“Of course, he wouldn’t tell me, but I’m afraid he isn’t well. I seem to know when ill befalls any one dear to me.”
“It was a dull, hard-riding campaign, but he weathered it.”
“I feel him white and time-worn somehow, Routledge-san. It is his last time afield. He will need me always now—but we won’t talk of it.”
She led the way through the crowded streets—a cold, bright February afternoon, with the air cleanly crisp and much Parisian show and play about them. “I’ll take you to my studio, if you wish.... It is quiet and homey there. Most of my things are packed, but we can have tea.”
“I was planning to leave for London to-night,” he ventured.
“Of course—we’ll take the same boat. And to-morrow—to-morrow there will be things for a man to do in Cheer Street—getting ready for father.”
Both laughed. It seemed almost too joyous to Routledge.
“I can’t endure London—that is, I can’t live there when father is away,” she said presently. “It seems less lonely in Paris. London—certain days in London—seem to reek with pent tragedy. There is so much gray sorrow there; so much unuttered pain—so many lives that seem to mean nothing to the gods who give life. I suppose it is so everywhere, but London conceals it less.”
“Less than India?”
“Oh, but India has her philosophy. There is no philosophy in the curriculum of the East End.... I wish I could think about India as you do—calmly and without hate for the British ascendency there. At least, without showing my hatred. But it seems so scandalous and grotesque to me for a commercial people to dominate a spiritual people. What audacity for the English to suggest to the Hindus the way to conduct life and worship God! I am Jerry Cardinegh’s girl—when it comes to India and Ireland. It must be that which makes me hate London.”