Laura, in the days that followed, could not make up her mind about Oliver: did not know what had come over him. She had always intended him to like her, though there was something in his temperament that must always prevent her from heartily liking him in her turn, good friends as they were; but she wished sometimes that he were less enthusiastic a champion. He was not satisfied with liking her: he published her abroad. He paid attention to her every trivial remark: she had known him to stop Justin himself in the middle of a sentence to listen to what she said. It was getting beyond a joke, you know.... And ever since that unlucky morning in the studio, he had raved about her work, calling heaven and earth and Justin to observe as remarkable a talent as ever lay snug and shameless in its napkin.

He worried at her, always before Justin, to tell him her plans and when she said she had none, explained to her with much picturesque detail exactly what she ought to be doing for the next five years. The only effect of his eloquence upon Laura was to intensify that inexplicable sensation of panic that stole over her at the thought of overleaping the gulf that daily yawned wider between her and her art; but Justin seems to have listened with some respect. At any rate, he had taken to arranging sketching expeditions for them. The plunge once taken, Laura had been too weak to refuse. She had, after all, her paints, an elbow length down her trunk. She had never been so torn in her life as she now was between this definite creative instinct of hers and the other stronger instinct that forbade it, the stronger instinct that she did not remotely understand.

They would all drive out together to some nook of the hills, and she and Oliver would be left to their devices while Mrs. Cloud and Justin explored the village and picked up curios and ordered lunch and came back at last to see and criticize what they had done. One day Justin startled her. He took her aside.

“I say, Laura,” he began solemnly and she racked her brains to remember if she had done anything wrong. “I say you know—if you want to go back to Paris—to train—if you feel you’ve got it in you——”

A future opened map-like in her mind, gorgeous, triumphant, like a bird’s-eye view of an oriental city, hers, who knew, for the conquering. And again that other, unknown instinct was a mist that blotted it out. Through her thoughts she heard him—

“Of course I’m no judge, but Oliver says—I’ve been talking to Oliver—and you know, Laura, you’ve only got to tell me——” (Mrs. Cloud would have liked to be there just then to listen to Justin and love him. Any woman, Laura herself, might have loved Justin then, he was so portentous and fatherly) “—because, you know, Laura, if there’s any difficulty—your grandfather—if you’re worried about ways and means—you know what I mean——”

She flushed.

“Well, you needn’t, you know. It could be arranged. I—Mother—Mother could fix it up for you.”

Now did you ever hear of anything more kind?... He had actually bothered his head ... but that, you see, was the sort of person Justin was.... She had always known, of course, that he was not as other men, but—wasn’t it kind?... She was almost reverently amazed at the extraordinary, the unparallelled benevolence of this unique Justin. She did not know how she was to thank him, because, when you tried, he always jerked away from you like a pony. And yet it was indispensable to her peace of mind that he should be most gratefully thanked. Thanked, and at the same time convinced, beyond any possibility of argument, that she could not go back to Paris, that she could not be an artist, that she did not care about painting and that Oliver—but it is not necessary for me to tell you all that Laura refrained from saying about Oliver. Indeed I have not the capacity. She was something of a specialist in adjectives.

But she contrived, in the latter end, to settle things to her satisfaction. Looking back she hardly knew how she had done it; for a young man, generously in love with his own scheme for benefiting his neighbour, is apt to be obstinate. Perhaps the fact that she was arguing, though neither of them knew it, not with him but with her own puzzled and protesting self, had something to do with her success. She was bound to convince herself.

She said—oh, she said that she had no real talent.

She said that Justin must realize by now what an exaggerated, unreliable—er—dear, Oliver was.

She said, with a sigh, that she only wished he were right; but that she had watched herself for two years now—

She said that she had given up the idea altogether.

She said that her eyes weren’t very strong.

She said that she was homesick.

She said that all that, however, did not lessen his kindness, that she hadn’t believed anybody could be so kind, that it was quite impossible to thank him properly: and then stopped, because she really did find it impossible.

She was perfectly sincere in every word she said, and not once, not once did she remember the good offices of the directresses and Monsieur La Motte.

