“But you will have to, if you are to be the head of Lloyd's,” Ellen said, with a severe accent, with grave, blue eyes full on his face.
“Oh, I am not the head of Lloyd's yet,” he answered, easily. “My uncle is far from his dotage. Then, too, you know that I was never intended for a business man, but a lawyer, like my father, if there had not been so little for my father's second wife and the children—” He stopped himself abruptly on the verge of a confidence. “I think I saw you on your way to the photographer to-day,” he said, and Ellen blushed, remembering her aunt Eva's violent nudge, and wondering if he had noticed. She gave him a piteous glance.
“Yes,” she said. “All the girls have their pictures taken in their graduating dresses with their flowers.”
“You looked to me as if the picture would be a great success,” said Robert. He longed to ask for one and yet did not, for a reason unexplained to himself. He knew that this innocent, unsophisticated creature would see no reason on earth why he should not ask, and no reason why she should not grant, and on that account he felt prohibited. That night, after he had gone, Ellen wondered why he had not asked for one of her pictures, and felt anxious lest he should have seen the nudge.
“Well,” she said to herself, “if he finds any fault with anything that my mother has done, I don't want him to have one.”
Robert stayed a long time. He kept thinking that he ought to go, and also that he was bored, and yet he felt a singular unwillingness to leave, possibly because of his sense that the visit was in a measure forbidden by prudence. The longer he remained, the prettier Ellen looked to him. New beauties of line and color seemed to grow apparent in the soft glow from the hideous lamp. There was a wonderful starry radiance in her eyes now and then, and when she turned her head her eyeballs gleamed crimson and her hair seemed to toss into flame. When she spoke, he was conscious of unknown depths of sweetness in her voice, and it was so with her smile and her every motion. There was about the girl a mystery, not of darkness but of light, which seemed to draw him on and on and on without volition. And yet she said nothing especially remarkable, for Ellen was only a young girl, reared in a little provincial city in common environments. She would have been a great genius had she more than begun to glimpse the breadth and freedom of the outer world through her paling of life. She was too young and too unquestioning of what she had learned from her early loves.
“Have you always lived here in Rowe?” asked Lloyd.
“Yes,” said she. “I was born here, and I have lived here ever since.”
“And you have never been away?”
“Only once. Once I went to Dragon Beach and stayed a fortnight with mother.” She said this with a visible sense of its importance. Dragon Beach was some ten miles from Rowe, a cheap seashore place, built up with flimsy summer cottages of factory hands. Andrew had hired one for a fortnight once when Ellen was ailing, and it had been the event of a lifetime to the family. They hereafter dated from the year “we went to Dragon Beach.”