"They've
abandoned the idea…"
"Oh, Dexter—" She started to her feet, her eyes brimming. He had
actually thought over what she had said to him—when, at the time,
he had seemed so obdurate and sneering! Her heart trembled with a
happy wonder in which love and satisfied vanity were subtly
mingled. Perhaps, after all, what her life had really needed was
something much simpler than all the complicated things she had put
into it.
"I'm so glad," she murmured, not knowing what else to say. She
wanted to hold out her arms, to win from him some answering
gesture. But he was already glancing at his watch. "That's all
right. Jove, though—we'll be late for dinner… Opera
afterward, isn't there?"
The door closed on him. For a moment or two she stood still, awed
by the sense of some strange presence in the room, something as
fresh and strong as a spring gale. It must be happiness, she
thought.
XII
"Yes; this morning I think you CAN see her. She seems ever so much
better; not in such a fearful hurry, I mean."
Pauline, from her dressing–room, overheard Maisie Bruss. She
smiled at the description of herself, sent a thought of gratitude
to Alvah Loft, and called out: "Is that Nona? I'll be there in a
minute. Just finishing my exercises…"
She appeared, fresh and tingling, draped in a restful dove–coloured
wrapper, and offered Nona a smooth cheek. Miss Bruss had vanished,
and mother and daughter had to themselves the sunny room, full of
flowers and the scent of a wood–fire.
"How wonderful you look, mother! All made over. Have you been
trying some new exercises?"
Pauline smiled and pulled up the soft eiderdown coverlet at the
foot of her lounge. She sank comfortably back among her cushions.
"No, dear: it's just—understanding a little better, I think."
"Understanding?"
"Yes; that things ALWAYS come out right if one just keeps on being
brave and trustful."
"Oh—." She fancied she caught a note of disappointment in Nona's
voice. Poor Nona—her mother had long been aware that she had no
enthusiasm, no transports of faith. She took after her father.
How tired and sallow she looked in the morning light, perched on
the arm of a chair, her long legs dangling!
"You really ought to try to believe that yourself, darling," said
Pauline brightly.
Nona gave one of her father's shrugs. "Perhaps I will when I have
more time."
"But one can always MAKE time, dear." ("Just as I do," the smile
suggested.) "You look thoroughly fagged out, Nona. I do wish
you'd go to the wonderful new man I've just—"
"All right, mother. Only, this morning I haven't come to talk
about myself. It's Lita."
"Lita?"
"I've been wanting to speak to you about her for a long time.
Haven't you noticed anything?"
Pauline still wore her alert and sympathizing smile. "Tell me
what, dear—let's talk it all over."
Nona's brows were drawn in a troubled frown.
"I'm afraid Jim's not happy," she said.
"Jim? But, darling, he's been so dreadfully over–worked—that's
the trouble. Your father spoke to me about it the other day. He's
sending Jim and Arthur down to the island next month for a good
long rest."
"Yes; it's awfully nice of father. But it's not that—it's Lita,"
Nona doggedly repeated.
A faint shadow brushed Pauline's cloudless horizon; but she
resolutely turned her eyes from it. "Tell me what you think is
wrong."
"Why, that she's bored stiff—says she's going to chuck the whole
thing. She says the life she's leading prevents her expressing her
personality."
"Good gracious—she dares?" Pauline sat bolt upright, the torn
garment of her serenity fluttering away like a wisp of vapour. Was
there never to be any peace for her, she wondered? She had a
movement of passionate rebellion—then a terror lest it should
imperil Alvah Loft's mental surgery. After a physical operation
the patient's repose was always carefully guarded—but no one
thought of sparing HER, though she had just been subjected to so
radical an extirpation. She looked almost irritably at Nona.
"Don't you think you sometimes imagine things, my pet? Of course,
the more we yield to suggestions of pain and distress the more—"
"Yes; I know.
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