XI
There are surprises which transcend the surprising, and as the finer tones of music defeat our ears and pass by us unnoticed so do these super-dramatic happenings find us unmoved. Flamby was aware of a vague numbness; she felt like an automaton, but she was quite composed.
“Good evening, Mr. Mario,” she said. “How nice of you to call.”
The trite precision of her greeting sounded unfamiliar—the speech of a stranger.
“May I come in, or will the lateness of my visit excite comment among your neighbours?”
“Of course you may come in.”
Paul walked into the cosy little sitting-room and Flamby having closed the door contrived to kick the newspaper under the bureau whilst placing an armchair for Paul. Paul smiled and made a nest of cushions in a corner of the settee. “Sit there, Flamby,” he said, “and let me talk to you.”
Flamby sat down facing him, and her nerves beginning to recover from the shock imposed upon them, she found that her heart was really beating, and beating rapidly. Paul was in evening dress, and as the night was showery, wore a loose Burberry. A hard-working Stetson hat, splashed with rain, he had dropped upon the floor beside his chair. His face looked rather gaunt in the artificial light, which cast deep shadows below his eyes, and he was watching her in a way that led her to hope, yet fear, that he might have come to speak about the Charleswood photographs. He was endowed with that natural distinction whose possessor can never be ill at ease, yet he was palpably bent upon some project which he scarcely knew how to approach.
“Will you have a cigarette?” asked Flamby, in a faint voice. “You may smoke your pipe if you would rather.”
“May I really?” said Paul buoyantly. “It is a very foul pipe, and will perfume your curtains frightfully.”
“I like it. Lots of my visitors smoke pipes.”
“You have a number of visitors, Flamby?”
“Heaps. I never had so many friends in my life.”
Paul began to charge his briar from a tattered pouch. “Have you ever thought, Flamby, that I neglected you?” he asked slowly.
“Neglected me? Of course not. You have been to see me twice, and I felt all the time that I was keeping you from your work. Besides—why should I expect you to bother about me?”
“You have every reason to expect it, Flamby. Your father was—a tenant of my uncle, and as I am my uncle’s heir, his debts are mine. Your father saved me from the greatest loss in the world. Lastly”—he lighted his pipe—“I want you to count me amongst your friends.”
He held the extinguished match in his fingers, looking around for an ash-tray. Flamby jumped up, took the match and threw it in the hearth, then returned slowly to her place. Her hands were rather unsteady, and she tucked them away behind her, squeezing up closely against the cushions. “We are friends,” she said. “You have always been my friend.”
“I don’t want you to feel alone in the world, as though nobody cared for you. When Don is home I have no fear, but when he is away there is really no one to study your interests, and, after all, Flamby, you are only a girl.”
“There is Mrs. Chumley and Mr. Hammett and Claude Chauvin.”
“Three quite delightful people, Flamby, I admit. But Hammett and Chauvin cannot always be with you, and Mrs. Chumley’s sweet and unselfish life affords nothing but an illustration of unworldliness. Yet, if these were your only friends, I should be more contented.”
Flamby tapped her foot upon the carpet and stared down at it unseeingly. “Are there some of my friends you don’t think quite nice?” she asked. Her humility must have surprised many a one who had thought he knew her well.
Paul bent forward, resting one hand upon the head of the settee. “I know very little about your friendships, Flamby. That is why I reproach myself. But a girl who lives alone should exercise the greatest discretion in such matters. You must see that this is so. Friends who would be possible if you were under the care of a mother become impossible when you are deprived of that care. It is not enough to know yourself blameless, Flamby. Worldly folks are grossly suspicious, especially of a pretty girl, and believe me, life is easier and sweeter without misunderstanding.”
“Someone has been telling you tales about me,” said Flamby, an ominous scarlet enflaming her cheeks.
Paul laughed, bending further forward and seeking to draw Flamby’s hands out from their silken hiding-place. She resisted a little, averting her flushed face, but finally yielded, although she did not look at Paul. “Dear little Flamby,” he said, and the tenderness in his voice seemed now to turn her cold. “You are not angry with me?” He held her hands between his own, looking at her earnestly. She glanced up under her lashes. “If I had not cared I should have said nothing.”
“Everybody goes on at me,” said Flamby tremulously. “I haven’t done any harm.”
“Who has been ’going on’ at you, little Flamby?”
“You have, and Chauvin, and everybody.”
“But what have they said? What have I said?”
“That I am no good—an absolute rotter!”
“Flamby! Who has said such a thing? Not Chauvin, I’ll swear, and not I. You are wilfully misjudging your real friends, little girl. Because you are clever—and you are clever, Flamby—you have faith in your judgment of men yet lack faith in your judgment of yourself. Now, tell me frankly, have you any friends of whom Don would disapprove?”
“No. Don trusts me.”
“But he does not trust the world, Flamby, any more than I do, and the world can slay the innocent as readily as the guilty.”
“I know!” cried Flamby, looking up quickly. “It was Mr. Thessaly who told you.”
“Who told me what?”
“That he had seen me at supper with Orlando James. I didn’t see him, but James said he was there.”
She met Paul’s gaze for a moment and tried to withdraw her hands, but he held them fast, and presently Flamby looked down again at the carpet.
“Whoever told me,” said Paul, “it is the truth. Do you write often to Don?”
“Yes—sometimes.”
“Then write and ask him if he thinks you should be seen about with Orlando James and I shall be content if you will promise to abide by his reply. Will you do that, Flamby? Please don’t be angry with me because I try to help you. I have lived longer than you and I have learned that if we scorn the world’s opinion the world will have its revenge. Will you promise?”
“Yes,” said Flamby, all humility again.
Paul stood up, taking his hat from the floor and beginning to button his Burberry. “I am coming to see you at the school one day soon, but if ever there is anything you want to tell me or if ever I can be of the slightest use to you, telephone to me, Flamby. Don’t regard me as a bogey-man.” Flamby had stood up, too, and now Paul held her by the shoulders looking at her charming downcast face. “We are friends, are we not, little Flamby?”
Flamby glanced up swiftly. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you for thinking about me.”