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one even talks with them； but to find out what they DO one would
really have to be a detective。〃 In respect to several individuals
whose work he was the opposite of 〃drawn to〃 … perhaps he was wrong
… he found himself adding 〃No wonder they conceal it … when it's so
bad！〃 He noted that oftener than in France and in Germany his
artist looked like a gentleman … that is like an English one …
while； certainly outside a few exceptions； his gentlemen didn't
look like an artist。 St。 George was not one of the exceptions；
that circumstance he definitely apprehended before the great man
had turned his back to walk off with Miss Fancourt。 He certainly
looked better behind than any foreign man of letters … showed for
beautifully correct in his tall black hat and his superior frock
coat。 Somehow； all the same； these very garments … he wouldn't
have minded them so much on a weekday … were disconcerting to Paul
Overt； who forgot for the moment that the head of the profession
was not a bit better dressed than himself。 He had caught a glimpse
of a regular face； a fresh colour； a brown moustache and a pair of
eyes surely never visited by a fine frenzy； and he promised himself
to study these denotements on the first occasion。 His superficial
sense was that their owner might have passed for a lucky
stockbroker … a gentleman driving eastward every morning from a
sanitary suburb in a smart dog…cart。 That carried out the
impression already derived from his wife。 Paul's glance； after a
moment； travelled back to this lady； and he saw how her own had
followed her husband as he moved off with Miss Fancourt。 Overt
permitted himself to wonder a little if she were jealous when
another woman took him away。 Then he made out that Mrs。 St。 George
wasn't glaring at the indifferent maiden。 Her eyes rested but on
her husband； and with unmistakeable serenity。 That was the way she
wanted him to be … she liked his conventional uniform。 Overt
longed to hear more about the book she had induced him to destroy。
CHAPTER II
As they all came out from luncheon General Fancourt took hold of
him with an 〃I say； I want you to know my girl！〃 as if the idea had
just occurred to him and he hadn't spoken of it before。 With the
other hand he possessed himself all paternally of the young lady。
〃You know all about him。 I've seen you with his books。 She reads
everything … everything！〃 he went on to Paul。 The girl smiled at
him and then laughed at her father。 The General turned away and
his daughter spoke … 〃Isn't papa delightful？〃
〃He is indeed； Miss Fancourt。〃
〃As if I read you because I read 'everything'！〃
〃Oh I don't mean for saying that；〃 said Paul Overt。 〃I liked him
from the moment he began to be kind to me。 Then he promised me
this privilege。〃
〃It isn't for you he means it … it's for me。 If you flatter
yourself that he thinks of anything in life but me you'll find
you're mistaken。 He introduces every one。 He thinks me
insatiable。〃
〃You speak just like him；〃 laughed our youth。
〃Ah but sometimes I want to〃 … and the girl coloured。 〃I don't
read everything … I read very little。 But I HAVE read you。〃
〃Suppose we go into the gallery；〃 said Paul Overt。 She pleased him
greatly； not so much because of this last remark … though that of
course was not too disconcerting … as because； seated opposite to
him at luncheon； she had given him for half an hour the impression
of her beautiful face。 Something else had come with it … a sense
of generosity； of an enthusiasm which； unlike many enthusiasms； was
not all manner。 That was not spoiled for him by his seeing that
the repast had placed her again in familiar contact with Henry St。
George。 Sitting next her this celebrity was also opposite our
young man； who had been able to note that he multiplied the
attentions lately brought by his wife to the General's notice。
Paul Overt had gathered as well that this lady was not in the least
discomposed by these fond excesses and that she gave every sign of
an unclouded spirit。 She had Lord Masham on one side of her and on
the other the accomplished Mr。 Mulliner； editor of the new high…
class lively evening paper which was expected to meet a want felt
in circles increasingly conscious that Conservatism must be made
amusing； and unconvinced when assured by those of another political
colour that it was already amusing enough。 At the end of an hour
spent in her company Paul Overt thought her still prettier than at
the first radiation； and if her profane allusions to her husband's
work had not still rung in his ears he should have liked her … so
far as it could be a question of that in connexion with a woman to
whom he had not yet spoken and to whom probably he should never
speak if it were left to her。 Pretty women were a clear need to
this genius； and for the hour it was Miss Fancourt who supplied the
want。 If Overt had promised himself a closer view the occasion was
now of the best； and it brought consequences felt by the young man
as important。 He saw more in St。 George's face； which he liked the
better for its not having told its whole story in the first three
minutes。 That story came out as one read； in short instalments …
it was excusable that one's analogies should be somewhat
professional … and the text was a style considerably involved； a
language not easy to translate at sight。 There were shades of
meaning in it and a vague perspective of history which receded as
you advanced。 Two facts Paul had particularly heeded。 The first
of these was that he liked the measured mask much better at
inscrutable rest than in social agitation； its almost convulsive
smile above all displeased him （as much as any impression from that
source could）； whereas the quiet face had a charm that grew in
proportion as stillness settled again。 The change to the
expression of gaiety excited； he made out； very much the private
protest of a person sitting gratefully in the twilight when the
lamp is brought in too soon。 His second reflexion was that； though
generally averse to the flagrant use of ingratiating arts by a man
of age 〃making up〃 to a pretty girl； he was not in this case too
painfully affected： which seemed to prove either that St。 George
had a light hand or the air of being younger than he was； or else
that Miss Fancourt's own manner somehow made everything right。
Overt walked with her into the gallery； and they strolled to the
end of it； looking at the pictures； the cabinets； the charming
vista； which harmonised with the prospect of the summer afternoon；
resembling it by a long brightness； with great divans and old
chairs that figured hours of rest。 Such a place as that had the
added merit of giving those who came into it plenty to talk about。
Miss Fancourt sat down with her new acquaintance on a flowered
sofa； the cushions of which； very numerous； were tight ancient
cubes of many sizes； and presently said： 〃I'm so glad to have a
chance to thank you。〃
〃To thank me … ？〃 He had to wonder。
〃I liked your book so much。 I think it splendid。〃
She sat there smiling at him； and he never asked himself which book
she meant； for after all he had written three or four。 That seemed
a vulgar detail； and he wasn't even gratified by the idea of the
pleasure she told him … her handsome bright face told him … he had
given her。 The feeling she appealed to； or at any rate the feeling
she excited； was something larger； something that had little to do
with any quickened pulsation of his own vanity。 It was responsive
admiration of the life she embodied； the young purity and richness
of which appeared to imply that real success was to resemble THAT；
to live； to bloom； to present the perfection of a fine type； not to
have hammered out headachy fancies with a bent back at an ink…
stained table。 While her grey eyes rested on him … there was a
wideish space between these； and the division of her rich…coloured
hair； so thick that it ventured to be smooth； made a free arch
above them … he was almost ashamed of that exercise of the pen
which it was her present inclination to commend。 He was conscious
he should have liked better to please her in some other way。 The
lines of her face were those of a woman grown； but the child
lingered on in her complexion and in the sweetness of her mouth。
Above all she was natural … that was indubitable now； more natural
than he had supposed at first； perhaps on account of her aesthetic
toggery； which was conventionally unconventional； suggesting what
he might have called a tortuous spontaneity。 He had feared that
sort of thing in other cases； and his fears had been justified；
for； though he was an artist to the essence； the modern reactionary
nymph； with the brambles of the woodland caught in her folds and a
look as if the satyrs had toyed with her hair； made him shrink not
as a man of starch