As he always did, he put the money for his meal and the tip under his plate in a guilty way, and went off. But at the door he turned again, and raised his hat. And Rosaleen returned a slight wave of the hand.
II
It was a day marked by Fate as an important one—as the beginning of a new phase. Landry, however, was not in the least aware of this. He went on his way, absorbed in thought, still very serious, but unreasonably consoled, as he always was by these absurd and inarticulate interviews with Rosaleen.
He still lived in his aunt’s house. He had, as he became more prosperous, made an attempt to set up an individual establishment with his mother and sister, but they didn’t like New York; they weren’t happy there; they pined for Charleston, and he had sent them back. And, in spite of his independence and his fastidious bachelor habits, he was very much alarmed at the idea of setting up for himself. He had pretended to his aunt and to himself that he wished to find a cosy little flat and a good valet, but he had never really looked for either. His aunt wished for nothing better than to keep him with her forever, the house revolved about him; he had a bedroom and a study, and he was waited upon like a Sultan.
By minute degrees and in a quite incomprehensible manner, he had become accountable to his cousin Caroline. If he came in late, he explained to her why, and where he had been. If he went to a dance or a dinner without her, he returned prepared to give her all the details. He even made an effort to observe and remember things about which he knew he would be asked.
Caroline was now twenty-seven, and as far as ever from getting married. She was a chilly, languid young Southron with a pallid, freckled face and beautiful fine gold hair; she had a sort of frigid charm which sufficed to attract men, but which couldn’t hold them. She had innumerable “beaux,” but she had never had a man seriously in love with her. It was a severe misfortune for her; she had no other aim, no other interest in life except marriage; her days were becoming flat and weary beyond toleration to her, and a fatal resentment against men was creeping over her. Her cousin Nick was perfectly well aware that she would have married him if he had offered, but that did not flatter him, because there were several others whom she would just as soon have had, and at least one whom she would have preferred. He certainly didn’t love Caroline; he didn’t even admire her, but he had for her a genuine enough sort of brotherly affection and a small secret fear. He was never quite sure what she would do.
Everything went just as usual during dinner that evening; there was the same effort to entertain and distract the man which he had grown to consider a matter of course. If either his aunt or Caroline had sat at the table preoccupied or melancholy, he would have resented it deeply. Even a headache, if it permitted the sufferer to appear at all, must be accompanied by a wan smile and an air of interest. Then after dinner they went into the library, and as usual his aunt implored him not to work, but to rest and amuse himself, and complained that they saw so little of him. He was distrait, though, and anxious to get away to his little study where he could think in peace; he excused himself on the plea of work, and was making his escape when Caroline beckoned him into the little music room.
“Come here, Nickie!” she called, imperiously.
He obeyed, and she made him sit down beside her on the sofa.
“Ah’ve been hearing tales about you!” she said severely.