CHAPTER IX
Launa and Mr. Wainbridge drove to the concert—a private one—where Herr Donau was going to play the piano for his hostess—Lady Blake, Launa, and a friend.
The day was hot, terribly so. The heat rose from the ground, the houses, and the pavement; it struck one like a fiery draught from a furnace. Launa and Mr. Wainbridge were silent; they knew each other well enough to be so. He was pondering. Though he found her interesting he did not agree with her at all about many things, but therein lay her power of attracting him, for she did not care whether she did or not. She did not pretend this as many women do, when men always are aware of it.
“I am hot,” she said.
“And you look cool.”
“I am wishing to be where I could hear the river ripple, and hear the sound of the water as it curls over the rocks. I wish I could see the big lake where it widens, where the pines and the maples grow. Oh, the smell of the wind there!”
“Why won’t you come and sit in the park instead of going to hear Donau?”
“Because I can imagine myself in that far-off land when Donau is playing,” she answered. “I can shut my eyes and feel the wind; I see the water just rippled and then still. In the park it is civilised and hot; the trees are beautiful, but not like those I love. The grass is green, but the wind is parching, and it is town-laden; it is—” She stopped. “Who is that?”
He started at the tone of her voice. It was full of apprehension, of a sort of cold joy, as if she had fought, and was glad to be beaten.