He was soon walking alone with her on the
terrace. He did not force the conversation, nor try to lead it to the
event of the evening, which, he felt, was more important than others
guessed. He knew also that she did not care to talk just then. He had
never had any difficulty in conversation with her--they had a singular
rapport. He had traveled much, seen more, remembered everything, was shy
to austerity with people who did not interest him, spontaneous with those
that did, and yet was never--save to serve a necessary purpose--a hail
fellow with any one. He knew that he could be perfectly natural with this
woman--say anything that became a man. He was an artist without
affectations, a diplomatic man, having great enthusiasm and some outer
cynicism. He had started life terribly in earnest before the world. He had
changed all that. In society he was a nervous organism gone cold, a
deliberate, self-contained man. But insomuch as he was chastened of
enthusiasm outwardly he was boyishly earnest inwardly.
He was telling Mrs. Detlor of some incident he had seen in South Africa
when sketching there for a London weekly, telling it graphically,
incisively--he was not fluent. He etched in speech; he did not paint. She
looked up at him once or twice as if some thought was running parallel
with his story.
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