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That morning, as on all the others of the full tale of mornings since his return with the girl to Samburan, Heyst came out on the veranda and spread his elbows on the railing, in an easy attitude of proprietorship. The bulk of the central ridge of the island cut off the bungalow from sunrises, whether glorious or cloudy, angry or serene. The dwellers therein were debarred from reading early the fortune of the new-born day.
It sprang upon them in its fulness with a swift retreat of the great shadow when the sun, clearing the ridge, looked down, hot and dry, with a devouring glare like the eye of an enemy. But Heyst, once the Number One of this locality, while it was comparatively teeming with mankind, appreciated the prolongation of early coolness, the subdued, lingering half light, the faint ghost of the departed night, the fragrance of its dewy, dark soul captured for a moment longer between the great glow of the sky and the intense blaze of the uncovered sea. It was naturally difficult for Heyst to keep his mind from dwelling on the nature and consequences of this, his latest departure from the part of an unconcerned spectator. Yet he had retained enough of his wrecked philosophy to prevent him from asking himself consciously how it would end. But at the same time he could not help being temperamentally, from long habit and from set purpose, a spectator still, perhaps a little less naïve but (as he discovered with some surprise) not much more far-sighted than the common run of men. Like the rest of us who act, all he could say to himself, with a somewhat affected grimness, was:
“We shall see!"
This mood of grim doubt intruded on him only when he was alone. There were not many such moments in his day now; and he did not like them when they came. On this morning he had no time to grow uneasy. Alma came out to join him long before the sun, rising above the Samburan ridge, swept the cool shadow of the early morning and the remnant of the night's coolness clear off the roof under which they had dwelt for more than three months already. She came out as on other mornings. He had heard her light footsteps in the big room—the room where he had unpacked the cases from London; the room now lined with the backs of books half-way up on its
three sides. Above the cases the fine matting met the ceiling of tightly stretched white calico. In the dusk and coolness nothing gleamed except the gilt frame of the portrait of Heyst's father, signed by a famous painter, lonely in the middle of a wall.
Heyst did not turn round.
“Do you know what I was thinking of ?” he asked.
"No," she said. Her tone betrayed always a shade of anxiety, as though she were never certain how a conversation with him would end. She leaned on the guard-rail by his side.
"No," she repeated. “What was it?" She waited. Then, rather with reluctance than shyness, she asked: “Were you thinking of me?"
“I was wondering when you would come out,” said Heyst still without looking at the girl—to whom, after several experimental essays in combining detached letters and loose syllables, he had given the name of Lena.
She remarked after a pause:
“You could have called if you wanted me," she said. “And I wasn't so long doing my hair.”
. “Apparently it was too long for me. "Well, you were thinking of me, anyhow. I am
glad of it. Do you know, it seems to me, somehow, that if you were to stop thinking of me I shouldn't be in the world at all!"
He turned round and looked at her. She often said things which surprised him. A vague smile faded away on her lips before his scrutiny.
“What is it ?” he asked. “Is it a reproach ?”
"A reproach! Why, how could it be ?" she defended herself.
"Well, what did it mean ?” he insisted.
"What I said just what I said. Why aren't you fair ?"
"Ah, this at least is a reproach!"
“It looks as if you were trying to make out that I am disagreeable," she murmured. “Am I? You will make me afraid to open my mouth presently. I shall end by believing I am no good.”
Her head drooped a little. He looked at her smooth, low brow, the faintly coloured cheeks and the red lips, with the gleam of her teeth within.
"And then I won't be any good,” she added with conviction. "That I won't! I can only be what you think I am.”
He made a slight movement. She put her hand on his arm, without raising her head, and went on, her voice animated in the stillness of her body:
“It is so. It couldn't be any other way with a girl like me and a man like you. Here we are we two alone, and I can't even tell where we are."
“A very well-known spot of the globe,” Heyst uttered gently. “There must have been at least fifty thousand circulars issued at the time—a hundred and fifty thousand, more likely. My friend was looking after that, and his ideas were large and his belief very strong. Of us two it was he who had the faith. A hundred and fifty thousand, certainly."
"What is it you mean ?" she asked in a low tone.
“What should I find fault with you for ?” Heyst went on. "For being amiable, good, gracious—and
. pretty ?"
A silence fell. Then she said:
“It's all right that you should think that of me. There's no one here to think anything of us, good or bad."
The rare timbre of her voice gave a special value to what she uttered. The indefinable emotion which certain intonations gave him, he was aware, was more physical than moral. Every time she spoke to him she seemed to abandon to him something of herself—something excessively subtle and inexpressible, to which he was infinitely sensible, which he would have missed horribly if she were to go away. While he was looking into her eyes she raised her