There remained Oliver. She must set herself to the danaÏd task of bottling-up Oliver.

She felt it to be a hopeless business. Convincing Justin was like battering down a wall, laborious, but it could be done; but convincing Oliver was like wrestling with running water. He did not resist you, he simply slipped through your fingers. He had good manners: he waited courteously while you expressed yourself; but he never listened. Just as his eyes moved incessantly while he talked to you, so you felt that his mind was, all the time, eagerly working at what he meant to go on saying when you had done. It was easier to send a boat up a torrent than to lodge a thought of your own in that fluent, brimming soul.

Perhaps she did not try hard, or if she did, for love of the argument rather than the man. She was still young enough to believe that argument is a kind of spy-glass into a neighbour’s mind instead of a cracked mirror that distorts your own. Growing bored, she had lapsed into a mere listener, except when he annoyed her. But he, finding her passivity even more provocative than her temper, could not leave her alone, and when she refused Justin’s proposals and he heard of it, fell upon her with enthusiastic indignation.

“You know, I can’t make you out!” Oliver prided himself on understanding women. “What made you stuff up Justin with all that rot? You’re not a fool. You know what you can do. ‘No real talent!’ What are you driving at? That’s what I want to know.”

Laura studied her morning’s work. It was slight enough. The sky was white, the hills were blue, and cypresses pierced the all-pervading haze of the olive groves; but Italy—Italy—was warm in every loving line of it. She realized, as she looked at it, how nearly Oliver was justified; but her only answer was a queer little fleeting smile. Sometimes it was difficult to resist Oliver. She knew exactly how he felt. She believed that that was why he annoyed her—she saw in him all the tendencies she tried to repress in herself. Here, but for the grace of—she hardly knew what—went Laura Valentine! It made her brusque with him and impatient, yet always, as I say, with a queer accompanying smile that Oliver misinterpreted. He misinterpreted it now. He thought she wanted encouraging. He warmed to her.

“My dear girl! You’ve got to believe in yourself. One must. I do. People won’t give you sixpences for your stuff if you insist it’s not worth tuppence—and after all, one’s out for sixpences! You’ve got to be sure of yourself—so sure that you never even think of it. I am. But to sit there as you do and brood over whether you’re any good——”

Again that queer smile came and went as Laura worked and listened, and again it had its effect, its odd, exciting effect upon Oliver. He felt generous, affectionate, expansive. He felt that he would do anything to help the dear girl....

“Should I be likely to back you up?” he demanded—“if I weren’t sure? Haven’t I wallowed in art students? But you—” he flung out dramatic hands—“look at those two things! Isn’t your stuff up to mine? Of course! And d’you know why? The technique—excuse my saying so——” (the artist in him, the realest thing in him, was coming out again) “the technique is—oh, unlawful! utterly! but——” his hand came down heavily on her shoulder—“Oh, damn you, woman, there’s religion in it!” cried Oliver. “I’ll never get that. Oh, I don’t mean Church of England.”

Laura was no longer staring at her drawing. He was interesting her at last.

“What is it you put in?”

He shook at her impatiently as he stood behind her. There was real passion in his voice.

“I don’t know.” She was honestly puzzled. “I’m not bad, I know. But you—you imagine a lot.” And then, consolingly, “I shouldn’t worry. You just see—in ten years you’ll be at the top. I’m sure of it. But I shall fizzle out. I’m bored with it already—this medium, anyhow. Oh, don’t you see?” She followed up her thoughts as, exploring, one follows strange footfalls in the dark of a passage—“Don’t you feel what the difference is? You—a man—a man has got to put himself into only one thing, painting or music or whatever it is. But a girl can put herself into whatever happens along. He has a gift for painting. She has just a gift. Oh, don’t you see? Isn’t it interesting? I never thought of it before. That’s the difference between men and women. You’re born craftsmen; but we—it’s not the craft we care about. It’s just something in us—the religion, as you say—that’s got to get out somewhere—anywhere. We could be just as religious over cooking a dinner.”

Oliver writhed.

