But she will!cried Stephen desperately.She is a girl all delicacy and honour.And no woman of that kind,who has committed herself so into a mans hands as she has into mine,could possibly marry another.
How has she committed herself?asked Knight cunously.
Stephen did not answer.Knight had looked on his love so sceptically that it would not do to say all that he had intended to say by any means.
Well,dont tell,said Knight.But you are begging the question,which is,I suppose,inevitable in love.
And Ill tell you another thing,the younger man pleaded.You remember what you said to me once about women receiving a kiss.
Dont you?Why,that instead of our being charmed by the fascination of their bearing at such a time,we should immediately doubt them if their confusion has any GRACE in it--that awkward bungling was the true charm of the occasion,implying that we are the first who has played such a part with them.
It is true,quite,said Knight musingly.
It often happened that the disciple thus remembered the lessons of the master long after the master himself had forgotten them.
Well,that was like her!cried Stephen triumphantly.She was in such a flurry that she didnt know what she was doing.
Splendid,splendid!said Knight soothingly.So that all I have to say is,that if you see a good opening in Bombay theres no reason why you should not go without troubling to draw fine distinctions as to reasons.No man fully realizes what opinions he acts upon,or what his actions mean.
Yes;I go to Bombay.Ill write a note here,if you dont mind.
Sleep over it--it is the best plan--and write to-morrow.
Meantime,go there to that window and sit down,and look at my Humanity Show.I am going to dine out this evening,and have to dress here out of my portmanteau.I bring up my things like this to save the trouble of going down to my place at Richmond and back again.
Knight then went to the middle of the room and flung open his portmanteau,and Stephen drew near the window.The streak of sunlight had crept upward,edged away,and vanished;the zoophytes slept:a dusky gloom pervaded the room.And now another volume of light shone over the window.
There!said Knight,where is there in England a spectacle to equal that?I sit there and watch them every night before I go home.Softly open the sash.
Beneath them was an alley running up to the wall,and thence turning sideways and passing under an arch,so that Knights back window was immediately over the angle,and commanded a view of the alley lengthwise.Crowds--mostly of women--were surging,bustling,and pacing up and down.Gaslights glared from butchers stalls,illuminating the lumps of flesh to splotches of orange and vermilion,like the wild colouring of Turners later pictures,whilst the purl and babble of tongues of every pitch and mood was to this human wild-wood what the ripple of a brook is to the natural forest.
Nearly ten minutes passed.Then Knight also came to the window.
Well,now,I call a cab and vanish down the street in the direction of Berkeley Square,he said,buttoning his waistcoat and kicking his morning suit into a corner.Stephen rose to leave.
What a heap of literature!remarked the young man,taking a final longing survey round the room,as if to abide there for ever would be the great pleasure of his life,yet feeling that he had almost outstayed his welcome-while.His eyes rested upon an arm-chair piled full of newspapers,magazines,and bright new volumes in green and red.
Yes,said Knight,also looking at them and breathing a sigh of weariness;something must be done with several of them soon,I suppose.Stephen,you neednt hurry away for a few minutes,you know,if you want to stay;I am not quite ready.Overhaul those volumes whilst I put on my coat,and Ill walk a little way with you.
Stephen sat down beside the arm-chair and began to tumble the books about.Among the rest he found a novelette in one volume,THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE.By Ernest Field.
Are you going to review this?inquired Stephen with apparent unconcern,and holding up Elfrides effusion.
Which?Oh,that!I may--though I dont do much light reviewing now.But it is reviewable.
How do you mean?
Knight never liked to be asked what he meant.Mean!I mean that the majority of books published are neither good enough nor bad enough to provoke criticism,and that that book does provoke it.
By its goodness or its badness?Stephen said with some anxiety on poor little Elfrides score.
Its badness.It seems to be written by some girl in her teens.
Stephen said not another word.He did not care to speak plainly of Elfride after that unfortunate slip his tongue had made in respect of her having committed herself;and,apart from that,Knights severe--almost dogged and self-willed--honesty in criticizing was unassailable by the humble wish of a youthful friend like Stephen.
Knight was now ready.Turning off the gas,and slamming together the door,they went downstairs and into the street.