Chapter FOUR: I

Rosaleen went upstairs to the studio, where the party was still going on. It didn’t seem possible; she felt as if days had gone by, almost as if she were a ghost coming back from another world. Nothing had happened, and yet everything had changed. Still the same row, the same love-making, the same hectic gaiety. Apparently no one had noticed her hours’ absence; she didn’t count, anyway, except to Mr. Brindell, and he had long ago gone home.

She went on with her superfluous hospitality. She was neither sleepy nor tired, nor was she in any way annoyed by the prolongation of the party. She was willing to continue indefinitely, winding up the phonograph, filling glasses, now and then dancing with a solitary man; she was in a waking dream, completely indifferent to the real world about her.

II

Lawrence was sleeping soundly. Very cautiously Rosaleen got up and barefooted made her way across the dusty floor of the studio to a chair near the window.

It was very early, not yet five o’clock; before her lay the Square, lonely and calm under a pallid sky across which filmy white clouds went flying. She could see, faintly, the strong white arch and beyond it the long, misty avenue, where the rows and rows of lights still gleamed. Her mind was working rapidly and futilely, spinning like a wheel in a void. She saw everything, observed everything, with remarkable vividness. She heard two men’s voices come suddenly out of the early morning quiet, talking loudly in Italian, they began abruptly, from nowhere, with a ringing sound of footsteps; they disappeared as abruptly and left the square as quiet as before.

Yes; of course! It was Nick Landry she wanted to think about, that dear boy with his quiet laugh that was balm to her soul after the sneers, the guffaws, the hysteric shrieks she was obliged to hear every day. Nick with his fastidious ways, his reserve so like her own, with his divine youth.... She recalled with a smile his lean, dark face, his quick frown, his voice, his gestures. She allowed herself to dwell upon him, to think of him with undisguised tenderness and pain, because it was her farewell to him. He was like herself. He would not come any more. He was like herself; they would not meet again; he felt as she did, about this, and about all other things. The _difference_ between him and all these others with their Right to Love, their Right to Happiness, their Right to One’s Own Life! Both Nick and herself considered above all the Right of Other People to exist unmolested--Lawrence’s Rights, for instance....

Lawrence had shouted with laughter over those cheques from Nick. He had called him a sentimentalist. He said, and Ambrose Matthews said, and Enid said, and so many of the others said, that sentimentality was the curse of the world; that muddle-headed, unreasoning sentimentality was what ruined people’s lives. That the thing to be desired, the great panacea, was clear-sightedness, was enlightened self-interest. And yet Lawrence existed through her sentimentality and that of the good-humoured fellows who had lent their money. It was sentimentality which had caused Nick to help them, which now caused them to part....

Rosaleen observed that this fiercely scorned and detested sentimentality very often caused people to act with the greatest nobility. While common-sense and enlightened self-interest seemed frequently to bring forth incredible baseness.

She thought of things quite new to her; she saw life in a new, a larger way. She saw the desolate and bitter goal toward which her road led; and she was ready to set out on that road. It was the high moment of her life. It was the great triumph of her spirit, so horribly wounded, so valiant.

* * * * *

She was startled by the harsh voice of Lawrence, and turning she saw him standing in the doorway of the back room, in his dressing gown.

“What the devil are you doing?” he asked. “Why did you get up at this time? It’s just struck five.”

“Nothing,” said Rosaleen. “Just--thinking. I couldn’t get to sleep again. I thought I’d like to sit by the window and get some air....”

He laughed.

“I see!” he said. “Well, it’s as good a time as any other for a little chat--a little explanation.”

He groped his way in and sat down.

“Now, then!” he said. “Suppose you tell me where you went with that fellow last evening, eh?”

She was startled. She hadn’t thought he had noticed. He had said nothing, even when all the people had gone and they were alone together.

“Oh.... Just downstairs to the tea room!”

“And why?”

“Oh ... to talk quietly!”

“To borrow money?”

“No.”

“Why not? We have nothing in the house. Why didn’t you borrow?”

“I--didn’t want to.”

“Why not? Has the worm turned?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Just philandering, eh? Noble, high-minded philandering? A few tears and so on, for him to pity you? So that he’ll pay without being asked? Hypocrite! Coward! Oh, you cheap, cheap worthless little coward!”

“Lawrence!” she said. “Don’t be so unkind!”

“You’re not unkind, are you? Eh? You try to make a fool of me in the most charitable possible way. Eh? It doesn’t touch my heart, fair Rosaleen, because I don’t care a fig for you, but I have still a vestige of pride left! Enough to _curse_ you!” he ended, with sudden ferocity.

“Lawrence! You musn’t say that! You know I don’t make a--You know that I’m--loyal to you, always.”

“You lie. You sit there and tell that puppy how badly I treat you. He thinks you’re a martyr and I’m a bully. I’ve seen it this long time. The next time you see him you’ll recount _this_ scene, eh?”

“He’s gone. I’m not going to see him again.”

He laughed again.

“Gone, eh? Why? He got sick of you, I suppose. Who wouldn’t?”

“He _didn’t_ get sick of me!” said Rosaleen, quietly, but with a quivering lip.

