VI
Wynne Rendall was not a little irritated at Quiltan’s failure to keep the appointment. He lunched alone at the club, and for want of better occupation strolled round to the theatre afterwards. He walked on to the stage at the very moment Miss Esme was beginning her scene, and, observing him, this young lady very promptly gave up all attempts to proceed, and said:
“I do wish you wouldn’t come to rehearsals—you frighten me most dreadfully.”
“Come along, Miss Waybury,” insisted the stage manager.
But Wynne held up his hand.
“Wait a bit. We’ll go over it together. Take the rest through, Henson, and read for Miss Waybury.”
He led the way to a comfortable office which had been set aside for his use, and nodded Esme toward one of the big leather chairs.
“Now then, what’s the matter with you?”
“You frighten me.”
“Do I?”
“Umps!”
“Don’t believe it,” said Wynne. “You’re up to some mischief, you are.”
Esme pouted and looked at him demurely for just the right length of time.
“I’m not.”
“Oh, yes you are.”
Esme hesitated. “Well, I can’t help liking you.”
“Heroic announcement of an infatuated young lady. And now what good purpose do you suppose that will serve?”
“No good.”
“At the first guess!”
“Because you’re so stand off.”
“Would the purpose be any better if I weren’t?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, think.”
“No. You’re horrid—you’re trying to tie me up.”
“Believe me!” Wynne negatived.
“Yes, in words—and I can’t talk.”
“Eloquent in other ways?”
“I’m not.”
“Oh, yes. That pout, for instance.”
“You are horrid.”
“But I like the pout. You pout ever so much better than you act—you should stick to pouting. Pout now!”
“I shan’t.”
“Come, just a little one—one small pout.”
“No.”
“I insist.”
“You can’t make me.”
“I’m waiting.”
Esme covered her mouth with her hand. “Now what are you going to do?”
“Wait—go on waiting.”
Very slowly she lowered her hand, and for a short second he saw the little red lips screwed up in obedience to his command. Absurd as it may seem, the foolish conquest gave him a perplexing thrill.
“Again,” he said. “It was too short.”
“No,” said Esme, shaking her head. “I shan’t do it again. You’re laughing at me.”
She rose and moved a little toward him and the door.
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t want to be laughed at—not by you.”
“I doubt if you know what you do want.”
“ ’Tany rate I shan’t tell you.”
“Wonderful independence!”
“I’ll go back now, please.”
“Never neglecting her studies for an instant!”
Esme came level with him and laid her hand on the door knob.
“Sometimes,” she began, “I think—I think—”
“No.”
“I think you are a very good little boy.”
She opened the door, but as quickly he closed it again.
“What do you mean by that?”
Her eyes rested on the pattern of the carpet. There was brighter colour on Wynne’s cheeks as he repeated:
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just what I said.” Her eyes were still lowered. “ ’Course I don’t blame you—some people are born good—some people can’t help it—some people aren’t plucky enough to be anything else.”
They stood without moving, while new and insane senses started to pulse in his side and throat.
Then very slowly Esme raised her chin and looked at him, her eyes half hidden by their lids, her lips curled in a moist, mocking pout.
In an instant Wynne’s arms fastened round her, but she pressed away from him.
“You mustn’t kiss me—you mustn’t. If you did I don’t know what would happen.”
“I don’t care,” said Wynne, madly.
So having won her pretty little battle she struggled no more, but put her lips where best they might be reached.