Then came a twisted thought, rejected only to return; a surprising
thought, so alluring that the sense of shame, of chivalry, could not
press it back. Cutty's words began to flow into one ear and out of
the other, without sense. There was in his heart--put there by the
recollection of the jewels--an indescribable bitterness, a desperate
cynicism that urged him to strike out, careless of friend or foe. Who
could say what would happen to him when he left here? A flash of spring
madness, then to go forth devil-may-care.
She was really beautiful, full of unsuspected fire. To fan it into white
flame. The whole affair would depend upon whether she cared for music.
If she did he would pluck the soul out of her. She had saved his life.
Well, what of that? He had broken yonder man's bread and eaten his
salt. Still, what of that? Hadn't he come from a race of scoundrels?
The blood--he had smothered and repressed it all his life--to unleash it
once, happen what might. If she were really fond of music!
Once again Kitty's glance roved back to Hawksley. This time she
encountered a concentration in his unwavering stare. She did not
quite like it. Perhaps he was only thinking about something and wasn't
actually seeing her. Still, it quieted down the fluttering gayety of her
mood. There was a sun spot of her own that became visible whenever her
interest in Cutty's monologue lagged. Perhaps Hawksley had his sun spot.
"And so," she heard Cutty say. "Mr. Hawksley is going to become an
American citizen. Kitty, what are some of the principles of good
citizenship?"
"To be nice to policemen. Not to meddle with politics, because it is
vulgar. To vote perfunctorily. To 'let George do it' when there are
reforms to be brought about. To keep your hat on when the flag goes
by because otherwise you will attract attention. To find fault without
being able to offer remedies. To keep in debt because life here in
America would be monotonous without bill collectors."
Cutty interrupted with a laugh. "Kitty, you'll 'scare Hawksley off the
map!"
"Let him know the worst at once," retorted Kitty, flashing a smile at
the victim.
"Spoofing me--what?" said Hawksley, appealing to his host.
This quality of light irony in a woman was a distinct novelty to
Hawksley. She had humour, then? So much the better. An added zest to the
game he was planning. He recalled now that she was not of the clinging
kind either. A woman with a humorous turn of mind was ten times more
elusive than a purely sentimental one. Give him an hour or two with that
old Amati--if she really cared for music! She would be coming to the
apartment again--some afternoon, when his host was out of the way.
Better still, he would call her by telephone; the plea of loneliness.
Scoundrel? Of course he was. He was not denying that. He would embark
upon this affair without the smug varnish of self-lies. Fire--to play
with it!