FROM
CRÉBILLON DELIVERED.
À bientôt—she had promised to come again very soon. She thought of the essay on the “Jus Primæ Noctis”—ah! what we’ve all been feeling and none of us clever enough to say. We on the sofas, ruthless, lovely and fastidious....
“I am proud to constitute myself”—Mr. Mercaptan had said of it—“l’esprit d’escalier des dames galantes.”
Rosie was not quite sure what he meant; but it certainly sounded very witty indeed.
She read the book slowly. Her French, indeed, wasn’t good enough to permit her to read it anyhow else. She wished it were better. Perhaps it if were better she wouldn’t be yawning like this. It was disgraceful: she pulled herself together. Mr. Mercaptan had said that, it was a masterpiece.
In his study, Shearwater was trying to write his paper on the regulative functions of the kidneys. He was not succeeding.
Why wouldn’t she see me yesterday? he kept wondering. With anguish he suspected other lovers; desired her, in consequence, the more. Gumbril had said something, he remembered, that night they had met her by the coffee-stall. What was it? He wished now that he had listened more attentively.
She’s bored with me. Already. It was obvious.
Perhaps he was too rustic for her. Shearwater looked at his hands. Yes, the nails were dirty. He took an orange stick out of his waistcoat pocket and began to clean them. He had bought a whole packet of orange sticks that morning.