Hadn't he noticed, she asked, that cooking always expressed the national character, and that French food was clever and amusing just because the people were? And in private houses, everywhere, how the dishes always resembled the talk--how the very same platitudes seemed to go into people's mouths and come out of them? Couldn't he see just what kind of menu it would make, if a fairy waved a wand and suddenly turned the conversation at a London dinner into joints and puddings? She always thought it a good sign when people liked Irish stew; it meant that they enjoyed changes and surprises, and taking life as it came; and such a beautiful Parisian version of the dish as the navarin that was just being set before them was like the very best kind of talk--the kind when one could never tell before-hand just what was going to be said!
Darrow, as he watched her enjoyment of their innocent feast, wondered if her vividness and vivacity were signs of her calling.She was the kind of girl in whom certain people would instantly have recognized the histrionic gift.But experience had led him to think that, except at the creative moment, the divine flame burns low in its possessors.The one or two really intelligent actresses he had known had struck him, in conversation, as either bovine or primitively "jolly".He had a notion that, save in the mind of genius, the creative process absorbs too much of the whole stuff of being to leave much surplus for personal expression; and the girl before him, with her changing face and flexible fancies, seemed destined to work in life itself rather than in any of its counterfeits.
The coffee and liqueurs were already on the table when her mind suddenly sprang back to the Farlows.She jumped up with one of her subversive movements and declared that she must telegraph at once.Darrow called for writing materials and room was made at her elbow for the parched ink-bottle and saturated blotter of the Parisian restaurant; but the mere sight of these jaded implements seemed to paralyze Miss Viner's faculties.She hung over the telegraph-form with anxiously-drawn brow, the tip of the pen-handle pressed against her lip; and at length she raised her troubled eyes to Darrow's.
"I simply can't think how to say it."
"What--that you're staying over to see Cerdine?""But AM I--am I, really?" The joy of it flamed over her face.
Darrow looked at his watch."You could hardly get an answer to your telegram in time to take a train to Joigny this afternoon, even if you found your friends could have you."She mused for a moment, tapping her lip with the pen."But Imust let them know I'm here.I must find out as soon as possible if they CAN, have me." She laid the pen down despairingly."I never COULD write a telegram!" she sighed.
"Try a letter, then and tell them you'll arrive tomorrow."This suggestion produced immediate relief, and she gave an energetic dab at the ink-bottle; but after another interval of uncertain scratching she paused again."Oh, it's fearful!
I don't know what on earth to say.I wouldn't for the world have them know how beastly Mrs.Murrett's been."Darrow did not think it necessary to answer.It was no business of his, after all.He lit a cigar and leaned back in his seat, letting his eyes take their fill of indolent pleasure.In the throes of invention she had pushed back her hat, loosening the stray lock which had invited his touch the night before.After looking at it for a while he stood up and wandered to the window.
Behind him he heard her pen scrape on.
"I don't want to worry them--I'm so certain they've got bothers of their own." The faltering scratches ceased again.
"I wish I weren't such an idiot about writing: all the words get frightened and scurry away when I try to catch them."He glanced back at her with a smile as she bent above her task like a school-girl struggling with a "composition." Her flushed cheek and frowning brow showed that her difficulty was genuine and not an artless device to draw him to her side.She was really powerless to put her thoughts in writing, and the inability seemed characteristic of her quick impressionable mind, and of the incessant come-and-go of her sensations.He thought of Anna Leath's letters, or rather of the few he had received, years ago, from the girl who had been Anna Summers.He saw the slender firm strokes of the pen, recalled the clear structure of the phrases, and, by an abrupt association of ideas, remembered that, at that very hour, just such a document might be awaiting him at the hotel.
What if it were there, indeed, and had brought him a complete explanation of her telegram? The revulsion of feeling produced by this thought made him look at the girl with sudden impatience.She struck him as positively stupid, and he wondered how he could have wasted half his day with her, when all the while Mrs.Leath's letter might be lying on his table.At that moment, if he could have chosen, he would have left his companion on the spot; but he had her on his hands, and must accept the consequences.
Some odd intuition seemed to make her conscious of his change of mood, for she sprang from her seat, crumpling the letter in her hand.
"I'm too stupid; but I won't keep you any longer.I'll go back to the hotel and write there."Her colour deepened, and for the first time, as their eyes met, he noticed a faint embarrassment in hers.Could it be that his nearness was, after all, the cause of her confusion? The thought turned his vague impatience with her into a definite resentment toward himself.There was really no excuse for his having blundered into such an adventure.
Why had he not shipped the girl off to Joigny by the evening train, instead of urging her to delay, and using Cerdine as a pretext? Paris was full of people he knew, and his annoyance was increased by the thought that some friend of Mrs.Leath's might see him at the play, and report his presence there with a suspiciously good-looking companion.
