Alicia was further occupied in bestowing small fragments of cress sandwich upon a terrier. “Fancy your being so sure,” she said, “that you could present her entertainingly!” She looked past him toward the light that came in at the draped window, and he was not aware that her regard held him fast by the way.
“Anyone could,” he said cheerfully. “She presents herself. One is only the humblest possible medium. And the most passive.”
Alicia's eyes were still attracted by the light from the window. It silhouetted a rare fern from Assam which certainly rewarded them.
“I like to hear you talk about her. Tell me some more.”
“Haven't I exhausted metaphor in describing her?”
“Yes,” said Miss Livingstone, with conviction; “but I'm not a bit satisfied. A few simple facts sometimes—sometimes are better. Wasn't it a little difficult to make her acquaintance?”
“Not in the very least. I saw her in A Woman of Honour, and was charmed. Charmed in a new way. Next day I discovered her address—it's obscure—and sent up my card for permission to tell her so. I explained to her that one would have hesitated at home, but here one was protected by the custom. And she received me warmly. She gave me to understand that she was not overwhelmed with tribute of that kind from Calcutta. The truthful ring of it was pathetic, poor dear.”
“That was in—”
“In February.”
“In February we were at Nice,” Alicia said, musingly. Then she took up her divining-rod again. “One can imagine that she was grateful. People of that kind—how snobbish I sound, but you know what I mean—are rather stranded in Calcutta, aren't they? They haven't any world here;” and, with the quick glance which deprecated her timid clevernesses, she added, “The arts conspire to be absent.”