<h2><SPAN name="II" id="II"></SPAN>II</h2>
<p>When he had dutifully seen Miss Lorenzi off at the
ship, leaving her with as many flowers, novels, and
sweets as even she could wish, Stephen expected to
feel a sense of relief. But somehow, in a subtle
way, he was more feverishly wretched than when Margot was
near, and while planning to hurry on the marriage. He had
been buoyed up with a rather youthful sense of defiance of
the world, a hot desire to "get everything over." The flatness
of the reaction which he felt on finding himself free, at least
of Margot's society, was a surprise; and yet Stephen vaguely
understood its real meaning. To be free, yet not free, was
an aggravation. And besides, he did not know what to do or
where to go, now that old friends and old haunts had lost much
of their attraction.</p>
<p>Since the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lorenzi,
and especially since the famous interview, copied in all the
papers, he disliked meeting people he knew well, lest they
should offer good advice, or let him see that they were dying
to do so.</p>
<p>If it had been weak to say, "Be my wife, if you think I can
make you happy," one day when Margot Lorenzi had tearfully
confessed her love for him, it would be doubly weak—worse
than weak, Stephen thought—to throw her over now.
It would look to the world as if he were a coward, and it would
look to himself the same—which would be more painful in
the end. So he could listen to no advice, and he wished to
hear none. Fortunately he was not in love with any other
woman. But then, if he had loved somebody else, he would<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></SPAN></span>
not have made the foolish mistake of saying those unlucky,
irrevocable words to Margot.</p>
<p>Stephen would have liked to get away from England for a
while, but he hardly knew where to look for a haven. Since
making a dash through France and Italy just after leaving
Oxford, he had been too busy amusing himself in his own
country to find time for any other, with the exception of an
occasional run over to Paris. Now, if he stopped in England
it would be difficult to evade officious friends, and soon everybody
would be gossiping about his quarrel with Northmorland.
The Duchess was not reticent.</p>
<p>Stephen had not yet made up his mind what to do, or whether
to do anything at all in his brief interval of freedom, when a
letter came, to the flat near Albert Gate, where he had shut
himself up after the sailing of Margot. The letter was post-marked
Algiers, and it was a long time since he had seen the
writing on the envelope—but not so long that he had forgotten
it.</p>
<p>"Nevill Caird!" he said to himself as he broke the neat
seal which was characteristic of the writer. And he wondered,
as he slowly, almost reluctantly, unfolded the letter, whether
Nevill Caird had been reminded of him by reading the interview
with Margot. Once, he and Caird had been very good
friends, almost inseparable during one year at Oxford. Stephen
had been twenty then, and Nevill Caird about twenty-three.
That would make him thirty-two now—and Stephen
could hardly imagine what "Wings" would have developed
into at thirty-two. They had not met since Stephen's last year
at Oxford, for Caird had gone to live abroad, and if he came
back to England sometimes, he had never made any sign of
wishing to pick up the old friendship where it had dropped.
But here was this letter.</p>
<p>Stephen knew that Caird had inherited a good deal of money,
and a house in Paris, from an uncle or some other near relative;
and a common friend had told him that there was also an Arab<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></SPAN></span>
palace, very ancient and very beautiful, in or near Algiers.
Several years had passed since Nevill Caird's name had been
mentioned in his hearing, and lately it had not even echoed in
his mind; but now, the handwriting and the neat seal on this
envelope brought vividly before him the image of his friend:
small, slight, boyish in face and figure, with a bright, yet dreamy
smile, and blue-grey eyes which had the look of seeing beautiful
things that nobody else could see.</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Legs</span>,"</p>
</div>
<p>began the letter ("Legs" being the name
which Stephen's skill as a runner, as well as the length of his
limbs, had given him in undergraduate days).</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"Dear Legs,
I've often thought about you in the last nine years, and hope
you've occasionally thought of me, though somehow or other
we haven't written. I don't know whether you've travelled
much, or whether England has absorbed all your interests.
Anyhow, can't you come out here and make me a visit—the
longer it is, the more I shall be pleased. This country is interesting
if you don't know it, and fascinating if you do. My
place is rather nice, and I should like you to see it. Still better,
I should like to see you. Do come if you can, and come soon.
