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Noel raised the glass he had given her. "I wish you all happiness." "And you, mademoiselle," the two men murmured. She drank a little, and rose. "And now, mademoiselle," said Lavendie, "if you must go, I will see you home." Noel took Madame Lavendie's hand; it was cold, and returned no pressure; her eyes had the glazed look that she remembered.
Good luck, mademoiselle!" and he chinked his glass with hers. Noel sipped, held it away, and sipped again. "It's nice; but awfully sticky. May I have a cigarette?" "Des cigarettes," said Lavendie to the waiter, "Et deux cafes noirs.
He received the telegram from Noel in the afternoon of the same day, just as he was about to set out for Leila's to get news of her; and close on the top of it came Lavendie. He found the painter standing disconsolate in front of his picture. "Mademoiselle has deserted me?" "I'm afraid we shall all desert you soon, monsieur." "You are going?" "Yes, I am leaving here. I hope to go to France."
He tried to be with Noel as much as possible; and in the evenings they sometimes went walks together, without ever talking of what was always in their minds. Between six and eight the girl was giving sittings to Lavendie in the drawing-room, and sometimes Pierson would come there and play to them. He was always possessed now by a sense of the danger Noel ran from companionship with any man.
"I don't know if I have great confidence in Him," replied Lavendie, "but I shall ever remember that so good a man as you has wished it. To mademoiselle my distinguished salutations, if you please. If you will permit me, I will come back for my other things to-morrow." And carrying easel and canvas, he departed.
She was quite close to the place where Lavendie had taken her. Should she go in there? Why not? She must go somewhere. She turned into the revolving cage of glass. But no sooner was she imprisoned there than in a flash Lavendie's face of disgust; and the red-lipped women, the green stuff that smelled of peppermint came back, filling her with a rush of dismay.
My wife wonders if it exists at all except in the human mind but she can't explain what the human mind is. My father-in-law thinks that it is God's hobby but he can't explain who or what God is. Nollie is silent. And Monsieur Lavendie hasn't yet told us what he thinks. What do you think, monsieur?"
Lavendie said impatiently: "Voyons, Henriette, causez d'autre chose." His wife plucked nervously at a fold in her red gown, and gave him the look of a dog that has been rebuked. "I am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, I never leave the house. Here I live day after day my husband is always painting. Who would go out alone under this grey sky of yours, and the hatreds of the war in every face?
Monsieur Lavendie has been round in the evening, twice; he is a nice man, I like him very much, in spite of our differences of view. He wanted to give me the sketch he made of you in the Park, but what can I do with it now? And to tell you the truth, I like it no better than the oil painting. It is not a likeness, as I know you.
He suddenly ceased speaking and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, with his bearded cheeks resting on his fists. "And their souls as white as snow, les camarades," he added suddenly and loudly, "millions of Belgians, English, French, even the Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!" A little shiver ran through Noel, and she looked appealingly at Lavendie.
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