Ships That Pass in the Night Part 15

Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room.

She looked very hot and excited. She was M. Lichinsky's mother. She spoke with a whirlwind of Polish words. It is sometimes difficult to know when these people are angry and when they are pleased. But there was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky. She was always angry. Her son rose from the sofa and followed her to the door. Then he turned round to his confederates, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Another quarrel!" he said hopelessly.

CHAPTER XV.

WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING.

"YOU may have talent for other things," Robert Allitsen said one day to Bernardine, "but you certainly have no talent for photography. You have not made the slightest progress."

"I don't at all agree with you," Bernardine answered rather peevishly.

"I think I am getting on very well."

"You are no judge," he said. "To begin with, you cannot focus properly.

You have a crooked eye. I have told you that several times!"

"You certainly have," she put in. "You don't let me forget that."

"Your photograph of that horrid little danseuse whom you like so much,"

he said, "is simply abominable. She looks like a fury. Well, she may be one for all I know, but in real life she has not the appearance of one."

"I think that is the best photograph I have done," Bernardine said, highly indignant. She could tolerate his uppishness about subjects of which she knew far more than he did; but his masterfulness about a subject of which she really knew nothing was more than she could bear with patience. He had not the tact to see that she was irritated.

"I don't know about it being the best," he said; "unless it is the best specimen of your inexperience. Looked at from that point of view, it does stand first!"

She flushed crimson with temper.

"Nothing is easier than to make fun of others," she said fiercely. "It is the resource of the ignorant."

Then, after the fas.h.i.+on of angry women, having said her say, she stalked away. If there had been a door to bang, she would certainly have banged it. However, she did what she could under the circ.u.mstances: she pushed a curtain roughly aside, and pa.s.sed into the concert-room, where every night of the season's six months, a scratchy string orchestra entertained the Kurhaus guests. She left the Disagreeable Man standing in the pa.s.sage.

"Dear me," he said thoughtfully. And he stroked his chin. Then he trudged slowly up to his room.

"Dear me," he said once more.

Arrived in his bedroom, he began to read. But after a few minutes he shut his book, took the lamp to the looking-gla.s.s and brushed his hair.

Then he put on a black coat and a white silk tie. There was a speck of dust on the coat. He carefully removed that, and then extinguished the lamp.

On his way downstairs he met Marie, who gazed at him in astonishment.

It was quite unusual for him to be seen again when he had once come up from _table-d'hote_. She noticed the black coat and the white silk tie too, and reported on these eccentricities to her colleague Anna.

The Disagreeable Man meanwhile had reached the Concert Hall. He glanced around, and saw where Bernardine was sitting, and then chose a place in the opposite direction, quite by himself. He looked somewhat like a dog who has been well beaten. Now and again he looked up to see whether she still kept her seat. The bad music was a great irritation to him. But he stayed on heroically. There was no reason why he should stay. Gradually, too, the audience began to thin. Still he lingered, always looking like a dog in punishment.

At last Bernardine rose, and the Disagreeable Man rose too. He followed her humbly to the door. She turned and saw him.

"I am sorry I put you in a bad temper," he said. "It was stupid of me."

"I am sorry I got into a bad temper," she answered, laughing. "It was stupid of me."

"I think I have said enough to apologize," he said. "It is a process I dislike very much."

And with that he wished her good-night and went to his room.

But that was not the end of the matter, for the next day when he was taking his breakfast with her, he of his own accord returned to the subject.

"It was partly your own fault that I vexed you last night," he said.

"You have never before been touchy, and so I have become accustomed to saying what I choose. And it is not in my nature to be flattering."

"That is a very truthful statement of yours," she said, as she poured out her coffee. "But I own I was touchy. And so I shall be again if you make such cutting remarks about my photographs!"

"You have a crooked eye," he said grimly. "Look there, for instance!

You have poured your coffee outside the cup. Of course you can do as you like, but the usual custom is to pour it inside the cup."

They both laughed, and the good understanding between them was cemented again.

"You are certainly getting better," he said suddenly. "I should not be surprised if you were able to write a book after all. Not that a new book is wanted. There are too many books as it is; and not enough people to dust them. Still, it is not probable that you would be considerate enough to remember that. You will write your book."

Bernardine shook her head.

"I don't seem to care now," she said. "I think I could now be content with a quieter and more useful part."

"You will write your book," he continued. "Now listen to me. Whatever else you may do, don't make your characters hold long discussions with each other. In real life, people do not talk four pages at a time without stopping. Also, if you bring together two clever men, don't make them talk cleverly. Clever people do not. It is only the stupid who think they must talk cleverly all the time. And don't detain your reader too long: if you must have a sunset, let it be a short one. I could give you many more hints which would be useful to you."

"But why not use your own hints for yourself?" she suggested.

"That would be selfish of me," he said solemnly. "I wish you to profit by them."

"You are learning to be unselfish at a very rapid rate," Bernardine said.

At that moment Mrs. Reffold came into the breakfast-room, and, seeing Bernardine, gave her a stiff bow.

"I thought you and Mrs. Reffold were such friends," Robert Allitsen said.

Bernardine then told him of her last interview with Mrs. Reffold.

"Well, if you feel uncomfortable, it is as it should be," he said. "I don't see what business you had to point out to Mrs. Reffold her duty.

I dare say she knows it quite well though she may not choose to do it.

I am sure I should resent it, if any one pointed out my duty to me.

Every one knows his own duty. And it is his own affair whether or not he does it."

"I wonder if you are right," Bernardine said. "I never meant to presume; but her indifference had exasperated me."

"Why should you be exasperated about other people's affairs?" he said.

"And why interfere at all?"