“The story I mean,” Alicia explained, “is to the effect that Mr. Bradley, who is married, but unimportantly, made a heavy bet, when he met this girl, that he would subdue her absolutely through her passion for her art—I mean, of course, her affections—”
“My dear girl, we know what you mean,” cried Mrs. Barberry, entering a protest as it were, on behalf of the gentlemen.
“And precisely the reverse happened.”
“One imagines it was something like that,” Lindsay said.
“Oh, did she know about the bet?” cried Mrs. Barberry.
“That's as you like to believe. I fancy she knew about the man,” Lindsay contributed again.
“Tables turned, eh? Daresay it served him right,” remarked Dr. Livingstone. “If you really want to come to the laboratory, Mrs. Barberry, we ought to be off?”
“He is going to show me a bacillus,” Mrs. Barberry announced with enthusiasm. “Plague, or cholera, or something really bad. He caught it two days ago, and put it in jelly for me—wasn't it dear of him! Good-bye, you nice thing”—Mrs. Barberry addressed Alicia—“Good-bye, Mr. Lindsay. Fancy—a live bacillus from Hong Kong! I should like it better if it came from fascinating Japan, but still—goodbye.”
With the lady's departure an air of wontedness seemed to repossess the room, and the two people who were left. Things fell into their places, one could observe relative beauty, on the walls and on the floor, in Alicia's hair and in her skirt. Little meanings attached themselves—to oval portraits of ladies, evidently ancestral, whose muslin sleeves were tied with blue ribbon, to Byzantine-looking Persian paintings, to odd brass bowls and faint-coloured embroideries. The air became full of agreeable exhalations traceable to inanimate objects, or to a rose in a vase of common country glass; and if one turned to Alicia one could almost observe the process by which they were absorbed in her and given forth again with a delicacy more vague. Lindsay sometimes thought of the bee, and flowers and honey, but always abandoned the simile as a trifle gross and material. Certainly as she sat there in her grace and slenderness and pale clear tints—there was an effect of early morning about her that made the full tide of other women's sunlight vulgar—anyone would have been fastidious in the choice of a figure to present her in. With a suspicion of haughtiness she was drawn for the traditional marchioness; but she lifted her eyes and you saw that she appealed instead. There was an art in the doing of her hair, a dainty elaboration that spoke of the most approved conventions beneath, yet it was impossible to mistake the freedom of spirit that lay in the lines of her blouse. Even her gracefulness ran now and then into a downrightness of movement which suggested the assertion of a primitive sincerity in a personal world of many effects. Into her making of tea, for example, she put nothing more sophisticated than sugar, and she ordered more bread and butter in the worst possible rendering of her servants' tongue, without a thought except that the bread and butter should be brought. Lindsay liked to think that with him she was particularly simple and direct, that he was of those who freed her from the pretty consciousness, the elegant restraint that other people fixed upon her. It must be admitted that this conviction had reason in establishing itself, and it is perhaps not surprising that, in the security of it, he failed to notice occasions when it would not have held, of which this was plainly one. Alicia reflected, with her cheek against the Afghan wolf-skins on the back of the chair. It was characteristic of her eyes that one could usually see things being turned over in them. She would sometimes keep people waiting while she thought. She thought perceptibly about Hilda Howe, slanting her absent gaze between sheltering eyelids to the floor. Presently she rearranged the rose in its green glass vase, and said, “Then it's impossible not to be interested.”
“I thought you would find it so.”