She shook her head, and there was a shadow over the brightness of her face. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “But I have enjoyed talking again with some one who knows and loves the best in art. After all,” she added with a note of determination, almost of defiance, “there is no reason why I shouldn’t sometime.”
“Then I may look for you again?” I asked.
She nodded as she moved out across the porch. “If you’ll promise to sell me any print I may choose. Good-by. And thank you so much, Mr. Sedgwick!”
She held out her hand. It was a hand for a sculptor to model, as beautiful and full of character as her face. (Comment by C. K.: Bosh!) Afterward I remembered that never again in our friendship did I see it ungloved. (Comment by C. K.: “Bosh” retracted. Some observation in that!)
“Au revoir, then,” I said; “but you have the advantage of me, you see. I don’t know what to call you at all.”
She hesitated; then, with a little soft quiver of her eyelids, which I afterward learned to identify as an evidence of amusement, said, “Daw is a nice name, don’t you think?” (Comment by C. K.: False name, of course; but highly probable first name is Marjorie.) “By the way, what time is it?”
“Quarter to five, Miss Daw.”
She smiled at the name. “King Cole will have to do his best, if I am to be back for dinner. Good-by.” (Comment by C. K.: Good! The place where she is staying is a good way off, assuming a seven-thirty dinner-hour; say twelve to fifteen miles.)
That was the first of many visits, of days that grew in radiance for me. It isn’t necessary for me to tell you, Kent, how in our talks I came to divine in her a spirit as wistful and pure as her face. You do not want a love story from me; yet that is what it was for me almost from the first. Not openly, though. There was that about her which held me at arms’ length: the mystery of her, her quickly-given trust in me, a certain strained look that came into her face, like the startled attention of a wild thing poised for flight, whenever I touched upon the personal note. Not that I ever questioned her. That was the understanding between us: that I should leave to her her incognita without effort to penetrate it.
While I talked, I sketched her and studied her. Young as she seemed, she had been much about the world, knew her Europe, had met and talked with men of many pursuits, and had taken from all sources tribute for her mind and color for her imagination. She had read widely, too, and had an individual habit of thought. Combined with all her cosmopolitanism was a quaint and profound purity of standards. I remember her saying once—it was one of her rare flashes of self-revelation—“I am an anomaly and an anachronism, a Puritan in modern society.” After her first visit she did not ride on her horse; but came across lots and through the side hedge, swinging down the hillside yonder with her light dipping stride that always recalled to me the swoop of a swallow, her gloved hands usually holding a slender stick.