthroned
on cushions (a feminine setting!) in the studio in Romney Place, flashed
with acute distinctness before her mind, and some foolish thing within
her leapt and stabbed her with a delicious pain.
Quixtus brushed his thinning hair from his forehead.
“I understand,” said he faintly. “I understand that I am a trustee for
Hammersley’s daughter. I wasn’t expecting it. I hope you’ll not think it
discourteous if I leave you? I’m not quite myself to-day. I’ll go and
rest.”
He entered the lift which had been standing open for some time. There is
not a feverish hurry in Marseilles hotels between steamers in June.
Clementina with a gesture checked the lift-boy. The man must be looked
after at once. She turned to Poynter.
“Like a dear good soul,” she said, in her frank way, “go down and
prepare the child for such a rough-and-tumble stepmother as me. I’ll be
with you in a few minutes. What’s your number, Ephraim?” He showed her
the ticket. “Two hundred and seventy?”
“_Au troisième, Madame._”
The lift gate clicked. They mounted a couple of floors. The chambermaid
of the _étage_ showed them into number two hundred and seventy. Then
Clementina took command. In less than two minutes windows were opened
and shutters adjusted, the waiter was despatched for coffee, the valet
was unpacking and arranging Quixtus’s personal belongings, and the
chambermaid spreading the bed invitingly open. When Clementina was a
lady, she behaved in the most self-effacing and early Victorian ladylike
way in the world. But when she was Clementina and wanted to do things,
she would have ordered the devil about like a common lackey, and boxed
the ears of any archangel who ventured to interfere with her.
Quixtus, unprepared for this whirlwind ministration on the part of
Clementina, whom he had hitherto regarded rather as an antagonistic
principle than as a sympathetic woman, sat bolt upright on the edge of
the sofa and looked on with an air of mystification. Yet, feeling weak
and broken, he was content to let her tend him.
“Take off your clothes and go to bed,” said Clementina, standing, hands
on hips, in front of him. “For two pins I’d undress you myself and put
you to sleep like a baby.”
A wan smile flickered over his features.
“I’m very grateful to you for your kindness. Perhaps a little rest will
bring mental adjustment. That’s what I think I need—mental adjustment.”
He repeated the words several times, and sat staring in front of him.
On the threshold Clementina turned and crossed the room again.