The Heart of Penelope

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

She stood up, and they faced one another, each resting a hand on the high marble mantelpiece. 'I love London at all times of the year,' she said, 'but I am a nomad, a wanderer, by instinct. Perhaps mamma's mother, before she "got religion," was a gipsy. I have always known there was some mystery about her.' She spoke lightly, but Winfrith's lips closed, one of his hands made a sudden arresting movement, and then fell down again by his side, as she went on unheeding, looking, not at him, but down into the fire. 'Why don't you take a holiday, David—even you are entitled to a holiday sometimes—and come with me where I am going—down to the South, west of Marseilles, where ordinary people never, never go?'

'My dear Penelope, how utterly absurd!' But there was a thrill in the quiet, measured voice.

She looked up eagerly, moved a little nearer to him. 'Do!' she cried—'please do! Motey would be ample chaperon.' She added unguardedly, 'she is used to that ungrateful rôle.'

'Is she?' he asked sharply. 'Has she often had occasion to chaperon you, and—and—a friend, on a similar excursion?'

Penelope bit her lip. 'I think you are very rude,' she said. 'Why, of course she has! Every man I know, half your acquaintances, have had the privilege of travelling with me across the world. When one of your trusted members goes off on a mysterious holiday, you can always in future say to yourself, "He has paired with Penelope!"'

He looked at her, perplexed, a little suspicious, but he was utterly disarmed by her next words. 'David?'—she spoke softly—'how can you be so foolish? I have never, never, never made such a proposal to any one but you! Now that your mind is set at rest, now that you know you will be a unique instance'—she could not keep the laughter out of her voice—'will you consent to honour me with your company? It could all be done in a fortnight.'

'No.' He spoke with an effort, and hesitated perceptibly. But again he said, 'No. I can't get away now—'tis impossible. Perhaps later—at Easter.'

But Mrs. Robinson had turned away. Mechanically she tore a paper spill into small pieces. 'At Easter,' she said with a complete change of tone, 'I shall be in Paris, and every soul we know will be there, too, and I certainly shall not want you.'

'Well, now I must be going.' He spoke rather heavily, and, as she still held her head averted, he added hurriedly, in a low tone, 'You know how gladly I would come if I could.'

'I know,' she said sharply, 'how easily you could come if you would! But never mind, I am quite used to be alone—with Motey.'