As she turned homeward her thoughts shrank in anticipation from the fact that there would be nothing to get up for the next morning. The luxury of lying late in bed was a pleasure belonging to the life of ease; it had no part in the utilitarian existence of the boarding-house. She liked to leave her room early, and to return to it as late as possible; and she was walking slowly now in order to postpone the detested approach to her doorstep.
But the doorstep, as she drew near it, acquired a sudden interest from the fact that it was occupied—and indeed filled—by the conspicuous figure of Mr. Rosedale, whose presence seemed to take on an added amplitude from the meanness of his surroundings.
The sight stirred Lily with an irresistible sense of triumph. Rosedale, a day or two after their chance meeting, had called to enquire if she had recovered from her indisposition; but since then she had not seen or heard from him, and his absence seemed to betoken a struggle to keep away, to let her pass once more out of his life. If this were the case, his return showed that the struggle had been unsuccessful, for Lily knew he was not the man to waste his time in an ineffectual sentimental dalliance. He was too busy, too practical, and above all too much preoccupied with his own advancement, to indulge in such unprofitable asides.
In the peacock-blue parlour, with its bunches of dried pampas grass, and discoloured steel engravings of sentimental episodes, he looked about him with unconcealed disgust, laying his hat distrustfully on the dusty console adorned with a Rogers statuette.
Lily sat down on one of the plush and rosewood sofas, and he deposited himself in a rocking-chair draped with a starched antimacassar which scraped unpleasantly against the pink fold of skin above his collar.
“My goodness—you can’t go on living here!” he exclaimed.
Lily smiled at his tone. “I am not sure that I can; but I have gone over my expenses very carefully, and I rather think I shall be able to manage it.”
“Be able to manage it? That’s not what I mean—it’s no place for you!”
“It’s what I mean; for I have been out of work for the last week.”
“Out of work—out of work! What a way for you to talk! The idea of your having to work—it’s preposterous.” He brought out his sentences in short violent jerks, as though they were forced up from a deep inner crater of indignation. “It’s a farce—a crazy farce,” he repeated, his eyes fixed on the long vista of the room reflected in the blotched glass between the windows.