“Thought I’d come to see how you’re getting on.”
“Very glad you did,” Rendell replied as he rose. “Come in and sit down, if you’ve time. I hoped I’d see you before I went away.”
“You’re not busy?”
“No, not in the least.”
She sank into a chair by the fire. Rendell noticed that she relaxed the whole of her body directly she was seated.
“You sit as if it were a luxury,” he said with a smile.
“So it is—if you’re used to being terribly tired. I’ve been a model for years—you knew that? I’ve often posed for hours when I did not know how to stand.”
A silence followed. Rendell did not speak, as he assumed that at any moment she would explain why she had come. Also, a change in her appearance puzzled him, though he could not decide whether she had actually altered, or whether—on former occasions—all his attention had been captured by the beauty of her hair.
She was not looking at him, and he glanced at her repeatedly. She had the eyes and features of a child—but a child who had known privation. It had tautened the face, thereby accentuating cheekbones and chin. But the suffering that had marred her beauty had also individualised it. It was wholly hers, for it epitomised her history.
As the minutes passed Rendell discovered that to be silent with her did not embarrass him. She lay back, outstretched in her chair, with eyes nearly closed. Rendell felt that this physical abandonment expressed her recognition of a kinship between them which had no need of speech. To him, therefore, this silence possessed a unique quality. During it they ceased to be strangers.
Then, suddenly—and inevitably as it seemed to him—he began to tell her about himself. He spoke quietly, without looking once in her direction. He told her about his profession, what he had done, where he had been. Words presented themselves with unaccustomed readiness. In a few swift sentences he revealed the quality of the life he had lived before his marriage.
“I was that type—roughly. It’s a common enough one, of course—certain amount of ability, fair amount of money, keen on adventure. And a real admiration for only one quality—courage. I was free. I took what I wanted, if I could get it. I barged about the world, doing my job, and meeting all sorts of people. I knew quite a lot about men. I had to. I knew nothing about women, because, in those days, they were only a physical necessity. And you don’t learn a lot about them that way.”
He paused for a moment, then went on:
“Well, eventually, I married. I’d just returned to England after a long absence. She was some years younger than I was, and pretty frail. Half a child, really. God alone knows why she married me! Anyway, her health was bad from the beginning, so it was more like a brother and sister relationship than anything else. In two years she was dead.”
“I said just now,” he continued, “that courage was really the only quality I admired. Well, during those two years, she showed me a type I knew nothing about. I knew only the kind that goes out to meet danger. She showed me the courage that lies still, and watches—and waits. Well, she died. That was a year ago. And I found that my old way of life was over. Then I discovered that there was such a thing as loneliness.”
He then explained how he had come to Potiphar Street, and gave an edited account of his experiences there during the last few weeks. He ended by saying:
“I’m going to Italy soon, but this is what beats me. I suppose it’s why I’ve told you this rigmarole. I don’t know. Anyway, it’s this. Trent’s altered my life—yet I shall probably never meet him, probably never see him.”
“What do you want to know about him?” Elsa asked slowly.
“That would take a month. So tell me just this, if you can. Why has he had rooms here for years without telling any of his friends?”
“Because he can only write in those rooms upstairs. He didn’t tell his friends for several reasons. One was that he didn’t want to be disturbed. But, apart from all that, he belongs here.”
“Belongs here!” Rendell echoed.
“Yes. You’ll understand everything before long.”
“I doubt it! But you seem very definite about Trent. Have you known him long?”
“For ten years.”
“You mean, you’ve known him since he first came here?”
“Yes. The house was full of writers and artists in those days. That was an experiment of Captain Frazer’s. I was one of them. Ivor was another. Why do you look so surprised?”
“I don’t know. There’s something queer about all this. I feel that, underneath, you’re excited about something.”
“Tell me,” she said impetuously, leaning towards him, “have you ever waited for something, longed for something, year after year, till you felt that if it ever happened you just wouldn’t be able to bear it?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as all that.”
Rendell rose, took a cigarette and was about to light in, when he suddenly exclaimed.
“You’re laughing!”
“I can’t help it. I’m terribly happy to-night. Sit down and I’ll tell you one or two things.”
She was silent for a minute, then went on: