“Yes, it is. Do you know her?”
“I took her in to dinner once at the Mertons,” said Meryon. After a pause he went on: “Do you know, Lal, there’s two other men after her. De Saumarez, who I’ve told you about, is one, and Farquhar, the M.P.”
“Of course she likes one of them,” said Lal, after another pause. “I hope it isn’t Farquhar. I dislike that fellow.”
“I thought he was all that’s virtuous. You never caught him out in any tricks, did you?”
“Not I! But I’d rather she married a gentleman.”
“I always thought he was an awful swell,” said Meryon, meekly.
Lal coloured and laughed, and glanced up through his eyelashes. “I am a conceited, dogmatic prig; how can you possibly tolerate me, Meryon?” he said. “I’ve talked about myself long enough; now let’s hear what you’ve been doing.”
They talked on for an hour or more, and then Meryon persuaded Lal to play to him, listening the while in quiet, uncritical enjoyment, and caressing the black kitten asleep on his knee. Meryon always stipulated for a piano in his room when his resources could be stretched to cover such a luxury. He was very fond of strumming out airs from the overtures and selections which he heard from bands at casinos; he had an ear for melody, but had never learned music. Lal, on the contrary, was a practised pianist; he played correctly, an achievement rare in these days; his execution was sure and delicate, his touch very clear, bright, and firm. He was very careful to hide this talent of his in a napkin. Meryon had come to hear of it by accident. Lal sat down and very quietly played through first a sonata by Mozart, then a courante of Bach’s. His taste was for the orderly, old-fashioned music; he hated Wagner, and thought even Mendelssohn too fond of innovations. Did not he say of himself that he was dogmatic? But he gave Meryon great pleasure.
Later, Lal went home; and Meryon, after seeing him off by one train, waited on the platform and himself followed by the next. From Monkswell station he walked to Fanes, but Dolly had not yet come in, nor had Bernard. Meryon would not wait; he strolled up the Swanborough road in the hope of meeting her. Nor was he disappointed. A mile up the road he saw a girl leading a horse down the hill, and by her supple, slim young figure and the brightness of her hair he recognised Miss Fane. The steepness of Hungrygut Bottom plus the violent snortings of a steam-roller had again proved too much for the nerves of the chestnut; he bolted down the hill and almost kicked the cart to pieces before Dolly, who had jumped out, could catch and quell him. She left the dog-cart for repair at Dove Green, the next village, and led Vronsky home. Her dark cloth dress had a long skirt, which she held up gracefully, like a French girl, with curved wrist and prettily bent hand. She came on, looking straight before her; her lips were hard and her face was hard; no melting mood was hers. Irony, and a stiff-necked refusal to bend before the blast were Dolly’s armour against trouble; she was bitterly humiliated, and would not cede an inch to humiliation. Certain constricting bands seemed to have closed round her heart; she had not spent so long a day since she was seven and waited outside her mother’s room for the news of her death.
“Let me lead the horse, won’t you?” said Meryon, turning to walk with her. Meryon was polite by instinct, as Dolly was graceful.