“There’s only the telephone-book between us, you know,” she chose to soothe him.
“Ah, now I know something about you!” he said eagerly. They were out of the ballroom now; she cast a swift look down the stairs; and she was going away.
“I know now,” he said very quickly, “what I’ve never known before, for I’ve never before met a womanly woman. I know that in the beginning you are profound about superficial things, and that in the end you are superficial about profound things. And I know too, that when you are accused of that you will answer, oh so honestly: ‘But isn’t this how things do end, and is a flower less beautiful because it must die?’”
The wilful arrogance of that moment is quite the best thing in the extravagances of a cub’s life. Cheek so colossal and so uncalled-for, on such a very slight acquaintance, becomes something quite else, something much higher. And Magdalen Gray, following the men of middle years down the stairs, was gay where she had thought to be miserable—that young man was laughing at her, he was liking her with laughter! It was most unusual in men! It was quite pleasant and unusual....
CHAPTER III
1
In the days that followed, Ivor Marlay brooded upon her a great deal. He showed his youth, that fantastic youth of a young man’s secret longings, in the manner and absurdity of his brooding. He came to think of her as a strange and delicious phenomenon that had somehow happened—and which, he intensely hoped, would somehow happen again. He lavished on her all his curiosity; he fingered the texture of her; and then hastily drew back from this childish dalliance, for his mind seemed suddenly to have become so gross and the texture of her was so fine. He grew aware that she would leave him not a shred of vanity if she had her way with him—not that she would strip him of it, but he would have to strip himself in face of her. And he felt painfully ill at ease with himself, which is commonly the feeling of a very young man who is too impressed by a woman of thirty—and quality.
This deep impression of a first meeting may seem ridiculous to the superior amateur of sensations, but it was quite logical, really. Never before, after all, had he been charmed! And it was an exquisite sensation, to be charmed. Of course, he had often persuaded himself into being charmed—if you didn’t do that you were bored, and then where were you?—but never before had he been actually and actively charmed. And so potent was this enchantment that he had now no stomach for such relations—oh, quite vague things!—as had hitherto entertained him very passably.
The matter was not in the least mended by his frequently calling himself a silly ass; for there was always a secret voice telling him that his admiration was the outcome of a need—for “that kind of woman!” That first impression! He was so sure, he didn’t know why nor how, that “that kind of woman” could arouse a deep emotion without that aftermath of impurity which—even at three-and-twenty—taints so many of the fine passages of an adventurous life. And so Ivor longed for her, and guess-work made strange and lovely arabesques on a background of enchantment.
More than two weeks passed, and still he did not telephone to Mrs. Gray. He had made a brave show of determination when with her, but since then his mind had made her of fine texture, and its fineness appalled him. And after two weeks he couldn’t, for she would not remember his name, he would have to remind her of their meeting—oh, no, no! His vanity, his whole manhood, ran tumultuously away from the thought of her probable forgetfulness on the telephone! He could hear her answer to his name, he could hear her saying, softly, thoughtfully, questioningly, vaguely, “Yes?...” Oh, no! He would wait; he would just wait—but, after all, what for?