On that fourth morning, towards noon, Ivor was taking the air on the rather unkempt lawn. No one else seemed to be about that morning, no one had as yet come out of the long, low, white villa; though every now and then, as he passed near an open bedroom window, he heard voices: Julie Gabriel’s voice, Tarlyon’s laugh, and once the Cypress “cluck, cluck.”
Ivor was taking a little thought about what exactly he was doing as Virginia’s guest; and as he had very carefully not thought about it before, he now tried to put it to himself as bluntly as he could. How long was he going to stay, and what for, anyway? They didn’t wildly amuse him, these people, nor he them. Oh, yes, of course, Virginia was the reason, he admitted that. But he didn’t admit anything else; there was nothing else to admit. (There never is when one is thinking out a thing “bluntly.”) Virginia had been distant from him these last two days. He hadn’t felt in the least hurt about that—he didn’t expect anything. But he could not be rid of an idea that she was just letting things drift, in a rather helpless but defiant way: but perhaps she was always letting things drift in a rather helpless but defiant way: just letting things drift until something happened. Did she expect something to happen from him?... And he suddenly realised that he wasn’t in the least treating her as he might some one else. But he wasn’t treating her in any way at all! He was behaving like a polite old man....
Ivor loathed “fumbling about”—“messing about”; trying, he thought impatiently, to get at uncertain things uncertainly. There was an uncleanness in “fumbling about.” ... He wondered what, in particular, it was that Virginia liked in a man. One generally knew that with women. They generally told one. It was generally about the first thing a woman let one know about her, the kind of man she liked; and it was always interesting to know the kind of man a woman liked. But one couldn’t tell with Virginia: her men contradicted each other.... And then the figure of George Tarlyon came into his mind. He had barely spoken a direct word to Tarlyon since his coming—it hadn’t, he fancied, been expected of him. Tarlyon didn’t like him, it seemed. “There’s only one thing George hates in this world,” Virginia had said, “and that is to be disliked. It doesn’t happen often. But he feels you don’t like him, Ivor.” Well, that was a pity, because he had wanted to like him. He couldn’t help it. They always thought the worst, that kind of man; they thought it rather clever of them to think the worst, and other people thought it rather clever of them, too. He would never, about anything in the world, have any explanations to offer George Tarlyon, Ivor thought; he could go on thinking the worst until he burst. Good God, he had probably thought the worst that night he came to fetch Virginia at Nasyngton!
And then he thought of Virginia being attracted by Tarlyon, and loving him, adoring him perhaps, and being held by him even when she had found him out—odd, that, however attractive the man was! The things women create in men, for their own hurt generally! Even Virginia, an intelligent woman! Take a——
“Ivor!”
He spun round, tremendously interrupted. Virginia was ten yards away, walking towards him with her swift, easy stride. It occurred to him that this was the first morning he had seen her before luncheon.... Had he wanted gravity on Virginia’s face? Here was enough now, it was more evident about her than the golden sheen of the hair that framed it! Grave indeed Virginia looked, as she came to him. Her calling of his name from a distance was her only greeting, there was no smile to bear it company. Virginia looked her age this morning, for the first time. She came right to him.
“I am going away to-day,” she said quickly, “to Paris, I think. Are you coming with me, or will you stay here?”
“Of course I won’t stay,” he replied abruptly. “About time I went, anyway.”
And then she stamped her foot! Her eyes were dark, and she trembled a little.
“My God, have I always got to be asking you questions!” she cried. “First I had to ask you to come here, and now I’ve had to ask you to come away—don’t your lips form questions or what is it, Ivor Marlay?”