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!"
VIII
All day, since the late reluctant dawn, the rain had come down in torrents.It streamed against Darrow's high-perched windows, reduced their vast prospect of roofs and chimneys to a black oily huddle, and filled the room with the drab twilight of an underground aquarium.
The streams descended with the regularity of a third day's rain, when trimming and shuffling are over, and the weather has settled down to do its worst.There were no variations of rhythm, no lyrical ups and downs: the grey lines streaking the panes were as dense and uniform as a page of unparagraphed narrative.
George Darrow had drawn his armchair to the fire.The time-table he had been studying lay on the floor, and he sat staring with dull acquiescence into the boundless blur of rain, which affected him like a vast projection of his own state of mind.Then his eyes travelled slowly about the room.
It was exactly ten days since his hurried unpacking had strewn it with the contents of his portmanteaux.His brushes and razors were spread out on the blotched marble of the chest of drawers.A stack of newspapers had accumulated on the centre table under the "electrolier", and half a dozen paper novels lay on the mantelpiece among cigar-cases and toilet bottles; but these traces of his passage had made no mark on the featureless dulness of the room, its look of being the makeshift setting of innumerable transient collocations.There was something sardonic, almost sinister, in its appearance of having deliberately "made up"for its anonymous part, all in noncommittal drabs and browns, with a carpet and paper that nobody would remember, and chairs and tables as impersonal as railway porters.
Darrow picked up the time-table and tossed it on to the table.Then he rose to his feet, lit a cigar and went to the window.Through the rain he could just discover the face of a clock in a tall building beyond the railway roofs.
He pulled out his watch, compared the two time-pieces, and started the hands of his with such a rush that they flew past the hour and he had to make them repeat the circuit more deliberately.He felt a quite disproportionate irritation at the trifling blunder.When he had corrected it he went back to his chair and threw himself down, leaning back his head against his hands.Presently his cigar went out, and he got up, hunted for the matches, lit it again and returned to his seat.
The room was getting on his nerves.During the first few days, while the skies were clear, he had not noticed it, or had felt for it only the contemptuous indifference of the traveller toward a provisional shelter.But now that he was leaving it, was looking at it for the last time, it seemed to have taken complete possession of his mind, to be soaking itself into him like an ugly indelible blot.Every detail pressed itself on his notice with the familiarity of an accidental confidant: whichever way he turned, he felt the nudge of a transient intimacy...
