Paul looked at her sternly. “In that dress you appear like a courtesan; and now you talk like one. It is a good thing my brother was taken off, after all—with such a wife!”
Cicely sank down at his feet. “Oh, don’t say that, Paul; it is not true. All this—these are the things that are underneath, they are the things that touch me; you never see them when I am dressed. It is only that I always liked to be nice for him; that is the reason I had all this lace; and I keep it up, because I want him to think of me always as just the same; yes, even when I am old. For I know he does think of me, and he sees me too; he is often here. Listen,—I can’t help hating Eve, Paul. But it only comes in little whiffs, now and then. Supposing I had shot her, could you like me, after that?” She rose, holding up her hands to him pleadingly. “In one way I love Eve.”
“Yet you let her go! Heaven knows where she is now.”
He turned his head away sharply. But she saw his tears. “No, Paul,” she cried, terrified, “she isn’t dead—if you mean that; she told me once, ‘As long as he is in the world, I want to live!’”
“Well—I shall go after her,” said Paul, controlling himself. He turned towards the door.
Cicely followed him. “Say good-by to me.” She put up her face.
He touched her forehead with his lips. Then he held her off for a moment, and looked at her. “Poor child!” he said.
He returned to the house for his travelling-bag; he remembered that he had left it in the parlor upon his arrival, five hours before.
The pleasant, shabby room, as he opened the door, held a characteristic group: Miss Sabrina, gliding about with plum-cake; the judge, pouring cherry-bounce; Mistress Nannie Singleton, serenely seated, undergoing the process of being brushed by Clementine and Powlyne, who made hissing sounds like hostlers, and, standing on one foot in a bent attitude, held out behind a long leg. Rupert Singleton, seated in the largest arm-chair, was evidently paying compliments to Miss Leontine, who, gratified and embarrassed, and much entangled with her wineglass, her gloves, and her plate of cake, hardly knew, to use a familiar expression, whether she was on her head or her heels. Not that Miss Sabrina would have mentioned her heels; to her, heels, shins, and ribs did not exist, in a public way; they were almost medical terms, belonging to the vocabulary of the surgeon.
“I beg your pardon; I think I left my bag here,” said Paul.