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Audrey waved her hand toward the house she had left. "He is there. Let us make haste." As she spoke she descended the steps, and, evading his eager hand, stepped into the canoe. He looked at her doubtfully, half afraid, so strange was it to see her sitting there, so like a spirit from the land beyond the sun, a revenant out of one of old Pierre's wild tales, had she come upon him.
"It is very kind of you, but really if you will excuse me I think I would prefer not to remain. I feel somewhat bouleversee. And I am so distressed to have been the unwitting cause of spoiling your charming party." Audrey hesitated. "Of course, if you would really rather go " she began. "I would rather," persisted Elisabeth with a gentle inflexibility of purpose.
It was very fortunate, thought Audrey, that the Widow Constance had once, long ago, taught her to dance, and that, when they were sent to gather nuts or myrtle berries or fagots in the woods, she and Barbara were used to taking hands beneath the trees and moving with the glancing sunbeams and the nodding saplings and the swaying grapevine trailers.
Moncreiff, which you asked me to keep, and which I have kept. It was here, at this very spot, with my old barge-yacht, that I first had the pleasure of meeting you. And I thought ... perhaps you had reasons.... However, your secret is safe." "How nice you are, Mr. Gilman!" Audrey said, with a gentle smile. "You're kindness itself. But there is nothing to trouble about, really.
But he decided against it. It was possible, for one thing, that Audrey still did not wish her presence in town known. If she did, she would tell Natalie herself. And it was possible, too, that she wanted to discuss Chris, and the reason for his going. He felt a real sense of relief, when at last he saw her, to find her looking much the same as ever. He hardly knew what he had expected.
In the room upstairs lay Darden's Audrey, with crossed hands and head put slightly back. She lay still, upon the edge of death, nor seemed to care that it was so. Her eyes were closed, and at intervals one sitting at the bed head laid touch upon her pulse, or held before her lips a slight ringlet of her hair.
"I heard him in the Ternes Quarter somewhere. He plays very agreeably. Madame," he addressed Audrey. "I was discussing with these gentlemen whether it be not possible to define the principle of beauty in music. Once it is defined, my trade will be much simplified, you see. What say you?"
This was the first time she had heard him utter his dead wife's name. She had never heard anyone speak it. Audrey had evidently not been a much-beloved or regretted person. But she had had a son. Her primitive soul had scarcely dared to approach, even with awe, the thought of such a possibility for herself.
Big golden poppies on the hat, and a girdle at her waist of the same tawny hue, emphasized the rare colour of her eyes in shadow, brown like an autumn leaf, gold like amber when the sunlight lay in them and the whole effect was deliciously arresting. "You've been spending your substance in riotous purple and fine linen," pursued Audrey relentlessly.
"I have done it." "Then you are insane. There is no other possible explanation." She passed him, moving swiftly, and went into her bedroom. He heard her lock the door behind her. Audrey had made a resolution, and with characteristic energy had proceeded to carry it out. She was no longer needed at the recruiting stations.
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