A whole day passed in which, to my
certain knowledge, he was not alone a moment with Miss Liston,
and did not, save at the family meals, exchange a word with her.
As he walked off with Pamela, Miss Liston's eyes followed him in
wistful longing; she stole away upstairs and did not come down
till five o'clock. Then, finding me strolling about with a
cigarette, she joined me.
"Well, how goes the book?" I asked.
"I haven't done much to it just lately," she answered, in a low
voice. "I--it's--I don't quite know what to do with it."
"I thought you'd settled?"
"So I had, but--oh, don't let's talk about it, Mr. Wynne!"
But a moment later she went on talking about it.
"I don't know why I should make it end happily," she said. "I'm
sure life isn't always happy, is it?"
"Certainly not," I answered. "You mean your man might stick to
the shallow girl after all?"
"Yes," I just heard her whisper.
"And be miserable afterward?" I pursued.
"I don't know," said Miss Liston. "Perhaps he wouldn't."
"Then you must make him shallow himself."
"I can't do that," she said quickly. "Oh, how difficult it is!"
She may have meant merely the art of writing--when I cordially
agree with--but I think she meant also the way of the world--
which does not make me withdraw my assent. I left her walking up
and down in front of the drawing-room windows, a rather
forlorn little figure, thrown into distinctness by the cold
rays of the setting sun.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70