Phillips was waiting for her in the vestibule. She had forgotten him; but now she felt glad of his humble request to be allowed to see her home. It would have been such a big drop from her crowded hour of triumph to the long lonely cab ride and the solitude of the hotel. She resolved to be gracious, feeling a little sorry for her neglect of him--but reflecting with satisfaction that he had probably been watching her the whole time.
"What's the matter with my tie?" he asked. "Wrong colour?"She laughed. "Yes," she answered. "It ought to be grey to match your suit. And so ought your socks.""I didn't know it was going to be such a swell affair, or Ishouldn't have come," he said.
She touched his hand lightly.
"I want you to get used to it," she said. "It's part of your work.
Put your brain into it, and don't be afraid.""I'll try," he said.
He was sitting on the front seat, facing her. "I'm glad I went,"he said with sudden vehemence. "I loved watching you, moving about among all those people. I never knew before how beautiful you are."Something in his eyes sent a slight thrill of fear through her. It was not an unpleasant sensation--rather exhilarating. She watched the passing street till she felt that his eyes were no longer devouring her.
"You're not offended?" he asked. "At my thinking you beautiful?"he added, in case she hadn't understood.
She laughed. Her confidence had returned to her. "It doesn't generally offend a woman," she answered.
He seemed relieved. "That's what's so wonderful about you," he said. "I've met plenty of clever, brilliant women, but one could forget that they were women. You're everything."He pleaded, standing below her on the steps of the hotel, that she would dine with him. But she shook her head. She had her packing to do. She could have managed it; but something prudent and absurd had suddenly got hold of her; and he went away with much the same look in his eyes that comes to a dog when he finds that his master cannot be persuaded into an excursion.
She went up to her room. There really was not much to do. She could quite well finish her packing in the morning. She sat down at the desk and set to work to arrange her papers. It was a warm spring evening, and the window was open. A crowd of noisy sparrows seemed to be delighted about something. From somewhere, unseen, a blackbird was singing. She read over her report for Mrs. Denton.
The blackbird seemed never to have heard of war. He sang as if the whole world were a garden of languor and love. Joan looked at her watch. The first gong would sound in a few minutes. She pictured the dreary, silent dining-room with its few scattered occupants, and her heart sank at the prospect. To her relief came remembrance of a cheerful but entirely respectable restaurant near to the Louvre to which she had been taken a few nights before. She had noticed quite a number of women dining there alone. She closed her dispatch case with a snap and gave a glance at herself in the great mirror. The blackbird was still singing.
She walked up the Rue des Sts. Peres, enjoying the delicious air.
Half way across the bridge she overtook a man, strolling listlessly in front of her. There was something familiar about him. He was wearing a grey suit and had his hands in his pockets. Suddenly the truth flashed upon her. She stopped. If he strolled on, she would be able to slip back. Instead of which he abruptly turned to look down at a passing steamer, and they were face to face.
It made her mad, the look of delight that came into his eyes. She could have boxed his ears. Hadn't he anything else to do but hang about the streets.
He explained that he had been listening to the band in the gardens, returning by the Quai d'Orsay.
"Do let me come with you," he said. "I kept myself free this evening, hoping. And I'm feeling so lonesome."Poor fellow! She had come to understand that feeling. After all, it wasn't altogether his fault that they had met. And she had been so cross to him!
He was reading every expression on her face.
"It's such a lovely evening," he said. "Couldn't we go somewhere and dine under a tree?"It would be rather pleasant. There was a little place at Meudon, she remembered. The plane trees would just be in full leaf.
A passing cab had drawn up close to them. The chauffeur was lighting his pipe.
Even Mrs. Grundy herself couldn't object to a journalist dining with a politician!
The stars came out before they had ended dinner. She had made him talk about himself. It was marvellous what he had accomplished with his opportunities. Ten hours a day in the mines had earned for him his living, and the night had given him his leisure. An attic, lighted by a tallow candle, with a shelf of books that left him hardly enough for bread, had been his Alma Mater. History was his chief study. There was hardly an authority Joan could think of with which he was not familiar. Julius Caesar was his favourite play. He seemed to know it by heart. At twenty-three he had been elected a delegate, and had entered Parliament at twenty-eight. It had been a life of hardship, of privation, of constant strain; but she found herself unable to pity him. It was a tale of strength, of struggle, of victory, that he told her.