“You’re trying to put me off. Please
go on with the story.” Miss Wilkinson,
with a little laugh, went on. The art-student
had passed her several times on the stairs, and she
had paid no particular attention. She saw that
he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely.
And one day she found a letter slipped under her door.
It was from him. He told her that he had adored
her for months, and that he waited about the stairs
for her to pass. Oh, it was a charming letter!
Of course she did not reply, but what woman could
help being flattered? And next day there was
another letter! It was wonderful, passionate,
and touching. When next she met him on the stairs
she did not know which way to look. And every
day the letters came, and now he begged her to see
him. He said he would come in the evening, vers
neuf heures, and she did not know what to do.
Of course it was impossible, and he might ring and
ring, but she would never open the door; and then
while she was waiting for the tinkling of the bell,
all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. She
had forgotten to shut the door when she came in.
“C’etait une fatalite.”
“And what happened then?” asked Philip.
“That is the end of the story,” she replied,
with a ripple of laughter.
Philip was silent for a moment. His heart beat
quickly, and strange emotions seemed to be hustling
one another in his heart. He saw the dark staircase
and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness
of the letters—oh, he would never have
dared to do that—and then the silent, almost
mysterious entrance. It seemed to him the very
soul of romance.
“What was he like?”
“Oh, he was handsome. Charmant garcon.”
“Do you know him still?”
Philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked
this.
“He treated me abominably. Men are always
the same. You’re heartless, all of you.”
“I don’t know about that,” said
Philip, not without embarrassment.
“Let us go home,” said Miss Wilkinson.
XXXIII
Philip could not get Miss Wilkinson’s story
out of his head. It was clear enough what she
meant even though she cut it short, and he was a little
shocked. That sort of thing was all very well
for married women, he had read enough French novels
to know that in France it was indeed the rule, but
Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father
was a clergyman. Then it struck him that the
art-student probably was neither the first nor the
last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never
looked upon Miss Wilkinson like that; it seemed incredible
that anyone should make love to her. In his ingenuousness
he doubted her story as little as he doubted what
he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful
things never happened to him. It was humiliating
that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon his telling her
of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing
to tell. It was true that he had some power of
invention, but he was not sure whether he could persuade
her that he was steeped in vice; women were full of
intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover
that he was fibbing. He blushed scarlet as he
thought of her laughing up her sleeve.
