Here, he explained, was his chance. Here was the pupil for whom he had waited. Talent—enormous talent. Genius? Ah, that was another matter—that he could not say—not yet—(he spoke as might a doctor, finger on pulse, awaiting the crisis) but talent there was by the potful, talent to deceive the crowd, and, he bade them observe, a temperament to back it. Fire was there, mingling paradoxically with the cold English blood, like the abominable English drink, the cold yet burning ouiski-soda. Not for nothing had the door between atelier and Monsieur’s sanctum stood ajar. Could he have Mademoiselle Valentine for two years, only two years—they should see what they should see! But he understood it was a question of expense. Now would it not be possible——?
His black eyes and his pointed beard and his long yellow fingers all twinkled together as he elaborated his ideas, till he looked like a Svengali possessed by the spirit of Mr. Samuel Pickwick. The Demoiselles Dunois, who admired him immensely, and were fond, too, of Laura, responded with enthusiasm. Heads together over the coffee cups they hatched their kindly plot.
But other folk, fortunately or not, had been plotting too. Mrs. Cloud dreaded the March winds as she did not dread the still cold of true winter weather. Justin, at home six months now, was growing restless again though his lounge round the world had bored him at the time. He had started out in high enough spirits and with more money in his pockets than is good for the youthful male. But he had not the knack of enjoying himself illegitimately. He was virtuous, because vice did not appeal to him and he had not the inquisitiveness of little minds. Yet he cried for Our Lady the Moon like any other youngster. It was borne in upon him that he was plodding through enchanted lands with the thoroughness of a typical tourist, and it annoyed him hugely. Yet he had no notion of how to help himself. He was relieved to get home again. His mother was very sweet. He enjoyed unpacking the spoils of his comfortable Odyssey and scattering them about the house, though the birds’-egg collection still held the place of honour in his den. It was considerably enlarged since the days of Laura’s protest, and he was tenacious of old likes and dislikes. One of the first visits he paid on his return was to Bellew, who welcomed him with chirrups of pleasure. Everybody was always delighted to see Justin. He had, quite unconsciously, the disarming assurance of the big strange dog with the wet coat, who greets you with vigorous affection at church parade. Why shouldn’t you be pleased to see him? And you are, you know, in spite of splashed taffetas. You cannot help yourself.
Bellew and Justin picked up their acquaintance where they had dropped it eighteen months before, and agreed better than ever, enjoying, not so much each other, as their common interest in a common hobby. Bellew even talked tentatively of the voyage he intended to make up the coast, and on to the Hebrides to take photographs of sea-birds and their nests for his new book. He needed an active assistant. But Justin, tempted, was non-committal. He was only just home. His mother did not grow younger. He was too fond of her even to tell her of the idea lest she should insist, yet, with time heavy on his hands, it made him restless, the readier for a change when she, coughing a little and looking, in spite of her comfortable house and the furs from Russia, a frail, nipped leaf of a woman, talked of the Riviera—or Italy? She had not been to Italy since her honeymoon, and Justin, for all his globe-trotting, had not been at all. What about Italy? Italy would be delightful if Justin wouldn’t find it dull, with just the two of them?
It was then that Justin said—I am always glad that it was Justin who said—
“Well, what about Laura?”
CHAPTER XI
Well, what about Laura?
Will you take a peep at Laura in bed with the remains of a cold, on her chill March birthday—Laura, very sorry for herself, languidly undoing her presents—miraculously cured by the arrival of The Letter?