“Easily,” she retorted; “but let’s hear Maeterlinck, who has been waiting for you.”
Maurice had found the page. Leaning his elbow on the steps, he read—
Et s’il revenait un jour,
Que faut-il lui dire?
—Dites-lui qu’on l’attendit
Jusqu’à s’en mourir—
Et s’il m’interroge encore
Sans me reconnaître?
—Parlez-lui comme une soeur,
Il souffre peutêtre—
Et s’il demande où vous êtes,
Que faut-il répondre?
—Donnez-lui mon anneau d’or
Sans rien lui répondre.
Et s’il veut savoir pourquoi
La salle est déserte?
—Montrez-lui la lampe éteinte
Et la porte ouverte.
Et s’il m’interroge alors
Sur la dernière heure?
—Dites-lui qui j’ai souri
De peur qu’il ne pleure.
Felicia, bending over her lapful of books, her elbows on her knees, looked at him, and Geoffrey looked at her.
He would have liked her eyes to turn gently upon him. Her eyes were like deep limpid water; they made him think of a still pool under sunny, autumnal trees. Felicia’s manner towards Maurice during these last days had entirely allayed his anxieties on his friend’s behalf. His newer impressions of her removed her from any conceptions of wild-rose flirtations. Her quiet air, now, of intelligent comradeship defined and limited the unsubstantiality of Maurice’s hopes. But that she smiled upon Maurice, that Maurice pleased her, was evident. And Geoffrey was sorry that he had not pleased her. She would not forget that silent mischance of the day before.
A vision of her father rose; a half-baked person; an absurd person; but he was sorry that the daughter should have seen that he thought him so, for he wanted the daughter to smile at him. He hardly knew that he wanted it, hardly knew that he was sorry, hardly thought at all as he stood, his hand on the shelf near Felicia’s shoulder, vaguely listening to pathetic words and looking at Felicia’s half-averted profile. He was conscious only of a curious feeling about Felicia, a feeling like the soft stretch into the present of a distant memory, an awakening, dim and touched.