Is that all?” He laughed, relieved by her naturalness. “Look here; since we re talking as man to man–can’t you trust me about that too?”
“Trust you? How do you mean? You’d better not trust ME!” she laughed back sharply. “I might never be able to pay up!”
His gesture brushed aside the allusion. “Money may be the root of the matter; it can’t be the whole of it, between friends. Don’t you think one friend may accept a small service from another without looking too far ahead or weighing too many chances? The question turns entirely on what you think of me. If you like me well enough to be willing to take a few days’ holiday with me, just for the pleasure of the thing, and the pleasure you’ll be giving me, let’s shake hands on it. If you don’t like me well enough we’ll shake hands too; only I shall be sorry,” he ended.
“Oh, but I shall be sorry too!” Her face, as she lifted it to his, looked so small and young that Darrow felt a fugitive twinge of compunction, instantly effaced by the excitement of pursuit.
“Well, then?” He stood looking down on her, his eyes persuading her. He was now intensely aware that his nearness was having an effect which made it less and less necessary for him to choose his words, and he went on, more mindful of the inflections of his voice than of what he was actually saying: “Why on earth should we say good-bye if we’re both sorry to? Won’t you tell me your reason? It’s not a bit like you to let anything stand in the way of your saying just what you feel. You mustn’t mind offending me, you know!”
She hung before him like a leaf on the meeting of cross- currents, that the next ripple may sweep forward or whirl back. Then she flung up her head with the odd boyish movement habitual to her in moments of excitement. “What I feel? Do you want to know what I feel? That you’re giving me the only chance I’ve ever had!”
She turned about on her heel and, dropping into the nearest chair, sank forward, her face hidden against the dressing- table.
Under the folds of her thin summer dress the modelling of her back and of her lifted arms, and the slight hollow between her shoulder-blades, recalled the faint curves of a terra-cotta statuette, some young image of grace hardly more than sketched in the clay. Darrow, as he stood looking at her, reflected that her character, for all its seeming firmness, its flashing edges of “opinion”, was probably no less immature. He had not expected her to yield so suddenly to his suggestion, or to confess her yielding in that way. At first he was slightly disconcerted; then he saw how her attitude simplified his own. Her behaviour had all the indecision and awkwardness of inexperience. It showed that she was a child after all; and all he could do–all he had ever meant to do–was to give her a child’s holiday to look back to.
For a moment he fancied she was crying; but the next she was on her feet and had swept round on him a face she must have turned away only to hide the first rush of her pleasure.
For a while they shone on each other without speaking; then she sprang to him and held out both hands.
“Is it true? Is it really true? Is it really going to happen to ME?”
He felt like answering: “You’re the very creature to whom it was bound to happen”; but the words had a double sense that made him wince, and instead he caught her proffered hands and stood looking at her across the length of her arms, without attempting to bend them or to draw her closer. He wanted her to know how her words had moved him; but his thoughts were blurred by the rush of the same emotion that possessed her, and his own words came with an effort.
He ended by giving her back a laugh as frank as her own, and declaring, as he dropped her hands: “All that and more too– you’ll see!”