“Ah!... Of course not!... He thought it was his duty to go? That’s the way those good little boys get themselves out of an awkward situation.”

“No!” said Rosaleen. “I--wanted him to go.”

“But it wasn’t _very_ hard to get rid of him, was it?”

“Yes! Yes! It was!” she cried.

“Then why did you do it, may I ask? His money was extremely useful.”

“Lawrence!” she cried, in a sort of despair. “Don’t you realise that all people aren’t--like that? Don’t you know that there are some _good_ people?”

“You mean yourself, I take it. You want me to realise how much better you are than me? Is that the idea?”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t mean myself. I meant him ... Mr. Landry. There _are_--good people. _He_ is good.”

“Do you love him?”

She was amazed and shocked.

“Do you?” he asked again.

She thought for a moment, and then she said, “No!” For it was not the love Lawrence meant.

“Do you love _me_?”

“I--I don’t know, Lawrence....”

“Then why, may I ask, do you stay with me?”

“I--because I--want to do what is right. I want to be--loyal.... I want to--to help you.”

“You don’t. You’re not really any use at all. You’re so slow and thick-witted. You can’t even make a living. You borrow money for me, it is true, but that’s not so hard. I could do that better alone. I’ve only endured you out of pity, because if I turned you out, you’d starve to death--or, as they say in the books--you would meet with ‘worse than death.’ You’ve no character.”

“You’re going too far!” she cried. “I can’t stand everything!”

“Oh, yes, you can! Instead of pride, you’ve got your sanctimonious self-satisfaction. You cry instead of hitting back.”

She clenched her hands and stood, with blazing cheeks, and passionately beating heart, fighting to keep silent.

“I _won’t_ hurt him!” she told herself. “He’s blind and lonely. No matter what he says, I’ll remember that I’m all he has in the world, and that he needs me. I _won’t_ say anything that will hurt him!”

“What are you doing now?” he asked. “Praying? That’s right. Pray for a pure heart and then ask for a little money, while you’re about it.”

There was a long pause.

“Well,” she said cheerfully, at last. “Let’s not quarrel, Lawrence! Shall we have breakfast?”

“A little less of the martyr, if you don’t mind. I suppose it’s as refreshing as a Turkish bath, isn’t it, to feel that you’ve given up all for duty?”

“But I don’t like it!” he cried, suddenly, in a voice that startled her. “Your renunciations and your nobilities and your resignations, and all the rest of your bag of tricks, nauseate me. I don’t really believe I can stand you any more.”

He lumbered over to the window and threw it open. Rosaleen flung herself upon him in terror, imagining that he was going to throw himself out. But he pushed her away violently.

“Taxi!” he bawled, in a voice that reverberated through the street. “Taxi!”

The horrible, bellowing voice filled Rosaleen with panic fear.

“Please, _please_ don’t!” she entreated. “Please, please, please don’t! Lawrence! I’ll telephone for a cab! Oh, _please_ do come in!”

But he bawled again.

“Taxi!”

And a voice below answered him.

“Hey! Keep calm! Here y’are!”

“Wait!” said Lawrence, and drew himself into the room again.

“Lawrence, what are you going to do!” she cried.

“Get dressed!” he said, “and be quick about it!”

She began to put on her clothes with cold and trembling hands. By the time she had finished, he was quite dressed and fumbling at the familiar hook for his overcoat and hat. Then he pulled down Rosaleen’s jacket.

“Here!” he said. “Put this on!”

“Oh, Lawrence!” she cried. “What----”

He lurched over to her and flung the jacket round her shoulders, and grasped her fiercely by the arm.

“Come on!” he said, with a laugh.

“Where?” she cried, but he did not answer.

He shut her into the cab, and spoke in a low tone to the driver; then he climbed in beside her, and they started off.

“Lawrence!” she entreated. “Don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for! Please, Lawrence, tell me where we’re going!”

But he never said a word. He lighted a cigar and leaned back, smoking, with a smile on his face.

She shook him frantically, she implored him; a great terror had taken possession of her. She tried to open the door and jump out; she didn’t care if she were killed, so long as she could escape from this horribly smiling man. But he pulled her back with an oath.

They went on and on; she didn’t notice where. At last they stopped before a house and Lawrence got out, pulling her after him; he stumbled up the steps and rang the bell. He stood there waiting, still grasping Rosaleen by the arm, hatless, shivering in the cold mist. At last the door was opened by a servant.

“Here’s a lady to see Mr. Landry!” cried Lawrence, and with a push he sent Rosaleen stumbling inside. Then----

“I give you back your sacrifice!” he called, with a laugh, and was gone, slamming the door behind him. She could hear him shouting with laughter all the way down the steps.

III

Rosaleen stood where she had fallen against the hat rack, while the maid stared at her. She couldn’t speak or move; it came across her mind that perhaps she was dying....

“You better sit down!” said the girl, moved by compassion. “You look sick!”

Rosaleen sank into a carved chair with an enormously high back; and the maid, on her way upstairs to fetch Mr. Landry, looked back and saw her there, erect, her feet modestly crossed, her trembling hands resting on the arms.

But when Nick came rushing down, she had gone.