Oxford, Gordy's clubs--dear old Gordy, gone now!--things long passed by; they seemed all round him once again.And yet, always that vague sense, threading this resurrection, threading the smoke of their cigars, and Johnny Dromore's clipped talk--of something that did not quite belong.Might it be, perhaps, that sepia drawing--above the 'Tantalus' on the oak sideboard at the far end--of a woman's face gazing out into the room? Mysteriously unlike everything else, except the flowers, and this kitten that was pushing its furry little head against his hand.Odd how a single thing sometimes took possession of a room, however remote in spirit! It seemed to reach like a shadow over Dromore's outstretched limbs, and weathered, long-nosed face, behind his huge cigar; over the queer, solemn, chaffing eyes, with something brooding in the depths of them.
"Ever get the hump? Bally awful, isn't it? It's getting old.
We're bally old, you know, Lenny!" Ah! No one had called him 'Lenny' for twenty years.And it was true; they were unmentionably old.
"When a fellow begins to feel old, you know, it's time he went broke--or something; doesn't bear sittin' down and lookin' at.
Come out to 'Monte' with me!"
'Monte!' That old wound, never quite healed, started throbbing at the word, so that he could hardly speak his: "No, I don't care for 'Monte.'"And, at once, he saw Dromore's eyes probing, questioning:
"You married?"
"Yes."
"Never thought of you as married!"
So Dromore did think of him.Queer! He never thought of Johnny Dromore.
"Winter's bally awful, when you're not huntin'.You've changed a lot; should hardly have known you.Last time I saw you, you'd just come back from Rome or somewhere.What's it like bein' a--a sculptor? Saw something of yours once.Ever do things of horses?"Yes; he had done a 'relief' of ponies only last year.
"You do women, too, I s'pose?"
"Not often."
The eyes goggled slightly.Quaint, that unholy interest! Just like boys, the Johnny Dromores--would never grow up, no matter how life treated them.If Dromore spoke out his soul, as he used to speak it out at 'Bambury's,' he would say: 'You get a pull there;you have a bally good time, I expect.' That was the way it took them; just a converse manifestation of the very same feeling towards Art that the pious Philistines had, with their deploring eyebrows and their 'peril to the soul.' Babes all! Not a glimmering of what Art meant--of its effort, and its yearnings!
"You make money at it?"
"Oh, yes."
Again that appreciative goggle, as who should say: 'Ho! there's more in this than I thought!'
A long silence, then, in the dusk with the violet glimmer from outside the windows, the fire flickering in front of them, the grey kitten purring against his neck, the smoke of their cigars going up, and such a strange, dozing sense of rest, as he had not known for many days.And then--something, someone at the door, over by the sideboard! And Dromore speaking in a queer voice:
"Come in, Nell! D'you know my daughter?"A hand took Lennan's, a hand that seemed to waver between the aplomb of a woman of the world, and a child's impulsive warmth.
And a voice, young, clipped, clear, said:
"How d'you do? She's rather sweet, isn't she--my kitten?"Then Dromore turned the light up.A figure fairly tall, in a grey riding-habit, stupendously well cut; a face not quite so round as a child's nor so shaped as a woman's, blushing slightly, very calm;crinkly light-brown hair tied back with a black ribbon under a neat hat; and eyes like those eyes of Gainsborough's 'Perdita'--slow, grey, mesmeric, with long lashes curling up, eyes that draw things to them, still innocent.
And just on the point of saying: "I thought you'd stepped out of that picture"--he saw Dromore's face, and mumbled instead:
"So it's YOUR kitten?"
"Yes; she goes to everybody.Do you like Persians? She's all fur really.Feel!"Entering with his fingers the recesses of the kitten, he said:
"Cats without fur are queer."
"Have you seen one without fur?"
"Oh, yes! In my profession we have to go below fur--I'm a sculptor.""That must be awfully interesting."
What a woman of the world! But what a child, too! And now he could see that the face in the sepia drawing was older altogether--lips not so full, look not so innocent, cheeks not so round, and something sad and desperate about it--a face that life had rudely touched.But the same eyes it had--and what charm, for all its disillusionment, its air of a history! Then he noticed, fastened to the frame, on a thin rod, a dust-coloured curtain, drawn to one side.The self-possessed young voice was saying:
"Would you mind if I showed you my drawings? It would be awfully good of you.You could tell me about them." And with dismay he saw her open a portfolio.While he scrutinized those schoolgirl drawings, he could feel her looking at him, as animals do when they are making up their minds whether or no to like you; then she came and stood so close that her arm pressed his.He redoubled his efforts to find something good about the drawings.But in truth there was nothing good.And if, in other matters, he could lie well enough to save people's feelings, where Art was concerned he never could; so he merely said:
"You haven't been taught, you see."
"Will you teach me?"
But before he could answer, she was already effacing that naive question in her most grown-up manner.
"Of course I oughtn't to ask.It would bore you awfully."After that he vaguely remembered Dromore's asking if he ever rode in the Row; and those eyes of hers following him about; and her hand giving his another childish squeeze.Then he was on his way again down the dimly-lighted stairs, past an interminable array of Vanity Fair cartoons, out into the east wind.
