A summer girl who passed lowered her eyes coquettishly. He watched her
without stirring. Even to open his mouth or to smile would have seemed
too much exertion. Thus he lay for hours. When at length noon drew nigh, it cost him a
great effort of will to shake off his drowsy mood and exchange his airy
costume for the conventional habilaments of the dining-room. He had taken lodgings in a fashionable hotel. An unusual stroke of good
luck, hack-work that paid outrageously well, had made it possible for
him to idle for a time without a thought of the unpleasant necessity of
making money. One single article to which he signed his name only with reluctance had
brought to him more gear than a series of golden sonnets. "Surely," he thought, "the social revolution ought to begin from above. What right has the bricklayer to grumble when he receives for a week's
work almost more than I for a song?" Thus soliloquising, he reached the dining-room. The scene that unfolded
itself before him was typical--the table over-loaded, the women
over-dressed. The luncheon was already in full course when he came. He mumbled an
apology and seated himself on the only remaining chair next to a youth
who reminded him of a well-dressed dummy. With slight weariness his eyes
wandered in all directions for more congenial faces when they were
arrested by a lady on the opposite side of the table. She was clad in a
silk robe with curiously embroidered net-work that revealed a nervous
and delicate throat. The rich effect of the net-work was relieved by the
studied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut-colored hair was
gathered in a single knot. Her face was turned away from him, but there
was something in the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar. When at last she looked him in the face, the glass almost fell from his
hand: it was Ethel Brandenbourg. She seemed to notice his embarrassment
and smiled. When she opened her lips to speak, he knew by the haunting
sweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken. "Tell me," she said wistfully, "you have forgotten me? They all have." He hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her. He recollected
now that he had first been introduced to her in Walkham's house some
years ago, when a mere college boy, he had been privileged to attend one
of that master's famous receptions. She had looked quite resolute and
very happy then, not at all like the woman who had stared so strangely
at Reginald in the Broadway restaurant. He regarded this encounter as very fortunate. He knew so much of her
personal history that it almost seemed to him as if they had been
intimate for years. She, too, felt on familiar ground with him. Neither
as much as whispered the name of Reginald Clarke. Yet it was he, and the
knowledge of what he was to them, that linked their souls with a common
bond. XIV


It was the third day after their meeting. Hour by hour their intimacy
had increased. Ethel was sitting in a large wicker-chair. She restlessly
fingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic circles in the sand. Ernest lay at her feet. With his knees clasped between his hands, he
gazed into her eyes. "Why are you trying so hard to make love to me?" the woman asked, with
the half-amused smile with which the Eve near thirty receives the homage
of a boy. There is an element of insincerity in that smile, but it is a
weapon of defence against love's artillery. Sometimes, indeed, the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of the
blood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. She listens, loves and
loses. Ethel Brandenbourg was listening, but the idea of love had not yet
entered into her mind. Her interest in Ernest was due in part to his
youth and the trembling in his voice when he spoke of love. But what
probably attracted her most powerfully was the fact that he intimately
knew the man who still held her woman's heart in the hollow of his hand. It was half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question. Why did he make love to her? He did not know. Perhaps it was the
irresistible desire to be petted which young poets share with
domesticated cats. But what should he tell her? Polite platitudes were
out of place between them. Besides he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements. Women treat
love as if it were an extremely tenuous wire that can be drawn out
indefinitely. This is a very expensive process. It costs us the most
precious, the only irretrievable thing in the universe--time. And to him
time was song; for money he did not care. The Lord had hallowed his lips
with rhythmic speech; only in the intervals of his singing might he
listen to the voice of his heart--strangest of all watches, that tells
the time not by minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love. The woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts. "Child, child," she said, "why will you toy with love? Like Jehovah, he
is a jealous god, and nothing but the whole heart can placate him. Woe
to the woman who takes a poet for a lover. I admit it is fascinating,
but it is playing _va banque_. In fact, it is fatal. Art or love will
come to harm. No man can minister equally to both. A genuine poet is
incapable of loving a woman." "Pshaw! You exaggerate. Of course, there is a measure of truth in what
you say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know,
is always Janus-faced. In fact, it often has more than two faces. I can
assure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry
was written. And you will not deny that it is genuine." "God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You should
have said that it was written at them." Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder. "By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed. After a little silence he said not without hesitation: "And do you apply
your theory to all artists, or only to us makers of rhyme?" "To all," she replied. He looked at her questioningly. "Yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "I, too, have paid the
price." "You mean?" "I loved." "And art?" "That was the sacrifice." "Perhaps you have chosen the better part," Ernest said without
conviction. "No," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain." This she said calmly, but Ernest knew that her words were of tragic
import. "You love him still?" he observed simply. Ethel made no reply. Sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a grey
mist over the face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea,
following the sombre flight of the sea-mews. In that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her with
infinite tenderness. But tenderness between man and woman is like a match in a
powder-magazine. The least provocation, and an amorous explosion will
ensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic affection. If he
yielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide would
set their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape. "Come, come," she said, "you do not love me." He protested.