The Firing Line Part 82

The girl coloured with pleasure, resting pensively above the key-board; but he had no further requests to make and presently she swung around on the piano-stool, looking at him.

"You sing all right; you are doing your part--as far as I can discover."

"There is nothing for you to discover that I have not told you," she said gravely. In her manner there was a subdued dignity which he had noticed recently--something of the self-confidence of the very young and unspoiled--which, considering all things, he could not exactly account for.

"Does that doddering old dancing-master of yours behave himself?"

"Yes--since you spoke to him. Mr. Bulder came to the school again."

"What did you say to him?"

"I told him that you wouldn't let me sing in 'The Inca.'"

"And what did Bulder say?"

"He was persistent but perfectly respectful; asked if he might confer with you. He wrote to you I think, didn't he?"

Malcourt nodded and lighted a cigarette.

"Dolly," he said, "do you want to sing _Chaske_ in 'The Inca' next winter?"

"Yes, I do--if you think it is all right." She added in a low voice: "I want to do what will please you, Louis."

"I don't know whether it's the best thing to do, but--you may have to."

He laid his cigarette in a saucer, watched the smoke curling ceilingward, and said as though to himself:

"I should like to be certain that you can support yourself--within a reasonable time from now--say a year. That is all, Dolly."

"I can do it now if you wish it--" The expression of his face checked her.

"I don't mean a variety career devoted to 'mother' songs," he said with a sneer. "There's a middle course between diamonds and 'sinkers.' You'll get there if you don't kick over the traces.... Have you made any more friends?"

"Yes."

"Are they respectable?"

"Yes," she said, colouring.

"Has anybody been impertinent?"

"Mr. Williams."

"I'll attend to him--the little squirt!... Who are your new friends?"

"There's a perfectly sweet girl in the French cla.s.s, Marguerite Barret.

I think she likes me.... Louis, I don't believe you understand how very happy I am beginning to be--"

"Do people come here?"

"Yes, on Sunday afternoons; I know nearly a dozen nice girls now, and those men I told you about--Mr. Snyder, Mr. Jim Anthony and his brother the artist, and Mr. Ca.s.s and Mr. Renwick."

"You can cut out Renwick," he said briefly.

She seemed surprised. "He has always been perfectly nice to me, Louis--"

"Cut him out, Dolly. I know the breed."

"Of course, if you wish."

He looked at her, convinced in spite of himself. "Always ask me about people. If I don't know I can find out."

"I always do," she said.

"Yes, I believe you do.... You're all right, Dolly--so far.... There, don't look at me in that distressed-dove fas.h.i.+on; I _know_ you are all right and mean to be for your own sake--"

"For yours also," she said.

"Oh--that's all right, too--story-book fidelity; my preserver ever!--What?--Sure--and a slow curtain.... There, there, Dolly--where's your sense of humour! Good Lord, what's changing you into a bread-and-b.u.t.ter boarding-school sentimentalist!--to feel hurt at nothing! h.e.l.lo! look at that kitten of yours climbing your silk curtains! Spank the rascal!"

But the girl caught up the kitten and tucked it up under her chin, smiling across at Malcourt, who had picked up his hat, gloves, and stick.

"Will you come to-morrow?" she asked.

"I'm going away for a while."

Her face fell; she rose, placed the kitten on the lounge, and walked up to him, both hands clasped loosely behind her back, wistfully acquiescent.

"It's going to be lonely again for me," she said.

"Nonsense! You've just read me your visiting list--"

"I had rather have you here than anybody."

"Dolly, you'll get over that absurd sense of obligatory regard for me--"

"I had _rather_ have you, Louis."

"I know. That's very sweet of you--and very proper.... You are all right.... I'll be back in a week or ten days, and," smilingly, "mind you have your report ready! If you've been a good girl we'll talk over 'The Inca' again and--perhaps--we'll have Mr. Bulder up to luncheon....

Good-bye."

She gave him her hand, looking up into his face.

"Smile!" he insisted.

She smiled.

So he went away, rather satiated with the pleasures of self-denial; but the lightly latent mockery soon broke out again in a smile as he reached the street.

"What a mess!" he grinned to himself. "The Tressilvains at Portlaw's!