Part 10 (1/2)
”What have we been talking about all to-night?” asks Eleanor, with a puzzled frown, and a smile which counteracts it. ”So much was frivolous and foolish I cannot remember.”
”Yet every word is hidden in some secret cell of your brain. Oh, that the secret cells could be opened and revealed to our nearest and dearest. What countless forgotten treasures might be restored.”
”Or what ill-spoken words and evil quarrels revived,” adds Eleanor wisely.
”Thus speaks a guilty conscience,” he retorts. ”I could sum up my life on a sheet of foolscap. 'Preface; apparent folly, covering intents and purposes. A boyhood of ambition, a manhood of misfortune.'”
”Misfortune!”
”Yes, since I grew to realise facts, to see men and women as they _are_, not as they appear! Sometimes the bare word 'reality' fills me with such loathing for this paltry world, with its pigmy minds and soulless bodies, that I can hardly control my contempt. I pull myself together, and pray for a new set of nerves, a stronger heart, and a better flow of healthy blood to the brain.”
”What a pity that nerves cannot be purchased like false teeth,” says Eleanor laughing.
”Nerves are the finest satire on our human organisation, and our bodies, each a theatre of perpetual activity, the most confusing mystery of all. I believe in a dual nature existing in men and women, but the difficulties which bar our progress to perfect knowledge of each other cannot be overcome.”
”Things that can't be understood are invariably irritating,” sighs Eleanor.
”Some day we will think it out together,” he whispers, waving her fan gently. ”We shall meet again, Mrs. Roche”--speaking confidently--”for have we not a mutual friend in Mrs. Mounteagle, whom I regret is not here to-night?”
”Yes. It is strange that we should both know her.”
Eleanor has risen, and is holding out her hand for the fan.
”You are not going?”
”Look at the hour! I shall be disgraced if I stay longer.”
She leaves him, and bids her hostess good-night, but finds he is waiting in the hall for a last word.
”May I call your carriage?”
”I did not order it, as I only live three doors off.”
”Then may I escort you?”
Eleanor glances at him confidently with her large innocent eyes.
”Yes; I mean you to.”
Mr. Quinton smiles, and takes her arm as they step out into the darkness.
”I knew somebody would see me home,” she says, the old, childish Eleanor breaking through the ”Giddy” manner. ”I thought it would be much more fun than driving this step.”
”Then it was premeditated.”
She laughs softly.
”I wish it were not so near,” murmurs Mr. Quinton.