I opened the piano. I was thinking how horrid it is to have our parents thrust upon us, and have to do humiliating things for them that put you in a false position with the people you love best. My brain was a tangled bunch of rebellious "whys?" all squirming like blind kittens.
"Do you mind if I strum?" I asked.
"Please do," Cheneston answered courteously. "Will my smoking worry you?"
"Oh no," I said carelessly, and what I wanted to say was, "Don't you even care enough to ask me why I want that five hundred pounds from you? It's positively insulting of you just to give it to me without a single query as to its destination. How dare you—dare you—dare you think I am the sort of young woman who calmly asks for five hundred pounds for pin-money! Your silence implies that you think I am."
The long narrow drawing-room looked so beautiful, so dainty, so fresh. The candle-light was reflected softly on the white panelled walls; the fierce little blue lobelia on the quaint grey chintz seemed to stand out, and the moonlight coming through the french diamond-paned windows lay in pools on the grey carpet like stagnant water—the room was so big that the mellow candlelight never spread to there.
It was all so big and grave and stately that I felt like an angry mosquito—and yet fate had behaved rottenly to me, assigned to me an ignoble part.
I chose the wonderful love-song from "Samson and Delilah," and I forgot Cheneston, I forgot the room, and the blue dragon-pots of late madonna lilies. I forgot myself—only the scent of the lilies stayed and drenched me with indescribable sweetness, and I seemed to struggle down into the soul of Delilah and understand why she hated and yet loved Samson for his strength, as I hated and loved Cheneston for his.
Cheneston was sitting in the arm-chair, gripping the sides, and when I stopped he lit another cigarette.
I could have smacked him.
"Thanks," he said, "it's a wonderful thing."