“Yes,” confessed Richard; “I know the creature—and, in a certain sense, I suppose I have run away from him. I came here to New York, against my father’s wishes, that I might be free to live my life as my tastes and inclinations inspired me, not as a select few in my native city ordained that I should live it.”
With an impetuous gesture Mrs. Percy-Bartlett placed her hand on his for an instant and blushed slightly as their eyes met.
“Do you know,” she said, “I feel an almost irresistible inclination to tell you a secret, a secret that all the world knows, but that I have not yet confessed to a human soul.” An odd smile played across her mouth.
“I shall feel more flattered than I can tell you,” exclaimed Richard with marked emphasis.
“Well, then,” went on Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, “I am a rebel. Remember, Mr. Stoughton, that this is the first time I have ever said this. I hardly know why I have said it to you; but, somehow, I feel thoroughly in touch with you on some points, and you seem more like an old friend than a new acquaintance.”
Perhaps later on she would analyze this feeling more thoroughly, and realize that she had reached a crisis in her life when an attractive man in the first flush of youth, and still possessing a freshness of view, and the enthusiasm of newly tried powers that had already won recognition from the world, stimulated that part of her nature that the atmosphere in which she lived tended to repress. But, for the moment, she had not stopped to ask herself why Richard Stoughton attracted her. She had simply given herself up to the fascination he had for her, and had left to the future the solution of the problem as to how far she should allow this fascination to influence her.
“As a rebel,” remarked Richard earnestly, “I give you greeting. I think I understand your revolt.”
“I know you do,” she exclaimed with enthusiasm. “You see, it is perfectly allowable for me to cultivate music as an accomplishment; but to take it seriously, to do something with it, to write songs that people outside of our circle will sing—that, you know, is bad form. I assure you, Mr. Stoughton, it took some courage to do it.”
“But not to do it would have been a crime,” said Richard, puffing his cigar thoughtfully.
“But a crime in the interest of the canons of good taste is not only allowable but imperative,” returned Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, smiling. “You must understand that there is a vast difference between having your name in the newspapers as being one of the best-dressed women at the Patriarchs’, and being referred to as a composer—both popular and promising.”