Mrs.Westall laughed."Not always--or altogether! But I should like some tea, please."Una led her to the corner where innocent beverages were dispensed.As Julia received her cup she scrutinized the girl more carefully.It was not such a girlish face, after all-- definite lines were forming under the rosy haze of youth.She reflected that Una must be six-and-twenty, and wondered why she had not married.A nice stock of ideas she would have as her dower! If THEY were to be a part of the modern girl's trousseau--Mrs.Westall caught herself up with a start.It was as though some one else had been speaking--a stranger who had borrowed her own voice: she felt herself the dupe of some fantastic mental ventriloqui**.Concluding suddenly that the room was stifling and Una's tea too sweet, she set down her cup, and looked about for Westall: to meet his eyes had long been her refuge from every uncertainty.She met them now, but only, as she felt, in transit; they included her parenthetically in a larger flight.She followed the flight, and it carried her to a corner to which Una had withdrawn--one of the palmy nooks to which Mrs.Van Sideren attributed the success of her Saturdays.Westall, a moment later, had overtaken his look, and found a place at the girl's side.She bent forward, speaking eagerly; he leaned back, listening, with the depreciatory smile which acted as a filter to flattery, enabling him to swallow the strongest doses without apparent grossness of appetite.Julia winced at her own definition of the smile.
On the way home, in the deserted winter dusk, Westall surprised his wife by a sudden boyish pressure of her arm."Did I open their eyes a bit? Did I tell them what you wanted me to?" he asked gaily.
-?"
Almost unconsciously, she let her arm slip from his."What I wanted-"Why, haven't you--all this time?" She caught the honest wonder of histone."I somehow fancied you'd rather blamed me for not talking more openly--before-- You've made me feel, at times, that I was sacrificing principles to expediency."She paused a moment over her reply; then she asked quietly: "What made you decide not to--any longer?"She felt again the vibration of a faint surprise."Why--the wish to please you!" he answered, almost too simply.
"I wish you would not go on, then," she said abruptly.
He stopped in his quick walk, and she felt his stare through the darkness.
"Not go on--?"
"Call a hansom, please.I'm tired," broke from her with a sudden rush of physical weariness.
Instantly his solicitude enveloped her.The room had been infernally hot--and then that confounded cigarette smoke--he had noticed once or twice that she looked pale--she mustn't come to another Saturday.She felt herself yielding, as she always did, to the warm influence of his concern for her, the feminine in her leaning on the man in him with a conscious intensity of abandonment.He put her in the hansom, and her hand stole into his in the darkness.A tear or two rose, and she let them fall.It was so delicious to cry over imaginary troubles!
That evening, after dinner, he surprised her by reverting to the subject of his talk.He combined a man's dislike of uncomfortable questions with an almost feminine skill in eluding them; and she knew that if he returned to the subject he must have some special reason for doing so.
"You seem not to have cared for what I said this afternoon.Did I put the case badly?""No--you put it very well."
"Then what did you mean by saying that you would rather not have me go on with it?"She glanced at him nervously, her ignorance of his intention deepeningher sense of helplessness.
"I don't think I care to hear such things discussed in public.""I don't understand you," he exclaimed.Again the feeling that his surprise was genuine gave an air of obliquity to her own attitude.She was not sure that she understood herself.
"Won't you explain?" he said with a tinge of impatience.Her eyes wandered about the familiar drawing-room which had been the scene of so many of their evening confidences.The shaded lamps, the quiet-colored walls hung with mezzotints, the pale spring flowers scattered here and there in Venice glasses and bowls of old Sevres, recalled, she hardly knew why, the apartment in which the evenings of her first marriage had been passed--a wilderness of rosewood and upholstery, with a picture of a Roman peasant above the mantel-piece, and a Greek slave in "statuary marble" between the folding-doors of the back drawing-room.It was a room with which she had never been able to establish any closer relation than that between a traveller and a railway station; and now, as she looked about at the surroundings which stood for her deepest affinities--the room for which she had left that other room--she was startled by the same sense of strangeness and unfamiliarity.The prints, the flowers, the subdued tones of the old porcelains, seemed to typify a superficial refinement that had no relation to the deeper significances of life.
Suddenly she heard her husband repeating his question."I don't know that I can explain," she faltered.
He drew his arm-chair forward so that he faced her across the hearth.The light of a reading-lamp fell on his finely drawn face, which had a kind of surface-sensitiveness akin to the surface-refinement of its setting."Is it that you no longer believe in our ideas?" he asked.
"In our ideas--?"
"The ideas I am trying to teach.The ideas you and I are supposed to stand for." He paused a moment."The ideas on which our marriage was founded."The blood rushed to her face.He had his reasons, then--she was sure now that he had his reasons! In the ten years of their marriage, how often had either of them stopped to consider the ideas on which it was founded?
