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—what more, what better can you ask for? In fact you can’t have better. You can't have anything else.” “You are trying to confuse me with your talk,” she cried. “You can’t make fun of this.” “Can't? Well, no, I can’t. It's a pity. Perhaps it would have been the best way,” said Heyst, in a tone which for him could be called gloomy. “Unless one could forget the silly business altogether.” His faint playfulness of manner and speech returned, like a habit one has schooled oneself into, even before his forehead had cleared completely. “But why are you looking so hard at me? Oh, I don’t object, and I shall try not to flinch. Your eyes 3 * He was looking straight into them, and as a matter of fact had forgotten all about the late Morrison at that moment. “No,” he exclaimed suddenly. “What an impenetrable girl you are, Lena, with those grey eyes of yours! Windows of the soul, as some poet has said. The fellow must have been a glazier by vocation. Well, nature has provided excellently for the shyness of your soul.” When he ceased speaking, the girl came to herself with a catch of her breath. He heard her voice, the varied charm of which he thought he knew so well, saying with an unfamiliar intonation: “And that partner of yours is dead?” “Morrison? Oh, yes, as I’ve told you, he—” “You never told me.” “Didn't I? I thought I did; or, rather, I thought you must know. It seems impossible that anybody with whom I speak should not know that Morrison is dead.” She lowered her eyelids, and Heyst was startled by something like an expression of horror on her face. “Morrison!” she whispered in an appalled tone. “Morrison l’’ Her head drooped. Unable to see her features, Heyst could tell from her voice that for some reason or other she was profoundly moved by the syllables of that unromantic name. A thought flashed through his head— could she have known Morrison? But the mere difference of their origins made it wildly improbable. “This is very extraordinary!” he said. “Have you ever heard the name before?” Her head moved quickly several times in tiny affirmative nods, as if she could not trust herself to speak, or even to look at him. She was biting her lower lip. “Did you ever know anybody of that name?” he asked. The girl answered by a negative sign: and then at last she spoke, jerkily, as if forcing herself against some doubt or fear. She had heard of that very man, she told Heyst. “Impossible!” he said positively. “You are mistaken. You couldn’t have heard of him. It's—” He stopped short, with the thought that to talk like this was perfectly useless; that one doesn’t argue against thin al11". “But I did hear of him; only I didn’t know then, I couldn't guess, that it was your partner they were talking about.” “Talking about my partner?” repeated Heyst slowly. “No.” Her mind seemed almost as bewildered, as full of incredulity, as his. “No. They were talking of you, really; only I didn't know it.” “Who were they?” Heyst raised his voice. “Who was talking of me? Talking where?” With the first question he had lifted himself from his reclining position; at the last he was on his knees before her, their heads on a level. “Why, in that town, in that hotel. Where else could it have been?” she said. The idea of being talked about was always novel to Heyst's simplified conception of himself. For a moment he was as much surprised as if he had believed himself to be a mere gliding shadow among men. Besides, he had in him a half-unconscious notion that he was above the level of island gossip. “But you said first that it was of Morrison they talked,” he remarked to the girl, sinking on his heels, and no longer much interested. “Strange that you should have the opportunity to hear any talk at all! I was rather under the impression that you never saw anybody belonging to the town except from the platform.” “You forget that I was not living with the other girls,” she said. “After meals they used to go back to the Pavilion, but I had to stay in the hotel and do my sewing, or what not, in the room where they talked.” “I didn't think of that. By the by, you never told me who they were.” “Why, that horrible red-faced beast,” she said, with all the energy of disgust which the mere thought of the hotelkeeper provoked in her. “Oh, Schomberg !” Heyst murmured carelessly. “He talked to the boss—to Zangiacomo, I mean. I had to sit there. That devil-woman sometimes wouldn’t let me go away. I mean Mrs. Zangiacomo.” “I guessed,” murmured Heyst. “She liked to torment you in a variety of ways. But it is really strange that the hotel-keeper should talk of Morrison to Zangiacomo. As far as I can remember he saw very little of Morrison professionally. He knew many others much better.” The girl shuddered slightly. “That was the only name I ever overheard. I would get as far away from them as I could, to the other end of the room; but when that beast started shouting, I could not help hearing. I wish I had never heard anything. If I had got up and gone out of the room I don't suppose the woman would have killed me for it; but she would have rowed me in a nasty way. She would have threatened me and called me names. That sort, when they know you are helpless, there's nothing to stop them. I don't know how it is, but bad people, real bad people that you can see are bad, they get over me somehow. It's the way they set about downing one. I am afraid of wickedness.” Heyst watched the changing expressions of her face. He encouraged her, profoundly sympathetic, a little amused. “I quite understand. You needn't apologize for your great delicacy in the perception of inhuman evil. I am a little like you.” “I am not very plucky,” she said. “Well! I don't know myself what I would do, what countenance I would have before a creature which would strike me as being the evil incarnate. Don't you be ashamed.” She sighed, looked up with her pale, candid gaze and a timid expression of her face, and murmured: “You don't seem to want to know what he was saying.” “About poor Morrison? It couldn't have been anything bad, for the poor fellow was innocence itself. And then, you know, he is dead, and nothing can possibly matter to him now.” “But I tell you that it was of you he was talking!” she cried. “He was saying that Morrison's partner first got all there was to get out of him, and then, and then—well, as good as murdered him—sent him out to die somewhere!” “You believe that of me?” said Heyst, after a moment of perfect silence. “I didn't know it had anything to do with you. Schomberg was talking of some Swede. How was I to know? It was only when you began telling me about how you came here—” “And now you have my version.” Heyst forced himself to speak quietly. “So that's how the business looked from outsidel” he muttered. “I remember him saying that everybody in these parts knew the story,” the girl added breathlessly.
“Strange that it should hurt me!” mused Heyst to himself; “yet it does. I seem to be as much of a fool as those everybodies who know the story—and no doubt believe it. Can you remember any more?” he addressed the girl in a grimly polite tone. “I’ve often heard of the moral advantages of seeing oneself as others see one. Let us investigate further. Can't you recall something else that everybody knows?” “Oh! Don't laugh!” she cried. “Did I laugh? I assure you I was not aware of it. I won't ask you whether you believe the hotel-keeper's version. Surely you must know the value of human judgment.” She unclasped her hands, moved them slightly, and twined her fingers as before. Protest? Assent? Was there to be nothing more? He was relieved when she spoke in that warm and wonderful voice which in itself comforted and fascinated one's heart, which made her lovable. “I heard this before you and I ever spoke to each other. It went out of my memory afterwards. Everything went out of my memory then; and I was glad of it. It was a fresh start for me, with you—and you know it. I wish I had forgotten who I was—that would have been best; and I very nearly did forget.” He was moved by the vibrating quality of the last words. She seemed to be talking low of some wonderful enchantment, in mysterious terms of special significance. He thought that if she only could talk to him in some unknown tongue, she would enslave him altogether by the sheer beauty of the sound, suggesting infinite depths of wisdom and feeling. “But,” she went on, “the name stuck in my head, it seems; and when you mentioned it—” “It broke the spell,” muttered Heyst in angry disappointment, as if he had been deceived in some hope. The girl, from her position a little above him, surveyed