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Page 57
Miss Abbott did not sit down, partly because the
antimacassars might harbour fleas, partly because she had
suddenly felt faint, and was glad to cling on to the funnel
of the stove. She struggled with herself, for she had need
to be very calm; only if she was very calm might her
behaviour be justified. She had broken faith with Philip
and Harriet: she was going to try for the baby before they
did. If she failed she could scarcely look them in the face
again.
"Harriet and her brother," she reasoned, "don't realize
what is before them. She would bluster and be rude; he
would be pleasant and take it as a joke. Both of them--even
if they offered money--would fail. But I begin to understand
the man's nature; he does not love the child, but he will be
touchy about it--and that is quite as bad for us. He's
charming, but he's no fool; he conquered me last year; he
conquered Mr. Herriton yesterday, and if I am not careful he
will conquer us all today, and the baby will grow up in
Monteriano. He is terribly strong; Lilia found that out,
but only I remember it now."
This attempt, and this justification of it, were the
results of the long and restless night. Miss Abbott had
come to believe that she alone could do battle with Gino,
because she alone understood him; and she had put this, as
nicely as she could, in a note which she had left for
Philip. It distressed her to write such a note, partly
because her education inclined her to reverence the male,
partly because she had got to like Philip a good deal after
their last strange interview. His pettiness would be
dispersed, and as for his "unconventionality," which was so
much gossiped about at Sawston, she began to see that it did
not differ greatly from certain familiar notions of her
own. If only he would forgive her for what she was doing
now, there might perhaps be before them a long and
profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would
forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do
battle with the powers of evil.
The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing
fearlessly from his expanded lungs, like a professional.
Herein he differed from Englishmen, who always have a little
feeling against music, and sing only from the throat,
apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the
open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her
heart leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and
passed, still singing, into the room opposite. It is
alarming not to be seen.
He had left the door of this room open, and she could
see into it, right across the landing. It was in a shocking
mess. Food, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates,
and knives lay strewn over a large table and on the floor.
But it was the mess that comes of life, not of desolation.
It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was
standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as
from some gracious, noble opening.
He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?"
His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He
was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be
expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open
doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on
the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time.
She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet.
"You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me.
Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat
smoke-ring. "And why won't you tell me the numbers? I have
dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a
friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the
Terno this week. So tell me another number."
Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech
terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which
come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have
greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible.
He had got into another world.
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