Directly she was well enough to go down to the drawing-room again, Mildred began to talk of starting for Switzerland or Germany. She had inflicted herself and her surroundings upon Lewes Crescent too long already, she told her aunt; and although Miss Fausset expressed herself delighted to have her niece, and reconciled even to Pamela’s frivolity and the existence of Box in the lower regions, Mildred felt somehow that her presence interfered with the even tenor of life in that orderly mansion. The only person who made light of Miss Fausset’s idiosyncrasies, came to the house at all hours, stayed as late as he chose, disturbed the symmetry of the bookshelves, left Miss Fausset’s cherished books lying about on chairs and sofas, and acted in all things after his own fancy, was César Castellani. His manner towards Miss Fausset was unalterably deferential; he never wavered in his respect for her as a superior being; he was full of subtle flatteries and delicate attentions; yet in somewise his ways were the ways of a spoiled child, sure of indulgence and favour. He never stayed in the house, but had his room at an hotel on the cliff, and came to Lewes Crescent whenever fancy prompted, for two or three days at a stretch, then went back to London, and was seen no more for a week or so.
Mildred found that Pamela and Mr. Castellani had seen a great deal of each other during her illness. They had sung and played together, they had walked on the cliff—in sight of the drawing-room windows the whole time, Pamela explained, and with Miss Fausset’s severe eye upon them. They had devoted themselves together to the education of Box, who had learnt at least three new tricks under their joint instruction, and who, possibly from over-pressure, had acquired a habit of trying to bite Mr. Castellani whenever he had an opportunity.
“It is because he is such a horribly unmusical dog,” explained Pamela. “He managed to creep up to the drawing-room the other day when Miss Fausset was at church, and Mr. Castellani came in and began to play, and that dreadful Box planted himself near the piano and howled piteously till I carried him out.”
“My dearest Pamela, I don’t think Box’s opinion of Mr. Castellani or his music matters much,” said Mildred, with gentle gravity, as she lay on the sofa in the back drawing-room, with Pamela’s hand clasped in hers; “but it matters a great deal what you think of him, and I fear you are beginning to think too much about him.”
“Why should I not think of him, aunt, if I like—and he likes? I am my own mistress; there are few girls so independent of all ties; for really nobody cares a straw for me except you and Uncle George. Rosalind is wrapped up in her baby, and Henry is devoted to pigeons, guns, and fishing-tackle. Do you think it can matter to them whom I marry? Why should I be sordid, and say to myself, ‘I have fifteen hundred a year, and I mustn’t marry a man with less than three thousand’? Why should I not marry genius if I like—genius even without a penny?”
“If you could meet with genius, Pamela.”
“You think that Mr. Castellani is not a genius?”
“I think not. He is too versatile and too showy. All his gifts are on the surface. Genius is single-minded, aiming at one great thing. Genius is like still water and runs deep. I admit that Mr. Castellani is highly gifted as a musician of the lighter sort; not a man who will leave music behind him to live for ever. I admit that he has written a strangely attractive book. But I should be sorry to call him a genius. I should be very sorry to see you throw yourself away, as I believe you would if you were to marry him.”
“That is what a girl’s friends always say to her,” exclaimed Pamela. “To marry the man one loves is to throw oneself away.” And then blushing furiously, she added, “Pray don’t suppose that I am in love with Mr. Castellani. There has never been one word of love between us—except in the clouds, by way of philosophical discussion. But, as a fatherless and motherless girl of advanced opinions, I claim the right to marry genius, if I choose.”
“My dear girl, I cannot dispute your independence; but I think the sooner we leave this house the better. The first thing is to make up our minds where we are to go.”