I should enjoy showing you my garden at its best. It's one of
the things I care for most, but there are other things. Do let
me introduce you to them all. You can be as quiet as you
wish, if you wish. I'm a quiet sort myself, as you may remember,
and North Africa suits me better than London or Paris.
I haven't changed for the worse I hope, and I'm sure you
haven't, in any way.</p>
<p>"You can hardly realize how much pleasure it will give me if
you'll say 'yes' to my proposal.</p>
<p style="{text-align: right;}">"Yours as ever</p>
<p style="{text-align: right;}"><span class="smcap">"Nevill Caird</span>, alias 'Wings,'"</p>
</div>
<p>Not a word of "the case," though, of course, he must know
all about it—even in Algiers. Stephen's gratitude went out<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></SPAN></span>
to his old friend, and his heart felt warmer because of the
letter and the invitation. Many people, even with the best
intentions, would have contrived to say the wrong thing in
these awkward circumstances. There would have been some
veiled allusion to the engagement; either silly, well-meant
congratulations and good wishes, or else a stupid hint of advice
to get out of a bad business while there was time. But Caird
wrote as he might have written if there had been no case, and
no entanglement; and acting on his first impulse, Stephen telegraphed
an acceptance, saying that he would start for Algiers
in two or three days. Afterwards, when he had given himself
time to think, he did not regret his decision. Indeed, he was
glad of it, and glad that he had made it so soon.</p>
<p>A few weeks ago, a sudden break in his plans would have
caused him a great deal of trouble. There would have been
dozens of luncheons and dinners to escape from, and twice
as many letters to write. But nowadays he had few invitations
and scarcely any letters to write, except those of business,
and an occasional line to Margot. People were willing to be
neglected by him, willing to let him alone, for now that he had
quarrelled with Northmorland and the Duchess, and had
promised to marry an impossible woman, he must be gently
but firmly taught to expect little of Society in future.</p>
<p>Stephen broke the news to his man that he was going away,
alone, and though the accomplished Molton had regrets, they
were not as poignant as they would have been some weeks
earlier. Most valets, if not all, are human, and have a weakness
for a master whose social popularity is as unbounded as
his generosity.</p>
<p>Molton's services did not cease until after he had packed
Stephen's luggage, and seen him off at Victoria. He flattered
himself, as he left the station with three months' wages in his
pocket, that he would be missed; but Stephen was surprised
at the sense of relief which came as Molton turned a respectable
back, and the boat-train began to slide out of the station. It<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></SPAN></span>
was good to be alone, to have loosed his moorings, and to be
drifting away where no eyes, once kind, would turn from him,
or turn on him with pity. Out there in Algiers, a town of which
he had the vaguest conception, there would be people who read
the papers, of course, and people who loved to gossip; but
Stephen felt a pleasant confidence that Nevill Caird would
know how to protect him from such people. He would not
have to meet many strangers. Nevill would arrange all
that, and give him plenty to think about during his weeks of
freedom.</p>
<p>Algiers seemed a remote place to Stephen, who had loved
life at home too passionately to care for foreign travel. Besides,
there was always a great deal to do in England at every season
of the year, and it had been difficult to find a time convenient
for getting away. Town engagements began early
in the spring, and lasted till after Cowes, when he was keen
for Scotland. Being a gregarious as well as an idle young
man, he was pleased with his own popularity, and the number
of his invitations for country-house visits. He could never
accept more than half, but even so, he hardly saw London until
January; and then, if he went abroad at all, there was only time
for a few days in Paris, and a fortnight on the Riviera, perhaps,
before he found that he must get back. Just after leaving
Oxford, before his father's death, he had been to Rome, to Berlin,
and Vienna, and returned better satisfied than ever with
his own capital; but of course it was different now that the
capital was dissatisfied with him.</p>
<p>He had chosen the night train and it was not crowded. All
the way to Dover he had the compartment to himself, and
there was no rush for the boat. It was a night of stars and
balmy airs; but after the start the wind freshened, and Stephen
walked briskly up and down the deck, shivering slightly at
first, till his blood warmed. By and by it grew so cold that
the deck emptied, save for half a dozen men with pipes that
glowed between turned-up coat collars, and one girl in a blue<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></SPAN></span>
serge dress, with no other cloak than the jacket that matched
her frock. Stephen hardly noticed her at first, but as men
buttoned their coats or went below, and she remained, his
attention was attracted to the slim figure leaning on the rail.
