“Well—anyway, do take me, sometime, to see this interesting person. Why shouldn’t we go this afternoon? This wind seems to have driven all the ideas out of my head, as well as made your cousin extremely bad-tempered! So do take me to see your friend, Miss Traffio! We might go now—this moment—why not?”
Lacrima shook her head, but she looked grateful and not displeased. As a matter of fact she was particularly anxious to introduce the American to Mr. Quincunx. In that vague subtle way which is a peculiarity, not only of the Pariah-type, but of human nature in general, she was anxious that Dangelis should be given at least a passing glimpse of another view of the Romer family from that which he seemed to have imbibed.
It was not that she was definitely plotting against her cousin or trying to undermine her position with her artist-friend, but she felt a natural human desire that this sympathetic and good-tempered man should be put, to some extent at least, upon his guard.
She was, at any rate, not at all unwilling to initiate him into the mysteries of Mr. Quincunx’ mind, hoping, perhaps, in an obscure sort of way, that such an initiation would throw her own position, in this strange household, into a light more evocative of considerate interest.
She had been so often made conscious of late that in his absorption in Gladys he had swept her brusquely aside as a dull and tiresome spoil-sport, that it was not without a certain feminine eagerness that she embraced the thought of his being compelled to listen to what she well knew Mr. Quincunx would have to say upon the matter.
It was also an agreeable thought that in doing justice to the originality and depth of the recluse’s intelligence, the American would be driven to recognize the essentially unintellectual tone of conversation at Nevilton House.
She instinctively felt sure that the same generous and comprehensive sympathy that led him to condone the vulgar lapses of these “new people,” would lead him to embrace with more than toleration the eccentricities and aberration of the forlorn relative of the Lords of Glastonbury.
With these thoughts passing rapidly through her brain, Lacrima found herself, after a little further hesitation, agreeing demurely to the American’s proposal to visit the tenant of Dead Man’s Lane before the end of the day. She left it uncertain at what precise hour they should go—probably between tea and dinner—because she was anxious, for her own sake, dreading her cousin’s anger, to make the adventure synchronize, if possible, with the latter’s assignation with Luke, trusting that the good turn she thus did her, by removing her artistic admirer at a critical juncture, would propitiate the fair-haired tyrant’s wrath.
This matter having been satisfactorily settled, the Italian began to feel, as she observed the artist’s bold and challenging glance embracing her from head to foot, while he continued to this new and more attentive listener his interrupted monologue, that species of shy and nervous restraint which invariably embarrassed her when left alone in his society.