Yet, somehow, Wilding did manage to book Vanya in Philadelphia––at a somewhat distant date, it is true––but it was something with which to begin the promised “nation-wide tour” under the auspices of Dawson B. Wilding.
Marya had money of her own, but trusted none of it in Wilding’s schemes. In fact, she had come to detest him thoroughly, and whenever he was announced she would rise like some beautiful, disgusted feline, which something has disturbed in her dim and favourite corner, and move lithely away to another room. And it almost seemed as though her little, warm, closely-chiselled ears actually flattened with bored annoyance as the din of Wilding’s vociferous greeting to Vanya arose behind her.
One day toward Christmas time, she said to Vanya, in her level, satin-smooth voice:
“You know, mon ami, I am tiring rapidly of this great fool who comes shouting and tramping into our home. And when I am annoyed beyond my nerve capacity, I am likely to leave.”
Vanya said gently that he was sorry that he had entered into financial relations with a man who annoyed her, but that it could scarcely be helped now.
He was seated at his piano, not playing, but scoring. And he resumed his composition after he had spoken, his grave, delicate head bent over the ruled sheets, a gold pencil held between his long fingers.
Marya lounged near, watched him. Not for the first 278 time, now, did his sweet temper and gentleness vaguely irritate her––string her nerves a little tighter until they began to vibrate with an indefinable longing to say something to arouse this man––startle him––awaken him to a physical tensity and strength.... Such as Shotwell’s for example....
“Vanya?”
He looked up absently, the beauty of dreams still clouding his eyes.