XI
A foreign-looking servant opened the door to Evie Colebrook.
"Mr. Morelle is out, Mademoiselle, is he expecting you?"
She was in a flutter, ready to fly on the least excuse. "Yes—but I will come back again."
François opened the door wide. "If Mademoiselle will wait a little—perhaps Mr. Morelle will return very soon."
François was an ugly, bullet-headed little man, and his name was a war creation. It was in fact "Otto", and he was a German Swiss.
She came timidly into the big room and was impressed by the solid luxury of it. She would not sit, preferring to walk about, delighted with the opportunity of making so leisurely an inspection of a room hallowed by such associations. So this was where Ronnie worked so hard. She laid her hand affectionately upon the big black table. François watched her a little sadly. He had a sister of her age and, in his eyes at least, as pretty. Moreover, François had grown tired of his employer. Men servants were in demand and he would have no difficulty in finding another job. Except for this: Ronald paid extraordinarily good wages.
He saw her pick up a framed photograph. "This is Mr. Morelle's portrait, isn't it? I don't like it."
Evie felt on terms with the man. It seemed natural that she should. She had wondered if François would be at Palermo, too.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, that is his portrait."
Evie frowned critically at the picture. "It is not half good looking enough."
"That is possible, Mademoiselle," said François, without enthusiasm.
He had never done such a thing before. He marveled at his own temerity, even now.
"Mademoiselle, you will not be angry if I say somethings?" he asked, and as he grew more and more agitated, his English took a quainter turn.
Evie opened her eyes in astonishment. "No, of course not."
"And you must promise not to tell Mr. Morelle."
"It depends," hesitated the girl, and then, "I promise."
"Mademoiselle," said François a little huskily, "I have a little sister so big as you in Switzerland. Her name is Freda, and, Mademoiselle, when I see you here, I think of her, and I say, I will speak to this good young lady. Mademoiselle, I do not like to see you here!" He said this dramatically.
Evie went crimson. "I don't know what you mean."
"I have make you cross," said François, in an agony of self-reproach. "You think I am silly, but I speak with a good heart."
There was only one way out of this awkward conversation. Evie became easily confidential. She spoke as a woman of the world to a man of the world.
"Of course you did," she said. "I appreciate what you say, François. If I saw a girl—well—compromising herself, I mean a girl who hadn't my experience of the world, I'd say the same as you, but—"
A knock at the outer door interrupted her. François shot an imploring glance in her direction, and she nodded.
"There you are, Ronnie—didn't you say I was to come straight here?"
"Hello, Evie," he seemed a little annoyed. "I told you I would meet you at the Statue."
Evie was abashed. "Oh, I am sorry," she began, but he went on.
"Any letters, François?"
"Yes, M'sieur, on the desk."
"All right, clear out."
But François lingered. "M'sieur."
"Well?" asked Ronnie, turning with a scowl.
François was ill at ease.
"Tomorrow my brother is coming from Interlaken, may I have an evening for myself, M'sieur?"
Ronald was angry for many reasons: he was not in the mood to grant favors.
"You have Sundays and you have your holidays. That's enough," he said.
François went out crestfallen.
"I suppose you think I'm unkind," said Ronnie with a laugh, as he helped take off her coat. "But if you give that sort of people an inch, they'll take the earth."
He dropped his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes.
"It is lovely to have you here. You're two hours too soon—"
"Am I?" she asked in alarm. "I was so upset last night that I don't know what you said."
"I said ten o'clock, but it doesn't matter. Only François would have been gone by then. How lovely you are, Evie! How slim and straight and desirable!"
Suddenly she was in his arms, his face against hers. She struggled, pushing him away, escaping at last, too breathless for speech.
"You smother me," she gasped. "Don't kiss me like that, Ronnie. Let's talk. You know I oughtn't to be here," she urged. "But I did so want to see your beautiful house."
He did not take his eyes from her. "You are going to do what I asked you?"
She nodded, shook her head, her heart going furiously. "I don't know—Ronald, I do love you, but I'm so—so frightened."
He drew her down to him and she sat demurely on the edge of the deep lounge chair he occupied.
"And I'll take you to—where shall I take you?" he bantered.
"Somewhere in Italy, you said."
"Palermo! Glorious Palermo—darling, think of what it will be, just you and I. No more snatched meetings and disagreeable sisters, eh?"
Evie was thinking: he did not break in upon her thoughts. She was good to see. More attractive in her silence, for she had the slightest of cockney twangs.
"I wish Christina could come," she said at last; a note of defiance was in her tone. "A change like that would be splendid for her, and I've always planned to give her one."
"Christina? Good lord! Come with us? You mad little thing, I'm not running a sanatorium."
He laughed, leaning back in the chair to look up at her.
"Ronnie, I know it is awful nerve on my part—but if you love me—"
He expected this. The philosophies he imparted seldom survived the acid test which opportunity applied.
"I suppose," she went on nervously, "it would be too much of a come-down to think of—of marrying me?"
"Marriage!" His voice was reproving, his manner that of a man grievously hurt.
"You know what I think—what we both think about marriage, Evie?"
"It is—it is respectable anyway."
"Respectable!" he scoffed. "Who respects you? Who thinks any worse of you if you aren't married? People respect you for your independence. Marriage! It is a form of bondage invented by professional Christians who make a jolly good living out of it."
"Well, religion is something. And the Bible—"
Ronnie jumped up.
"We'll try the luck, Evie!" He went to a shelf and took down a book.
Evie was a dubious spectator. The fallibility of the method seemed open to question when such enormous issues were at stake. Yet she accepted a trifle reluctantly, the little sword he handed to her, and thrust it between the pages of the closed book.
She opened it at the passage the sword had found.
"'Woe unto you—'" she began, but he snatched the book from her hands.
"No, silly," he said, and read glibly. "'There is no fear in love: perfect love casteth out fear!'"
Evie was skeptical.
"You made it up!" she accused. "I mean, you only pretended it was there. I know that passage. I learned it at school—it is in John."
He chuckled, delighted at her astuteness. "You little bishop," he said, and kissed her. "Now sit and amuse yourself. I want to speak to François."
He was on his way to the pantry to dismiss François to his home when the bell sounded. He stopped François with a gesture.