"No," said Smith, "they don"t."
"And when they love," said the girl, "nothing can stop them."
"Nothing."
"Nothing!" she repeated, the soft glow coming into her cheeks again.
"--Nothing! Neither rank nor wealth nor political considerations nor family prejudices, nor even the military!"
Smith bit his lip in silence. He had heard of irony; never had he dreamed it could be so crushing: he had heard of sarcasm; but the quiet sarcasm of this unknown young girl was annihilating him. Critics had carved him in his time; but the fine mincemeat which this pretty stranger was making of him promised to leave nothing more either to carve or to roast.
"Do you mind my talking to you?" she asked, noting the strained expression of his features.
"No," he said, "go ahead."
"Because if I am tiring you----"
He said he was not tired.
"--or if it bores you to discuss your art with a foreigner who so truly admires it----"
He shot a glance at her, then forced a laugh.
"I am not offended," he said. "What paper do you represent?"
"I?" she said, bewildered.
"Yes. You are a newspaper woman, are you not?"
"Do you mean a reporter?"
"Naturally."
"No," she said very seriously, "I am not a reporter. What an odd idea!"
"Do you think it odd?"
"Why, yes. Do not many admirers of your works express their pleasure in them to you?"
He studied her lovely face coolly and in detail--the dainty arch of the questioning eyebrows, the sensitive curve of the mouth, the clear, sweet eyes. Could it be possible that such candour masked irony? Could all this be the very essence of the art of acting, concealing the most murderous sarcasm ever dreamed of by a terrified author?
And suddenly his face went red all over, and he understood that the essence of this young girl was a candour so utterly free of self-consciousness--a frankness so absolutely truthful, that the simplicity of her had been a miracle too exquisite for him to comprehend.
"You _do_ like what I write!" he exclaimed.
Her blue eyes widened: "Of course I do," she said, amazed. "Didn"t you understand me?"
"No," he said, cooling his burning face in the rising sea-wind. "I thought you were laughing at me."
"I"m sorry if I was stupid," she said.
"_I_ was stupid."
"You!" She laughed a little.
The sinking sun peered through the palm forest behind them and flung a beam of blinding light at her.
"Am I interrupting your work, Mr. Smith? I mean, I know I am, but----"
"Please don"t go away."
"Thank you.... I have noticed what agreeable manners you Americans have in novels. Naturally you are even more kindly and polite in real life."
"Have you met many Americans?"
"No, only you. In the beginning I did not feel interested in Americans."
"Why?"
"The young men all seemed to resemble one another," she said frankly, "like Chinese. But now that I really know an American I am intensely interested."
"You notice no Mongolian monotony in me?" he inquired gravely.
"Oh, no----" She coloured; then discovering that he was laughing, she laughed, too, rather faintly.
"That was a joke, wasn"t it?" she said.
"Yes, that was a joke."
"Because," she said, "there is no Mongolian uniformity about _you_. On the contrary, you remind me in every way of one of your own heroes."
"Oh, really now!" he protested; but she insisted with serious enthusiasm.
"You are the counterpart of the hero in this book," she repeated, resting one hand lightly on the volume under her elbow. "You wear white flannels, you are tall, well built, straight, with very regular features and a fasci---- a smile," she corrected herself calmly, "which one naturally a.s.sociates with your features."
"Also," she continued, "your voice is cultivated and modulated with just enough of the American accent to make it piquantly agreeable. And what you say is fasci---- is well expressed and interesting. Therefore, as I have said, to me you resemble one of your own heroes."
There was enough hot colour in his face to make it boyishly bashful.
"And you appear to be as modest as one of your own heroes," she added, studying him. "That is truly delightful."
"But really, I am nothing like any of my heroes," he explained, terribly embarra.s.sed.
"Why do you say that, Mr. Smith?"
"Because it"s true. I don"t even resemble "em superficially."
She made a quick, graceful gesture: "Why do you say that, when here you are before me, the exact and exciting counterpart of the reckless and fasci---- the reckless and interesting men you write about?"