Her face was turned away, looking over the sea where the
whirling stars dipped into dark waves that sprang to engulf
them. Her elbows rested on the railing, and her chin lay in
the cup of her two hands; but her hair, under a blue sailor-hat
held down with a veil, hung low in a great looped-up plait,
tied with a wide black ribbon, so that Stephen, without wasting
much thought upon her, guessed that she must be very young.
It was red hair, gleaming where the light touched it, and the
wind thrashed curly tendrils out from the thick clump of the
braid, tracing bright threads in intricate, lacy lines over
her shoulders, like the network of sunlight that plays on the
surface of water.</p>
<p>Stephen thought of that simile after he had passed the girl
once or twice, and thinking of it made him think of the girl
herself. He was sure she must be cold in her serge jacket,
and wondered why she didn't go below to the ladies' cabin.
Also he wondered, even more vaguely, why her people didn't
take better care of the child: there must be some one belonging
to her on board.</p>
<p>At last she turned, not to look at him, but to pace back and
forth as others were pacing. She was in front of Stephen, and
he saw only her back, which seemed more girlish than ever
as she walked with a light, springing step, that might have
kept time to some dainty dance-music which only she could
hear. Her short dress, of hardly more than ankle length,
flowed past her slender shape as the black, white-frothing
waves flowed past the slim prow of the boat; and there was
something individual, something distinguished in her gait and
the bearing of her head on the young throat. Stephen noticed
this rather interesting peculiarity, remarking it more definitely
because of the almost mean simplicity of the blue serge dress.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></SPAN></span>
It was of provincial cut, and looked as if the wearer might
have bought it ready made in some country town. Her hat,
too, was of the sort that is turned out by the thousand and
sold at a few shillings for young persons between the ages of
twelve and twenty.</p>
<p>By and by, when she had walked as far forward as possible,
the deck rising under her feet or plunging down, while thin
spray-wreaths sailed by on the wind, the girl wheeled and had
the breeze at her back. It was then Stephen caught his first
glimpse of her face, in a full white blaze of electric light: and
he had the picture to himself, for by this time nearly every one
else had gone.</p>
<p>He had not expected anything wonderful, but it seemed to
him in a flash of surprise that this was an amazing beauty.
He had never seen such hair, or such a complexion. The
large eyes gave him no more than a passing glance, but they
were so vivid, so full of blue light as they met his, that he had
a startled impression of being graciously accosted. It seemed
as if the girl had some message to give him, for which he must
stop and ask.</p>
<p>As soon as they had passed each other, however, that curious,
exciting impression was gone, like the vanishing glint on a
gull's wing as it dips from sun into shadow. Of course she
had not spoken; of course she had no word to give him. He
had seemed to hear her speak, because she was a very vital
sort of creature, no doubt, and therefore physically, though
unconsciously, magnetic.</p>
<p>At their next crossing under the light she did not look at
him at all, and he realized that she was not so extraordinarily
beautiful as he had at first thought. The glory of her was
more an effect of colouring than anything else. The creamy
complexion of a very young girl, whipped to rose and white
by the sea wind; brilliant turquoise blue eyes under a glitter
of wavy red hair; these were the only marvels, for the small,
straight nose was exactly like most pretty girls' noses, and the<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></SPAN></span>
mouth, though expressive and sweet, with a short upper lip,
was not remarkable, unless for its firmness.</p>
<p>The next time they passed, Stephen granted the girl a certain
charm of expression which heightened the effect of beauty.
She looked singularly innocent and interested in life, which
to Stephen's mood seemed pathetic. He was convinced that
he had seen through life, and consequently ceased forever to
be interested in it. But he admired beauty wherever he saw
it, whether in the grace of a breaking wave, or the sheen on a
girl's bright hair, and it amused him faintly to speculate about
the young creature with the brilliant eyes and blowing red locks.
