Before answering, except by that smile, he lit himself a cigarette; then, strolling to the fire, he sat on the rug below her, drawing his knees up into his hands.
“I’d like to tell you about my writing, Joan. After all, it’s the great interest of my life, and I’ve been fairly seething with it; only I didn’t want to bother you, worry your poor, distracted head.”
“I never thought,” said Joan slowly, “I never thought you’d be carin’ to tell me things. I know so awful little.”
“It wasn’t your modesty, Joan. It was simply because you haven’t given me a thought since I dragged you in here on my sled. I’ve been nothing”—under the careless, half-bitter manner, he was weighing his words and their probable effect—“nothing, for all these weeks, but—a provider.”
“A provider?” Joan groped for the meaning of the word. It came, and she flushed deeply. “You mean I’ve just taken things, taken your kind doin’s toward me an’ not been givin’ you a thought.” Her eyes filled and shone mortification down upon him so that he put his hand quickly over hers, tightened together on her knee.
“Poor girl! I’m not reproaching you.”
“But, Mr. Gael, I wanted to work for you. You wouldn’t let me.” She brushed away her tears. “What can I do? Where can I go?”
“You can stay here and make me happy as you have been doing ever since you came. I was very unhappy before. And you can give me just as much or as little attention as you please. I don’t ask you for a bit more. Suppose you stop grieving, Joan, and try to be just a little happier yourself. Take an interest in life. Why, you poor, young, ignorant child, I could open whole worlds of excitement, pleasure, to you, if you’d let me. There’s more in life than you’ve dreamed of experiencing. There’s music, for one thing, and there are books and beauty of a thousand kinds, and big, wonderful thoughts, and there’s companionship and talk. What larks we could have, you and I, if you would care—I mean, if you would wake up and let me show you how. You do want to learn a woman’s work, don’t you, Joan?”
She shook her head slowly, smiling wistfully, the tears gone from her eyes, which were puzzled, but diverted from pain. “I didn’t savvy what you meant when you talked about what a woman’s work rightly was. An’ I’m so awful ignorant, you know so awful much. It scares me, plumb scares me, to think how much you know, more than Mr. Holliwell! Such books an’ books an’ books! An’ writin’ too. You see I’d be no help nor company fer you. I’d like to listen to you. I’d listen all day long, but I’d not be understandin’. No more than I understand about that there woman’s work idea.”
He laughed at her, keeping reassuring eyes on hers. “I can explain anything. I can make you understand anything. I’ll grant you, my idea of a woman’s work is difficult for you to get hold of. That’s a big question, after all, one of the biggest. But—just to begin with and we’ll drop it later for easier things—I believe, the world believes, that a woman ought to be beautiful. You can understand that?”