“Did you like it?”
“Not much.”
“Then it doesn’t matter.”
“Mother’s terribly upset about it.”
“That doesn’t matter. She’s always upset. We are a queer lot, and she hasn’t the ghost of a notion how to handle us. She’s baffled because we’re not like people out of a novelette, angels engaged in dodging the wickedness of a horrid world.”
Annette’s own view of things was rather like that. She had always believed it to be her duty to keep herself unspotted by things temporal, though she had no idea how to set about it. Her mother had said many unjust and unfair things to her. She was feeling rather resentful and was pleased with the audacity of Serge’s criticism. All her upbringing had been based on the sanctity of parental authority and the parental person, and she was fearful and fascinated by such defiance of it.
“Come up to my room,” said Serge, “and let’s have a look at you, and you can tell me about yourself—if you want to.”
He took her arm and led her upstairs to the top of the house, where he had a room under a north skylight which served him as bed-room, sanctum, and studio. It was a litter of paper, boots, drawing-boards, drawings, pipes, and cigar-boxes. He put on an old dressing-gown, lit a pipe, and made Annette sit on the bed, and stood and looked at her. She felt very happy and smiled at him.
“You’ve got the most interesting face of the lot,” he said presently, “though that isn’t saying much. What’s brought you home?”
She told him the whole story.