He decided that she was a schoolgirl of sixteen, being taken
over to Paris, probably to finish her education there. Her
mother or guardian was no doubt prostrate with sea-sickness,
careless for the moment whether the child paraded the deck
insufficiently clad, or whether she fell unchaperoned into the
sea. Judging by her clothes, her family was poor, and she
was perhaps intended for a governess: that was why they were
sending her to France. She was to be given "every advantage,"
in order to command "desirable situations" by and by.
Stephen felt dimly sorry for the little thing, who looked so
radiantly happy now. She was much too pretty to be a governess,
or to be obliged to earn her own living in any way.
Women were brutes to each other sometimes. He had been
finding this out lately. Few would care to bring a flowerlike
creature of that type into their houses. The girl had
trouble before her. He was sure she was going to be a
governess.</p>
<p>After she had walked for half an hour she looked round for
a sheltered corner and sat down. But the place she
had chosen was only comparatively sheltered, and presently
Stephen fancied that he saw her shivering with cold. He could
not bear this, knowing that he had a rug which Molton had
forced upon him to use on board ship between Marseilles and
Algiers. It was in a rolled-up thing which Molton called a<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></SPAN></span>
"hold-all," along with some sticks and an umbrella, Stephen
believed; and the rolled-up thing was on deck, with other
hand-luggage.</p>
<p>"Will you let me lend you a rug?" he asked, in the tone of
a benevolent uncle addressing a child. "I have one close by,
and it's rather cold when you don't walk."</p>
<p>"Thank you very much," said the girl. "I should like it,
if it won't be too much trouble to you."</p>
<p>She spoke simply, and had a pretty voice, but it was an
American voice. Stephen was surprised, because to find that
she was an American upset his theories. He had never heard
of American girls coming over to Paris with the object of training
to be governesses.</p>
<p>He went away and found the rug, returning with it in two or
three minutes. The girl thanked him again, getting up and
wrapping the dark soft thing round her shoulders and body, as
if it had been a big shawl. Then she sat down once more,
with a comfortable little sigh. "That does feel good!" she
exclaimed. "I <i>was</i> cold."</p>
<p>"I think you would have been wiser to stop in the ladies'
cabin," said Stephen, still with the somewhat patronizing air
of the older person.</p>
<p>"I like lots of air," explained the girl. "And it doesn't
do me any harm to be cold."</p>
<p>"How about getting a chill?" inquired Stephen.</p>
<p>"Oh, I never have such things. They don't exist. At
least they don't unless one encourages them," she replied.</p>
<p>He smiled, rather interested, and pleased to linger, since
she evidently understood that he was using no arts to scrape
an acquaintance. "That sounds like Christian Science," he
ventured.</p>
<p>"I don't know that it's any kind of science," said she. "Nobody
ever talked to me about it. Only if you're not afraid
of things, they can't hurt you, can they?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps not. I suppose you mean you needn't let your<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></SPAN></span>self
feel them. There's something in the idea: be callous as
an alligator and nothing can hit you."</p>
<p>"I don't mean that at all. I'd hate to be callous," she objected.
"We couldn't enjoy things if we were callous."</p>
<p>Stephen, on the point of saying something bitter, stopped in
time, knowing that his words would have been not only stupid
but obvious, which was worse. "It is good to be young," he
remarked instead.</p>
<p>"Yes, but I'm glad to be grown up at last," said the girl;
and Stephen would not let himself laugh.</p>
<p>"I know how you feel," he answered. "I used to feel like
that too."</p>
<p>"Don't you now?"</p>
<p>"Not always. I've had plenty of time to get tired of being
grown up."</p>
<p>"Maybe you've been a soldier, and have seen sad things,"
she suggested. "I was thinking when I first saw you, that
you looked like a soldier."</p>
<p>"I wish I had been. Unfortunately I was too disgustingly
young, when our only war of my day was on. I mean, the sort
of war one could volunteer for."</p>
<p>"In South Africa?"</p>
<p>"Yes. You were a baby in that remote time."</p>
<p>"Oh no, I wasn't. I'm eighteen now, going on nineteen.
