"We won't dispute about terms, Miss Tenterden. I gather that Miss Judith is not technically in town. I suppose she's going on somewhere—that's it, isn't it?"
"Oh yes—and, please, it's such fun, Mr. Challis. She's going to Biarritz to stay, and take me, and I'm to learn to speak French." Evidently there was one little maid in this world having a high old time, and determined to make the most of it.
There was an island on a rug in the back-parlour—the sole outbreak of visible furniture in a wilderness of brown holland, and rolled-up carpets, and chandeliers in bags, and pictures whose backs provoked an interest none had ever felt in their faces. "Like some females," thought Challis, as he picked his way to the island through the débris. On the island was its Calypso, the only member of The Family in town.
Judith was as beautiful as ever, as she extended both hands to him. "I'm so glad the child caught you, Scroop," said she. Absolute self-possession!—Estrildis herself could not have been more collected. "But I'm sorry for things. Now sit down and let us talk reasonably.... Yes—there!" This was to Cintilla, fixing a nicely chosen distance for Challis, neither too far nor too near. Cintilla would have liked to supply a chair a little nearer; she had no idea of people being so artificial.
Challis's self-possession was far from absolute. In fact, he was tremulous. "You were good to send that letter," he said. But the last word sounded like "letterm," as he checked his speech short.
"You were going to say 'Miss Arkroyd,'" said she. "At least, do not let us be prigs. Call me Judith—at least, for now."
Could it matter, either way? "You were good to send that letter, Judith," he repeated. "But, as I told you, it did no good—has done no good." For he had written as much, and some more, to Royd. But his pen had always stopped short of a full account of his desolation.
"I suppose we're all human," said she absently; and the remark seemed to want application. "What leads you to suppose she will never forgive you? What she says?" Challis shook his head. "Her manner?... No?—then what?"
"You don't understand.... Well!—I have never told you, certainly. Marianne ... I have never succeeded in seeing her. She and her mother have gone away from London, and in order that my boy may not be separated from his sisters, I have been obliged to promise not to follow them." He explained the position more fully.
Judith laughed, and Challis heard nothing sinister in her laugh. But, then, he was on Calypso's island.