GLEBE.
Wed.
Dear B.—Does your mourning prevent you from looking at a damned good picture? If not, come round to the studio to-morrow any time after lunch and have a squint at a king in the underworld.
D. G.
At once her feeling of acute boredom left her, was replaced by a keen sense of excitement. She realized immediately that at last Garstin had finished his picture, that at last he had satisfied himself. She had not seen Garstin since the day when she had heard of her father’s death. Nor had she seen Arabian. Characteristically, Garstin had not taken the trouble to send her a letter of condolence. He never bothered to do anything conventional. If he had written he would probably had congratulated her on coming into a fortune. Arabian’s sympathy had already been expressed. Naturally, therefore, he had not written to her. But he had made no sign in all these days, had not left a card, had not attempted to see her. Day after day she had wondered whether he would do something, give some evidence of life, of intention. Nothing! He had just let her alone. But in his inaction she had felt him intensely, far more than she felt other men in their actions. He had, as it were, surrounded her with his silence, had weighed upon her by his absence. She feared and was fascinated by his apparent indifference, as formerly, when with him, she had feared and been fascinated by his reticence of speech and of conduct. Only once had he taken the initiative with her, when he had ordered the taxi-cab driver to go to Rose Tree Gardens. And even then, when he had had her there alone in his flat, nothing had happened. And he had let her go without any attempt to detain her.
In his passivity there was something hypnotic which acted upon her. She felt it charged with power, with intention, even almost with brutality. There was a great cry for her in his silence.
She did not answer Garstin’s note. That was not necessary. She knew she would see him on the morrow.
Directly after lunch on the following day she walked to Glebe Place, wondering whether Arabian would be there.
As usual, Garstin answered the door and covered her with a comprehensive glance as she stood on the doorstep.
“Black suits you,” he said. “You ought never to go out of mourning.”