A future opened map-like in her mind, gorgeous, triumphant, like a bird’s-eye view of an oriental city, hers, who knew, for the conquering. And again that other, unknown instinct was a mist that blotted it out. Through her thoughts she heard him—
“Of course I’m no judge, but Oliver says—I’ve been talking to Oliver—and you know, Laura, you’ve only got to tell me——” (Mrs. Cloud would have liked to be there just then to listen to Justin and love him. Any woman, Laura herself, might have loved Justin then, he was so portentous and fatherly) “—because, you know, Laura, if there’s any difficulty—your grandfather—if you’re worried about ways and means—you know what I mean——”
She flushed.
“Well, you needn’t, you know. It could be arranged. I—Mother—Mother could fix it up for you.”
Now did you ever hear of anything more kind?... He had actually bothered his head ... but that, you see, was the sort of person Justin was.... She had always known, of course, that he was not as other men, but—wasn’t it kind?... She was almost reverently amazed at the extraordinary, the unparallelled benevolence of this unique Justin. She did not know how she was to thank him, because, when you tried, he always jerked away from you like a pony. And yet it was indispensable to her peace of mind that he should be most gratefully thanked. Thanked, and at the same time convinced, beyond any possibility of argument, that she could not go back to Paris, that she could not be an artist, that she did not care about painting and that Oliver—but it is not necessary for me to tell you all that Laura refrained from saying about Oliver. Indeed I have not the capacity. She was something of a specialist in adjectives.
But she contrived, in the latter end, to settle things to her satisfaction. Looking back she hardly knew how she had done it; for a young man, generously in love with his own scheme for benefiting his neighbour, is apt to be obstinate. Perhaps the fact that she was arguing, though neither of them knew it, not with him but with her own puzzled and protesting self, had something to do with her success. She was bound to convince herself.
She said—oh, she said that she had no real talent.
She said that Justin must realize by now what an exaggerated, unreliable—er—dear, Oliver was.
She said, with a sigh, that she only wished he were right; but that she had watched herself for two years now—
She said that she had given up the idea altogether.