It was then--after an interval of repose with compassionate but impecunious American friends in Paris--that Miss Viner had been drawn into the turbid current of Mrs.Murrett's career.The impecunious compatriots had found Mrs.Murrett for her, and it was partly on their account (because they were such dears, and so unconscious, poor confiding things, of what they were letting her in for) that Sophy had stuck it out so long in the dreadful house in Chelsea.The Farlows, she explained to Darrow, were the best friends she had ever had (and the only ones who had ever "been decent"about Laura, whom they had seen once, and intensely admired); but even after twenty years of Paris they were the most incorrigibly inexperienced angels, and quite persuaded that Mrs.Murrett was a woman of great intellectual eminence, and the house at Chelsea "the last of the salons"--Darrow knew what she meant? And she hadn't liked to undeceive them, knowing that to do so would be virtually to throw herself back on their hands, and feeling, moreover, after her previous experiences, the urgent need of gaining, at any cost, a name for stability; besides which--she threw it off with a slight laugh--no other chance, in all these years, had happened to come to her.
She had brushed in this outline of her career with light rapid strokes, and in a tone of fatalism oddly untinged by bitterness.Darrow perceived that she classified people according to their greater or less "luck" in life, but she appeared to harbour no resentment against the undefined power which dispensed the gift in such unequal measure.
Things came one's way or they didn't; and meanwhile one could only look on, and make the most of small compensations, such as watching "the show" at Mrs.
Murrett's, and talking over the Lady Ulricas and other footlight figures.And at any moment, of course, a turn of the kaleidoscope might suddenly toss a bright spangle into the grey pattern of one's days.
This light-hearted philosophy was not without charm to a young man accustomed to more traditional views.George Darrow had had a fairly varied experience of feminine types, but the women he had frequented had either been pronouncedly "ladies" or they had not.Grateful to both for ministering to the more complex masculine nature, and disposed to assume that they had been evolved, if not designed, to that end, he had instinctively kept the two groups apart in his mind, avoiding that intermediate society which attempts to conciliate both theories of life."Bohemianism" seemed to him a cheaper convention than the other two, and he liked, above all, people who went as far as they could in their own line--liked his "ladies" and their rivals to be equally unashamed of showing for exactly what they were.He had not indeed--the fact of Lady Ulrica was there to remind him--been without his experience of a third type; but that experience had left him with a contemptuous distaste for the woman who uses the privileges of one class to shelter the customs of another.
As to young girls, he had never thought much about them since his early love for the girl who had become Mrs.Leath.
That episode seemed, as he looked back on it, to bear no more relation to reality than a pale decorative design to the confused richness of a summer landscape.He no longer understood the violent impulses and dreamy pauses of his own young heart, or the inscrutable abandonments and reluctances of hers.He had known a moment of anguish at losing her--the mad plunge of youthful instincts against the barrier of fate; but the first wave of stronger sensation had swept away all but the outline of their story, and the memory of Anna Summers had made the image of the young girl sacred, but the class uninteresting.
Such generalisations belonged, however, to an earlier stage of his experience.The more he saw of life the more incalculable he found it; and he had learned to yield to his impressions without feeling the youthful need of relating them to others.It was the girl in the opposite seat who had roused in him the dormant habit of comparison.She was distinguished from the daughters of wealth by her avowed acquaintance with the real business of living, a familiarity as different as possible from their theoretical proficiency;yet it seemed to Darrow that her experience had made her free without hardness and self-assured without assertiveness.
The rush into Amiens, and the flash of the station lights into their compartment, broke Miss Viner's sleep, and without changing her position she lifted her lids and looked at Darrow.There was neither surprise nor bewilderment in the look.She seemed instantly conscious, not so much of where she was, as of the fact that she was with him; and that fact seemed enough to reassure her.She did not even turn her head to look out; her eyes continued to rest on him with a vague smile which appeared to light her face from within, while her lips kept their sleepy droop.
Shouts and the hurried tread of travellers came to them through the confusing cross-lights of the platform.A head appeared at the window, and Darrow threw himself forward to defend their solitude; but the intruder was only a train hand going his round of inspection.He passed on, and the lights and cries of the station dropped away, merged in a wider haze and a hollower resonance, as the train gathered itself up with a long shake and rolled out again into the darkness.
Miss Viner's head sank back against the cushion, pushing out a dusky wave of hair above her forehead.The swaying of the train loosened a lock over her ear, and she shook it back with a movement like a boy's, while her gaze still rested on her companion.
"You're not too tired?"
She shook her head with a smile.
"We shall be in before midnight.We're very nearly on time." He verified the statement by holding up his watch to the lamp.
She nodded dreamily."It's all right.I telegraphed Mrs.
