Perhaps the very foundation of her satisfaction with life lay in Lawrence Iverson’s kindness. He would come swaggering up and talk outrageously, unpardonably to Enid, look with a groan over Miss Mell’s shoulder and call her work “filth for the hungry hogs.” But he would look at Rosaleen’s dress designs and simpering fashion plates quite seriously, and advise her, with wonderfully practical advice.
What most touched her though was his niceness to Miss Waters. The poor old thing was trapped one day, and couldn’t get away; had to stand there in all her preposterousness, in her fur coat and her battered hat, and allow that most elegant and critical artist to be presented to her. Rosaleen was frightened, thinking of Enid’s rudeness. But Iverson was not rude; on the contrary he was very polite, very friendly. He talked to her about Paris, and she was transported to the Seventh Heaven. Just to recall the names of the streets! (She didn’t know very much else of the city.) She went off with Rosaleen almost idiotic with pleasure.
“Lawrence,” said Enid, when they had gone, “you make me sick!”
“Why?” he enquired, twirling his little mustache.
“You’re a regular, old-fashioned stage villain,” she said. “All the trouble you’re taking—all the elaborate plots—to get that silly little kid.”
“Hold your tongue!” he said, flushing angrily. “Let’s have no more of your beastly female obsessions.”
VI
Two days later he came upstairs unexpectedly early, before lunch, and found Rosaleen peeling mushrooms in the dark back room. It made him furious; he swore at Enid and Miss Mell and called them beastly exploiters.
“Rosaleen,” he said. “Come downstairs with me and work.”
“Don’t you go!” said Enid. “He’s a villain. He has evil designs upon you.”