“Oh, but we could. Look here—I’m doing this for my grandfather. He’s never been able to afford to come to Italy. So it’s got to be good—to please him. If I did it like yours, to be sold, without knowing to whom it was going—well, I couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be worth doing for its own sake. I shouldn’t enjoy it. You can’t understand that, can you? That’s because you’re an artist and I’m not, and never shall be, religion or no religion.”

Her brilliant face was very close to his as she sat and talked to him over her shoulder: she always lit up like a little Christmas tree when she was excited. He thought, with a touch of heady self-congratulation, that she had never talked to him like this before (forgetting how little chance he usually gave her). He did not realize how impersonal were her speculations, he marvelled merely that she should be so charming to him. “There must be some reason!” cried his eager vanity.

“Religion?” He hesitated, smiling. “I believe I know a better word.”

She questioned him with a movement of her head.

“Love.” He wondered how she would take it.

“Why—” she began doubtfully, “why, of course——” And then, “Oh, Oliver, I believe you’re perfectly right!”

She laughed abstractedly, fingering her chalks. The suggestion had taken her fancy. It cleared up a hundred-and-one points for her. It explained so many failures and successes. Why, of course.... it was not the brains ... it was the being fond of people that counted, that made you able to do things, to look pretty, to be tidy, and paint, and get on with irritating people, like Oliver and Aunt Adela ... because you did it to please some one you were fond of.... It must be ghastly not to be fond of any one ... one would miss such a lot.... Oliver, for instance, was quite decent really, when you got to know him ... but she would never have bothered if it hadn’t been to please Justin ... a shame.... Poor Oliver!...

And so ended, a little guiltily, by smiling up at him.

And then, you know, he kissed her.

For myself, I don’t blame Oliver. In the spring—and after all, they had been discussing love. Besides, as he said to her some hectic moments later when, in sheer breathlessness, she allowed him to speak, where was the harm? Most girls liked that sort of thing. He felt ill-used. She was old enough to play the game ... to observe the rules that every girl, every human being, ought to know.... She was a little fool ... nothing in her after all ... nothing whatever....

For Laura, after one paralysed, open-mouthed moment, had risen in her wrath (literally risen—she sent the easels flying) and overwhelmed him: and while she told him, with impassioned accuracy, what she thought of him, and Oliver rose from the wreck to answer, for characteristically his first concern had been his canvas, she scrubbed her outraged cheek with her pocket-handkerchief; or it may have been her paint-rag, for there was little, in those days, to choose between them.

And that, curiously, infuriated Oliver. Mere angry words he was accustomed to discount, but all the irresistible apologies he had premeditated, all his assumption of savoir-faire, melted before the spectacle of that all too genuine disgust. There remained the raw juvenile, wanting to say: “Yah! suppose you think that’s funny!” like a small boy quarrelling with his sister.

What he said, however, and with intense dignity, was—

“You’re only making yourself streaky. That rag’s thick with cadmium.” Then he exploded. “Look here, Laura, I’m not a disease!”

“I don’t care what you are,” she blazed. “I don’t want to discuss it. I don’t want to speak to you at all. If you’re so eaten up with conceit that I can’t be nice to you——Oh, you don’t suppose,” she adjured him, “that I should ever have bothered to be nice to you—to you—except to please the Clouds? I don’t like you. I never did like you. I don’t want to like you. Only you’re Justin’s friend, so I have to be polite to you.”

“I suppose that’s what you call it?” he enquired bitterly: and, for an instant, she stared at him blankly, all her dignity endangered by a spasm of untimely mirth. She controlled it in a flash, and hardening from hot anger into cold, sat down again on her stool, picked up her scattered chalks and ignored him for a full quarter of an hour. But if there had been, at that critical moment, a twinkle in Oliver’s eye, I believe that she might have been jockeyed into forgiveness. It was always fatally easy to make Laura laugh.

