VI.
One Friday evening an unusual smell of roast chicken came through the kitchen door. Mary put on the slender, long-tailed white gown she wore when she dined at the Sutcliffes'.
Dan's friend, Lindley Vickers, was sitting on the sofa, talking to Mamma.
When she came in he left off talking and looked at her with sudden happy
eyes. She remembered Maurice Jourdain's disappointed eyes, and Mark's.
Dan became suddenly very polite and attentive.
All through dinner Mr. Vickers kept on turning his eyes away from Mamma and looking at her; every time she looked she caught him looking. His dark hair sprang in two ridges from the parting. His short, high-bridged nose seemed to be looking at you, too, with its wide nostrils, alert. His face did all sorts of vivid, interesting things; you wondered every minute whether this time it would be straight and serious or crooked and gay, whether his eyes would stay as they were, black crystals, or move and show grey rings, green speckled.
He was alive, running over with life; no, not running over, vibrating with it, holding it in; he looked as if he expected something delightful to happen, and waited, excited, ready.
He began talking, about Hegel. "'Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.'"
She heard herself saying something. Dan turned and looked at her with a sombre, thoughtful stare. Mamma smiled, and nodded her chin as much as to say "Did you ever hear such nonsense?" She knew that was the way to stop you.
Mr. Vickers's eyes were large and attentive. When you stopped his mouth gave such a sidelong leap of surprise and amusement that you laughed. Then he laughed.
Dan said, "What's the joke?" And Mr. Vickers replied that it wasn't a joke.
In the drawing-room Mamma said, "I won't have any of those asides between you and Mr. Vickers, do you hear?"
Mary thought that so funny that she laughed. She knew what Mamma was thinking, but she was too happy to care. Her intelligence had found its mate.
You played, and at the first sound of the piano he came in and stood by you and listened.
You had only to play and you could make him come to you. He would get up and leave Dan in the smoking-room; he would leave Mamma in the garden. When you played the soft Schubert Impromptu he would sit near you, very quiet; when you played the Appassionata he would get up and stand close beside you. When you played the loud, joyful Chopin Polonaise he would walk up and down; up and down the room.
Saturday evening. Sunday evening. (He was going on Monday very early.)
He sang,
"'Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath
Das man vom liebsten was man hat
Muss scheiden.'"
Dan called out from his corner, "Translate. Let's know what it's all about."
He pounded out the accompaniment louder. "We won't, will we?" He jumped up suddenly. "Play the Appassionata."
She played and he talked.
"I can't play if you talk."
"Yes, you can. I wish I hadn't got to go to-morrow."
"Have you" (false note) "got to go?"
"I suppose so."
"If Dan asked you, would you stop?"
"Yes."
He slept in Papa's room. When she heard his door shut she went to Dan.
"Dan, why don't you ask him to stay longer?"
"Because I don't want him to."
"I thought he was your friend."
"He is my friend. The only one I've got."
'Then—why—?"
"That's why." He shut the door on her.
She got up early. Dan was alone in the dining-room.
He said, "What have you come down for?"
"To give you your breakfasts."
"Don't be a little fool. Go back to your room."
Mr. Vickers had come in. He stood by the doorway, looking at her and smiling. "Why this harsh treatment?" he said. He had heard Dan.
Now and then he smiled again at Dan, who sat sulking over his breakfast.
Dan went with him to Durlingham. He was away all night.
Next day, at dinner-time, they appeared again together. Mr. Vickers had brought Dan back. He was going to stay for another week. At the Buck Hotel.