I repeat she is indecently beautiful. A chit of a girl of eighteen (for that I learn is her age) has no right to flaunt the beauty that should be the appanage of the woman of seven and twenty. She should be modestly well-favoured, as becomes her childish stage of development. She looked incongruous among my sober books, and I regarded her with some resentment. I dislike the exotic. I prefer geraniums to orchids. I have a row of pots of the former on my balcony, and the united efforts of Stenson, Antoinette, and myself have not yet succeeded in making them bloom; but I love the unassuming velvety leaves. Carlotta is a flaring orchid and produces on my retina a sensation of disquiet.
I broke the tidings of the tragedy as gently as I could. I had news of Harry, I said, gravely. She merely looked interested and asked me when he was coming.
“I’m afraid he will never come,” said I.
“If he does not come, then I can stay here with you?”
Her eyes betrayed a quiver of anxiety. For the life of me I could not avoid the ironical.
“If you will condescend to dwell as a member of my family beneath my humble roof.”
The irony was lost on her. She uttered a joyous little cry and held out both her hands to me. Her eyes danced.
“Oh, I am glad he is not coming. I don’t like him any more. I love to stay here with you.”
I took both the hands in mine. Mortal man could not have done otherwise.
“Have you thought why it is that you will never see Harry again?”