I was in Paris then, with my stepmother and my sister. We
used to hear talk about the war, though we knew hardly any
English people."</p>
<p>"So Paris won't be a new experience to you?" said Stephen,
disappointed that he had been mistaken in all his surmises.</p>
<p>"I went back to America before I was nine, and I've been
there ever since, till a few weeks ago. Oh see, there are the
lights of France! I can't help being excited."</p>
<p>"Yes, we'll be in very soon—in about ten minutes."</p>
<p>"I am glad! I'd better go below and make my hair tidy.
Thank you ever so much for helping me to be comfortable."<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>She jumped up, unrolled herself, and began to fold the rug
neatly. Stephen would have taken it from her and bundled it
together anyhow, but she would not let him do that. "I like
folded things," she said. "It's nice to see them come straight,
and I enjoy it more because the wind doesn't want me to do it.
To succeed in spite of something, is a kind of little triumph—and
seems like a sign. Good-bye, and thank you once
more."</p>
<p>"Good-bye," said Stephen, and added to himself that he
would not soon again see so pretty a child; as fresh, as frank, or
as innocent. He had known several delightful American girls,
but never one like this. She was a new type to him, and more
interesting, perhaps, because she was simple, and even provincial.
He was in a state of mind to glorify women who were
entirely unsophisticated.</p>
<p>He did not see the girl getting into the train at Calais, though
he looked for her, feeling some curiosity as to the stepmother
and the sister whom he had imagined prostrate in the ladies'
cabin. By the time he had arrived at Paris he felt sleepy and
dull after an aggravating doze or two on the way, and had
almost forgotten the red-haired child with the vivid blue eyes,
until, to his astonishment, he saw her alone parleying with a
<i>douanier</i>, over two great boxes, for one of which there seemed
to be no key.</p>
<p>"Those selfish people of hers have left her to do all the work,"
he said to himself indignantly, and as she appeared to be having
some difficulty with the official, he went to ask if he could
help.</p>
<p>"Thank you, it's all right now," she said. "The key of
my biggest box is mislaid, but luckily I've got the man to believe
me when I say there's nothing in it except clothes, just
the same as in the other. Still it would be very, very kind
if you wouldn't mind seeing me to a cab. That is, if it's no
bother."</p>
<p>Stephen assured her that he would be delighted.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Have your people engaged the cab already," he wanted to
know, "or are they waiting in this room for you?"</p>
<p>"I haven't any people," she answered. "I'm all by myself."</p>
<p>This was another surprise, and it was as much as Stephen
could do not to blame her family audibly for allowing the child
to travel alone, at night too. The thing seemed monstrous.</p>
<p>He took her into the court-yard, where the cabs stood,
and engaged two, one for the girl, and one for her large
luggage.</p>
<p>"You have rooms already taken at an hotel, I hope?" he
asked.</p>
<p>"I'm going to a boarding-house—a <i>pension</i>, I mean," explained
the girl. "But it's all right. They know I'm coming.
I do thank you for everything."</p>
<p>Seated in the cab, she held out her hand in a glove which
had been cleaned, and showed mended fingers. Stephen shook
the small hand gravely, and for the second time they bade each
other good-bye.</p>
<p>In the cold grey light of a rainy dawn, which would have
suited few women as a background, especially after a night
journey, the girl's face looked pearly, and Stephen saw that
her lashes, darker at the roots, were bright golden at the turned-up
ends.</p>
<p>It seemed to him that this pretty child, alone in the greyness
and rain of the big foreign city, was like a spring flower
thrown carelessly into a river to float with the stream. He
felt an impulse of protection, and it went against his instincts
to let her drive about Paris unprotected, while night had hardly
yielded to morning. But he could not offer to go with her.
He was interested, as any man of flesh and blood must be interested,
in the fate of an innocent and charming girl left to
take care of herself, and entirely unfitted for the task; yet she
seemed happy and self-confident, and he had no right, even
if he wished, to disturb her mind. He was going away with<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></SPAN></span>out
another word after the good-bye, but on second thoughts
felt that he might ask if she had friends in Paris.</p>
<p>"Not exactly friends, but people who will look after me,
and be kind, I'm sure," she answered. "Thank you for taking
an interest. Will you tell the man to go to 278A Rue Washington,
and the other cab to follow?"</p>
<p>Stephen obeyed, and as she drove away the girl looked back,
smiling at him her sweet and childlike smile.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></SPAN></span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />