Although the situation was a novel one to him, he was not in the least embarrassed. He was altogether too sincere to be possessed of any self-consciousness. He found himself at last actually in the presence of the woman who, since first he had seen her, months ago, driving in the Park, had been constantly in his thoughts, and he began to wonder with perfect clearness of judgment wherein lay her peculiar fascination! That she was handsome, of her type, went for nothing. The world was full of more beautiful women whom he saw day by day without the faintest thrill of interest. Besides, her face was too pale and her form too thin for exceptional beauty. There must be something else,—something about her personality which refused to lend itself to any absolute analysis. She was perfectly dressed,—he realized that, because he was never afterwards able to recall exactly what she wore. Her eyes were soft and dark and luminous,—soft with a light the power of which he was not slow to recognize.
But none of these things were of any important account in reckoning with the woman. He became convinced, in those few moments of deliberate observation, that there was nothing in her “personnel” which could justify her reputation. On the whole he was glad of it. Any other form of attraction was more welcome to him than a purely physical one!
“First of all,” she began, leaning forward and looking at him over her interlaced fingers; “I want you to tell me this! You will answer me faithfully, I know. What did you think of my writing to you, of my persistence? Tell me exactly what you thought.”
“I was surprised,” he answered; “how could I help it? I was surprised, too,” he added, “to find that I wanted very much to come.”
“The women whom you know,” she said quietly,—“I suppose you do know some,—would not have done such a thing. Some people say that I am mad! One may as well try to live up to one’s reputation; I have taken a little of the license of madness.”
“It was unusual, perhaps,” he admitted; “but who is not weary of usual things? I gathered from your note that you had something to explain. I was anxious to hear what that explanation could be.”
She was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, a faint smile at the corners of her lips.
“First,” she said, “let me tell you this. I want to have you understand why I was anxious that you should not think worse of me than I deserved. I am rather a spoilt woman. I have grown used to having my own way; I wanted to know you, I have wanted to for some time. We have passed one another day after day; I knew quite well all the time who you were, and it seemed so stupid! Do you know once or twice I have had an insane desire to come right up to your chair and break in upon your meditations,—hold out my hand and make you talk to me? That would have been worse than this, would it not? But I firmly believe that I should have done it some day. So you see I wrote my little note in self-defence.”
“I do not know that I should have been so completely surprised after all,” he said. “I, too, have felt something of what you have expressed. I have been interested in your comings and your goings. But then you knew that, or you would never have written to me.”