you like. But I can’t see why you should want to. She’ll be rude for one thing; she’s always rude to my friends.”
“She made me feel like a tramp,” said Emmeline, bringing this out with a rush.
“No, she didn’t,” said Markie sharply. “And you wouldn’t mind if she had. I know quite well what she made you feel. Don’t be childish, Emmeline: the thing’s too absurd!”
While this discussion took place they sat down to table; Markie looked angrily at her across the glasses. Emmeline, bowing her head in despair, pleated an edge of the table-cloth. “Nonsense,” Markie went on: his manner was at its coldest and most aggressive.
“You asked me,” said poor Emmeline. She looked bewildered —like a gentle foreigner at Victoria, not knowing where to offer her ticket, to whom if, at all, her passport, uncertain even whether she has arrived— Her friends had never been angry: she dared not meet Markie’s eyes.
Then: “I’m so sorry,” he said, with an abrupt alteration of manner. “You make me feel frightful: do look up and smile… . Emmeline , you don’t know how I’ve been looking forward to this!”
“So have I,” she said, looking up and smiling.
“Is that why we’re both so cross?”
“I expect so,” said Emmeline quickly.
“But we are enjoying ourselves,” Markie said with authority, and once more she sprang to agree with him. The dinner at once took on the air of a celebration: here was Emmeline beaming, exalted, floating all ways in light. She was too happy.
“Don’t burn yourself—” exclaimed Markie, having just done so. Emmeline had, however, forgotten her soup; she took up her spoon quickly. “What a good lift,” she said, “bringing up soup so hot!” Her tone was heartfelt; she looked round for more to praise.
“Angel …” said Markie, forgiving her, in the moment, for having put him out and disarmed him, for having made him feel, perhaps for the first time, not quite all he could wish. “Angel …” Markie repeated, leaning across the table. “Emmeline—I’ve been thinking of nothing else!”
Emmeline straightened one fork, then another, looking down at her hand.
“It’s really been frightful,” he said, with unfeigned surprise.
“But you have so much to think of,” she tried to suggest, with an anxious lift of the eyebrows.
Her concern was not for his work—his energy was terrific; ambition was written all over him; his ability, when allowed to appear, was beyond question. She knew of his reputation: Markie was “rising” with the inevitability of a lighted balloon. But she was literal, and believed in a fearless exactitude between friends and lovers; overstatement troubled her with its mystification and false accents; in love she would speak the bare truth, or allow it to be inferred. Respecting so much and regarding so steadily the unconscious Markie, she could but be appalled when Markie spoke of himself. She sought the hearth, he led her into a theatre: reluctant, she was made free of a mock-heroic landscape with no distances, baroque thunderclouds behind canvas crags. It seemed impossible for him to speak of himself naturally, and in those emphatic pauses preceding self-revelation she did not know what she dreaded to hear him say. Though she might love him, she must dread at all times to hear him speak of their love: it was not in words he was writing himself across her. She might be said to be drawn, with a force of which she was hardly aware, by what existed in Markie in spite of himself. “We should be dumb,” she thought, “there should be other means of communication.”
When the fish was finished, he pushed the dishes into the lift; soon the cook whistled again and Markie took out a duckling, the sweet and a coffee-machine with a glass dome. The arrangement, rapidly growing on Emmeline, was delicious; she longed to get up and whistle back to the cook. Markie, feeling he had said too much far too early, calmed down, anticipated
“She made me feel like a tramp,” said Emmeline, bringing this out with a rush.
“No, she didn’t,” said Markie sharply. “And you wouldn’t mind if she had. I know quite well what she made you feel. Don’t be childish, Emmeline: the thing’s too absurd!”
While this discussion took place they sat down to table; Markie looked angrily at her across the glasses. Emmeline, bowing her head in despair, pleated an edge of the table-cloth. “Nonsense,” Markie went on: his manner was at its coldest and most aggressive.
“You asked me,” said poor Emmeline. She looked bewildered —like a gentle foreigner at Victoria, not knowing where to offer her ticket, to whom if, at all, her passport, uncertain even whether she has arrived— Her friends had never been angry: she dared not meet Markie’s eyes.
Then: “I’m so sorry,” he said, with an abrupt alteration of manner. “You make me feel frightful: do look up and smile… . Emmeline , you don’t know how I’ve been looking forward to this!”
“So have I,” she said, looking up and smiling.
“Is that why we’re both so cross?”
“I expect so,” said Emmeline quickly.
“But we are enjoying ourselves,” Markie said with authority, and once more she sprang to agree with him. The dinner at once took on the air of a celebration: here was Emmeline beaming, exalted, floating all ways in light. She was too happy.
“Don’t burn yourself—” exclaimed Markie, having just done so. Emmeline had, however, forgotten her soup; she took up her spoon quickly. “What a good lift,” she said, “bringing up soup so hot!” Her tone was heartfelt; she looked round for more to praise.
“Angel …” said Markie, forgiving her, in the moment, for having put him out and disarmed him, for having made him feel, perhaps for the first time, not quite all he could wish. “Angel …” Markie repeated, leaning across the table. “Emmeline—I’ve been thinking of nothing else!”
Emmeline straightened one fork, then another, looking down at her hand.
“It’s really been frightful,” he said, with unfeigned surprise.
“But you have so much to think of,” she tried to suggest, with an anxious lift of the eyebrows.
Her concern was not for his work—his energy was terrific; ambition was written all over him; his ability, when allowed to appear, was beyond question. She knew of his reputation: Markie was “rising” with the inevitability of a lighted balloon. But she was literal, and believed in a fearless exactitude between friends and lovers; overstatement troubled her with its mystification and false accents; in love she would speak the bare truth, or allow it to be inferred. Respecting so much and regarding so steadily the unconscious Markie, she could but be appalled when Markie spoke of himself. She sought the hearth, he led her into a theatre: reluctant, she was made free of a mock-heroic landscape with no distances, baroque thunderclouds behind canvas crags. It seemed impossible for him to speak of himself naturally, and in those emphatic pauses preceding self-revelation she did not know what she dreaded to hear him say. Though she might love him, she must dread at all times to hear him speak of their love: it was not in words he was writing himself across her. She might be said to be drawn, with a force of which she was hardly aware, by what existed in Markie in spite of himself. “We should be dumb,” she thought, “there should be other means of communication.”
When the fish was finished, he pushed the dishes into the lift; soon the cook whistled again and Markie took out a duckling, the sweet and a coffee-machine with a glass dome. The arrangement, rapidly growing on Emmeline, was delicious; she longed to get up and whistle back to the cook. Markie, feeling he had said too much far too early, calmed down, anticipated
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