IV
The next morning, when Geraldine came downstairs, the house was like an enchanted castle. The sun was streaming in, for it was full day, yet all the rooms were silent and deserted. The little Japanese men had done their work like brownies, and were now invisible, and all the people who had danced the night before were lost in sleep.
She went into the breakfast room and rang, and the butler came hurrying in, smiling cheerfully. She told him what she wanted to eat, and crossed to the window, for a breath of sweet air and a glimpse of the garden in its morning beauty.
The first thing she saw was Sam Randall, on the terrace, smoking a cigarette. Her first impulse was to run away. He was down at the other end, and he had not seen her yet; but she checked herself with a sort of severity. Why should she run away from him? What had she to do with him, or with any of the people in this house? She had judged and condemned them long ago. It was only through a moment’s weakness that she had been betrayed into taking an interest in this man. The weakness was mastered now, and the interest had turned to scorn. He was just like the others—perhaps a little worse!
She heard his leisurely footsteps on the flags outside. She heard him come in through the long window. She knew that he was standing beside her, but she paid no heed until he spoke.
“Good morning!” he said.
Then she looked straight into his face.
“Good morning,” she answered evenly.
She was sorry, then, that she had looked at him, for there was no laughter or arrogance about him now. He seemed subdued and anxious, younger than she had remembered, and somehow appealing.
“Look here!” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you last night. I don’t quite see why—but anyhow, I’m sorry!”
Her breakfast was on the table, and she sat down before it. It occurred to her that her silence was ungracious and unkind, but she knew no way to break it. For all her self-reliance, she was very young and very inexperienced. She could not mask her resentment; she could only hold her tongue.
Sambo sat down opposite her. She was determined not to raise her eyes, but, without doing so, she could see his slender brown hands extended across the table, and the cuffs of his soft blue shirt. She also saw that he was holding a little field daisy. Surely there was nothing in that to touch her heart, yet it did, and the pity that she felt for a passing instant increased her anger. An obstinate and forbidding look came over her face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Look here! Do you mind if I sit here with you?”
“It’s not for me to dictate to Mrs. Page’s guests.”
“You can dictate to me all you want,” said he. “Nothing I’d like better![Pg 301]”
Again she was conscious that she was behaving ill, and again it strengthened her obstinacy.
“I’ll go away, if you like,” he went on; “but the way you talked to me yesterday—I’ve been thinking so much about it! Please tell me what I’ve done—what has made you change?”
“I haven’t changed,” she answered coldly.
He leaned nearer to her.
“Look here!” he said entreatingly. “Don’t treat me like this! Don’t shut me out! I came down early, just on the chance of seeing you. The others will be down presently, so I only have this little minute. Let me talk to you! You’re so wonderful—no one like you in the world—you and your poetry and your lovely, quiet face! Don’t send me away, dear girl!”
She sprang to her feet.
“You have no right!” she cried.
He, too, had risen.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You wouldn’t mind, if you knew how I felt about you. I’m at your feet.”
“You—” she began, but her voice was so uncertain that she could not go on.
“I’m at your feet,” he repeated quietly. “If you want to treat me like this, I can’t help it. It won’t make any difference. I’ll always—”
“Hush!” she said. “The servants will hear you!”
“Let ’em!” said he. “I’ll bet they’ve heard worse than that!”
Without another word he walked away, through the window, out to the terrace again.
Geraldine tried to go on with her breakfast, but a strange confusion and pain filled her. She told herself that this was only an episode, of no significance. Randall would go away soon, and she need never see him or think of him again. What he had said to her he said, very likely, to every woman he met. He had come here to see Serena. He belonged to Serena. He was one of that circle, one of those people without heart, without honor, without decency.
“At her feet!”
Geraldine remembered his hand on her shoulder, his laughter in the face of her just anger. It was a lie! He had no more respect for her than he had for these other women. He thought she was like them, and would be flattered by a smile from him. She hated him!
She had a fine opportunity to test his alleged humility that very day. By noon, the rest of the household had come downstairs, languid and heavy-eyed, and all in need of “bracers”; but not Sambo. He was not jaded or depressed. He laughed at the others. It seemed to Geraldine that wherever she went she could hear the sound of his debonair laughter. He was easily the leader among them. No longer was Serena their queen; it was Sambo who reigned supreme, not only because she had exalted him, but because of his quick wit, his audacity, his graceless and irresistible charm.
They sat about half dead, until lunch time. After lunch they were revivified enough to begin considering what to do with the afternoon. Serena wanted to visit some friends, Mrs. Anson wanted to play bridge, Levering wanted to go out on the yacht, but Sambo said they would go to the Country Club, and he had his way. Every one went upstairs to dress, except Geraldine. She wasn’t expected to come. Nobody thought about her at all.
Sambo had not spoken one word to her, had scarcely glanced at her. When they were alone, he called her “wonderful”; but when the others were there, he ignored her as they did.