He sat down, very large, in a lacquered chair with black cushions, spoke of the leaves turning, saw her look at him and smile, and felt that she knew he was disturbed.
“Do you ever wonder,” he said, tinkling his teaspoon, “about the lives that other people live?”
“What sort of people, Charles?”
“Oh—not our sort; match-sellers, don’t you know, flower-sellers, people down and out?”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
If only he could tell her of this monstrous incident without slipping from his pedestal!
“It interests me enormously; there are such queer depths to reach, don’t you know.”
Her smile seemed to answer: ‘You don’t reach the depths in me.’ And it was true. She was very Slav, with the warm gleam in her eyes and the opaque powdered skin of her comely face. An enigma—flatly an enigma! There were deep waters below the pedestal, like—like Philæ, with columns still standing in the middle of the Nile Dam. Absurd thought!
“I’ve often wondered,” he said, “how I should feel if I were down and out.”
“You’re too large, Charles, and too dignified, my dear; you’d be on the Civil List before you could turn round.”