But Oliver Weathersby Seton, jester to the world at large, had yet to learn that there was anything to laugh at in Oliver Weathersby Seton. He sat wrapped in offence, vexed indeed with himself, but, because his vanity was in shreds, doubly and trebly vexed with the unaccommodating Laura. He thought that he had never happened on so typical a bourgeoise ... it just showed how appearances could deceive even a man of his experience.... He would have vouched for a temperament ... it showed in every clean-cut line of her.... Yet here she was, kicking up a fuss like a vicar’s daughter!... He wondered where it would end?... He believed she was capable of blurting out the whole idiotic business to Mrs. Cloud ... exaggerating, of course.... Well, it couldn’t be helped.... Or could it?... A row with Justin would be a beastly nuisance.... If he’d dreamed she’d take it like that ... such a pretty girl too.... What a waste! Lord! what a waste!...

Thus Oliver to himself in the pregnant silence that had fallen upon them; while at his elbow Laura, erect, impassive, attending awfully to her work and nothing else whatever, had also her thoughts.

What a thing, what an appalling thing to happen to one! Oliver must be crazy.... Suppose any one.... Suppose Justin—she turned cold at the mere idea—suppose Justin came to know of it.... Her ears began to burn. He would think that she—Laura—was the sort of girl who got herself made love to.... She could imagine his face and the shrug of his shoulders.... And she could never explain—there was never any chance of explaining things to Justin: you were summed up—judged—and irrevocable sentence passed—for a word, a luckless phrase, a nervous gaucherie ... and you never knew exactly what you had done.... Hopeless to dream of explaining.... She supposed Oliver would be sure to tell Justin?... they were such friends....

She flushed darkly. If Oliver were such a beast as to tell Justin.... Oh, but surely Oliver wouldn’t dream of telling Justin?...

Yet she grew more and more miserable.

Suppose Oliver did tell Justin?... Suppose Justin were absolutely disgusted?... Of course she couldn’t ask Oliver not to tell Justin ... quite impossible.... It was Oliver’s business to apologize to her.... She never intended to speak to him again except before the Clouds.... But if, by a few words, without being nice in the least.... She had a perfect right, if she chose, to ask him—to tell him—to order him, that is, not to tell Justin....

She turned to him, her chin high, catching her breath a little.

“Oliver!”

“Er—yes,” said Oliver.

“I want to say—I merely want to say—whatever I think of you myself—I shan’t—I don’t want you—it doesn’t seem to me necessary—to bother Mrs. Cloud.”

“Certainly not!” said Oliver fervently.

There was a pause.

“Or—or anybody,” she added lamely.

“No—no.” He agreed with her.

Again they paused, relenting imperceptibly to each other in their mutual relief.

But Laura wanted to be quite sure.

“So that’s settled,” she said. And then, like a woman, “Oh, Oliver, why were you hateful?”

He flung out his hands.

“Lord knows!” He fidgeted. Suddenly he looked up at her with a boy’s grin. “I say—let’s chuck it, Laura?”

“Oh, well——” she said grudgingly. “Oh, well——” And then in most casual afterthought as she turned to her boxes (it was time to pack up: she could see Mrs. Cloud and Justin far away down the road) “And—Oliver? You won’t tell Justin, of course?”

At that word a great light broke upon Oliver, a light so dazzling that quite literally he stood and blinked, and still stood, staring at Laura’s unconscious back, while it lit up and flooded and overflowed every nook and corner of his memory.

So that was why!... So that, a dozen times and more, had been why!... He shook with sudden laughter as he kicked himself for a fool and laughed again. He felt a new man. Here was wine for his vanity, oil for his insulted heart. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate him.... It was simply that her eyes were otherwise occupied.... Oh, well then!... He hoped he was enough man of the world to understand the situation....

With gusto he adopted the rÔle of kindly cynic.

Bless their hearts, he wouldn’t interfere.... But what a pair of innocents!... Did they think all the world as blind as they were themselves?... “Of course you won’t tell Justin?”... The dear girl!...

Oliver, you perceive, was his jaunty self again.

But (and, you know, I like Oliver) all he said to Laura and with the utmost gravity was——

“All right! I won’t if you won’t.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she assured him.

“Then I won’t,” said Oliver.

And that is why Justin never knew.