She looked for him at Miss Waters’ studio the next afternoon, looked for him with vehement longing. She was in such terror that he would go to the flat again and be met there by Miss Amy. If she had known where he lived, she would have written to him, to entreat him not to do so. But that course blocked, she could do nothing but hope and hope that he would instead come to the studio, where she could tell him.... She didn’t care what she told him, what monstrous thing she invented, if only she kept him away.
He didn’t come. She flagrantly neglected her work. Leaning back against the wall, arms clasped behind her head, she gossiped with Miss Waters. And Miss Waters, stifling a feeling of guilt at thus not earning her money, gave herself without restraint to this illicit, this joyful chatter. For Rosaleen was joyful, in spite of her great anxiety, her dread of losing her Nicholas. Even if she lost him now, she would have the happiness of knowing that one man at least had looked upon her with tenderness and delight.
Miss Waters talked about Brussels and Paris, of course, and to-day, with new boldness, began to speak of Love. Hitherto she had never mentioned this topic, but now that Rosaleen had a young man, she felt she might consider her altogether mature, initiated, so to speak. So she told a long and thrilling story of an artist—a very poor young artist—who had fallen in love with a wealthy young girl of good family. And how cruel she was to him. It was difficult to understand why they had so eagerly desired these meetings which Miss Waters feelingly described, for apparently she had come to the rendezvous only to be cruel, and he only to weep and to suffer. By and by she had married a distinguished man, and the young artist began, with true French propriety, to die of consumption. Then the lady, not to be outdone, began to suffer too; the anguish of remorse. She compromised her name by visiting his studio as he lay dying, and her life was ruined. It was awfully long, but to Miss Waters intensely interesting, because she had actually seen the people with her own eyes.
A little earlier than usual Rosaleen went home, to find Miss Amy there, reading, and coldly suspicious.
“She thinks I’ve met him,” she thought. “Don’t I wish I had!”
A joyful sense of her own freedom came over her; no one could really stop her, no one could restrain her. She would see him! All the suspicious, middle-aged spinsters on earth couldn’t stop her! She was more subtle, more daring, she was stronger than Miss Amy!
And yet she passed the evening in dread—terrified that she might hear the door bell ring, and that it might be Nick.
II
It was the custom in their household for Mr. Humbert when he went down stairs every morning, to look in the mail box, and if there were anything of interest there, to ring the bell three times, as a signal for Rosaleen to come running down. If there were nothing but cards from laundries and carpet cleaners, and so on, he didn’t ring.
But on the next morning, to the astonishment of Rosaleen, he came back, up the four flights of stairs again, with the mail in his hand. And without a word, gave it to his sister. She showed no surprise; it was evidently prearranged between them.