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palaces of India。 He sat an hour … more than an hour； two hours …
and all the while no one came in。 His hostess was so good as to
remark； with her liberal humanity； that it was delightful they
weren't interrupted； it was so rare in London； especially at that
season； that people got a good talk。 But luckily now； of a fine
Sunday； half the world went out of town； and that made it better
for those who didn't go； when these others were in sympathy。 It
was the defect of London … one of two or three； the very short list
of those she recognised in the teeming world…city she adored … that
there were too few good chances for talk； you never had time to
carry anything far。
〃Too many things … too many things！〃 Paul said； quoting St。
George's exclamation of a few days before。
〃Ah yes； for him there are too many … his life's too complicated。〃
〃Have you seen it NEAR？ That's what I should like to do； it might
explain some mysteries；〃 her visitor went on。 She asked him what
mysteries he meant； and he said： 〃Oh peculiarities of his work；
inequalities； superficialities。 For one who looks at it from the
artistic point of view it contains a bottomless ambiguity。〃
She became at this； on the spot； all intensity。 〃Ah do describe
that more … it's so interesting。 There are no such suggestive
questions。 I'm so fond of them。 He thinks he's a failure …
fancy！〃 she beautifully wailed。
〃That depends on what his ideal may have been。 With his gifts it
ought to have been high。 But till one knows what he really
proposed to himself … ？ Do YOU know by chance？〃 the young man
broke off。
〃Oh he doesn't talk to me about himself。 I can't make him。 It's
too provoking。〃
Paul was on the point of asking what then he did talk about； but
discretion checked it and he said instead： 〃Do you think he's
unhappy at home？〃
She seemed to wonder。 〃At home？〃
〃I mean in his relations with his wife。 He has a mystifying little
way of alluding to her。〃
〃Not to me；〃 said Marian Fancourt with her clear eyes。 〃That
wouldn't be right； would it？〃 she asked gravely。
〃Not particularly； so I'm glad he doesn't mention her to you。 To
praise her might bore you； and he has no business to do anything
else。 Yet he knows you better than me。〃
〃Ah but he respects YOU！〃 the girl cried as with envy。
Her visitor stared a moment； then broke into a laugh。 〃Doesn't he
respect you？〃
〃Of course； but not in the same way。 He respects what you've done
… he told me so； the other day。〃
Paul drank it in； but retained his faculties。 〃When you went to
look at types？〃
〃Yes … we found so many： he has such an observation of them！ He
talked a great deal about your book。 He says it's really
important。〃
〃Important！ Ah the grand creature！〃 … and the author of the work
in question groaned for joy。
〃He was wonderfully amusing； he was inexpressibly droll； while we
walked about。 He sees everything； he has so many comparisons and
images； and they're always exactly right。 C'est d'un trouve； as
they say。〃
〃Yes； with his gifts； such things as he ought to have done！〃 Paul
sighed。
〃And don't you think he HAS done them？〃
Ah it was just the point。 〃A part of them； and of course even that
part's immense。 But he might have been one of the greatest。
However； let us not make this an hour of qualifications。 Even as
they stand；〃 our friend earnestly concluded； 〃his writings are a
mine of gold。〃
To this proposition she ardently responded； and for half an hour
the pair talked over the Master's principal productions。 She knew
them well … she knew them even better than her visitor； who was
struck with her critical intelligence and with something large and
bold in the movement in her mind。 She said things that startled
him and that evidently had come to her directly； they weren't
picked…up phrases … she placed them too well。 St。 George had been
right about her being first…rate； about her not being afraid to
gush； not remembering that she must be proud。 Suddenly something
came back to her； and she said： 〃I recollect that he did speak of
Mrs。 St。 George to me once。 He said； apropos of something or
other； that she didn't care for perfection。〃
〃That's a great crime in an artist's wife；〃 Paul returned。
〃Yes； poor thing！〃 and the girl sighed with a suggestion of many
reflexions； some of them mitigating。 But she presently added： 〃Ah
perfection； perfection … how one ought to go in for it！ I wish I
could。〃
〃Every one can in his way；〃 her companion opined。
〃In HIS way； yes … but not in hers。 Women are so hampered … so
condemned！ Yet it's a kind of dishonour if you don't； when you
want to DO something； isn't it？〃 Miss Fancourt pursued； dropping
one train in her quickness to take up another； an accident that was
common with her。 So these two young persons sat discussing high
themes in their eclectic drawing…room； in their London 〃season〃 …
discussing； with extreme seriousness； the high theme of perfection。
It must be said in extenuation of this eccentricity that they were
interested in the business。 Their tone had truth and their emotion
beauty； they weren't posturing for each other or for some one else。
The subject was so wide that they found themselves reducing it； the
perfection to which for the moment they agreed to confine their
speculations was that of the valid； the exemplary work of art。 Our
young woman's imagination； it appeared； had wandered far in that
direction； and her guest had the rare delight of feeling in their
conversation a full interchange。 This episode will have lived for
years in his memory and even in his wonder； it had the quality that
fortune distils in a single drop at a time … the quality that
lubricates many ensuing frictions。 He still； whenever he likes；
has a vision of the room； the bright red sociable talkative room
with the curtains that； by a stroke of successful audacity； had the
note of vivid blue。 He remembers where certain things stood； the
particular book open on the table and the almost intense odour of
the flowers placed； at the left； somewhere behind him。 These facts
were the fringe； as it were； of a fine special agitation which had
its birth in those two hours and of which perhaps the main sign was
in its leading him inwardly and repeatedly to breathe 〃I had no
idea there was any one like this … I had no idea there was any one
like this！〃 Her freedom amazed him and charmed him … it seemed so
to simplify the practical question。 She was on the footing of an
independent personage … a motherless girl who had passed out of her
teens and had a position and responsibilities； who wasn't held down
to the limitations of a little miss。 She came and went with no
dragged duenna； she received people alone； and； though she was
totally without hardness； the question of protection or patronage
had no relevancy in regard to her。 She gave such an impression of
the clear and the noble combined with the easy and the natural that
in spite of her eminent modern situation she suggested no sort of
sister…hood with the 〃fast〃 girl。 Modern she was indeed； and made
Paul Overt； who loved old colour； the golden glaze of time； think
with some alarm of the muddled palette of the future。 He couldn't
get used to her interest in the arts he cared for； it seemed too
good to be real … it was so unlikely an adventure to tumble into
such a well of sympathy。 One might stray into the desert easily …
that was on the cards and that was the law of life； but it was too
rare an accident to stumble on a crystal well。 Yet if her
aspirations seemed at one moment too extravagant to be real they
struck him at the next as too intelligent to be false。 They were
both high and lame； and； whims for whims； he preferred them to any
he had met in a like relation。 It was probable enough she would
leave them behind … exchange them for politics or 〃smartness〃 or
mere prolific maternity； as was the custom of scribbling daubing
educated flattered girls in an age of luxury and a society of
leisure。 He noted that the water…colours on the walls of the room
she sat in had mainly the quality of being naives； and reflected
that naivete in art is like a zero in a number： its importance
depends on the figure it is united with。 Meanwhile； however； he
had fallen in love with her。 Before he went away； at any rate； he
said to her： 〃I thought St。 George was coming to see you to…day；
but he doesn't turn up。〃
For a moment he supposed she was going to cry 〃Comment donc？ Did
you come here only to meet him？〃 But the next he became aware of
how little such a speech would have fallen in with any note of
flirtation he had as yet perceived in her。 She only replied： 〃Ah
yes； but I don't think he'll come。 He recommended me not to expect
him。〃 Then she gaily but all gently added： 〃He said it wasn't