"I called at your place," Mr. Carmyle was saying, "and the hall portertold me that you were here, so I ventured to follow you. I hope you donot mind? May I smoke?"
He lit a cigarette with something of an air. His fingers trembled as heraised the match, but he flattered himself that there was nothingelse in his demeanour to indicate that he was violently excited.Bruce Carmyle's ideal was the strong man who can rise superior to hisemotions. He was alive to the fact that this was an embarrassing moment,but he was determined not to show that he appreciated it. He cast asideways glance at Sally, and thought that never, not even in the gardenat Monk's Crofton on a certain momentous occasion, had he seen herlooking prettier. Her face was flushed and her eyes aflame. The stoutwraith of Uncle Donald, which had accompanied Mr. Carmyle on thisexpedition of his, faded into nothingness as he gazed.
There was a pause. Mr. Carmyle, having lighted his cigarette, puffedvigorously.
"When did you land?" asked Sally, feeling the need of saying something.Her mind was confused. She could not have said whether she was glador sorry that he was there. Glad, she thought, on the whole. Therewas something in his dark, cool, stiff English aspect that gave her acurious feeling of relief. He was so unlike Mr. Cracknell and the manfrom up-state and so calmly remote from the feverish atmosphere in whichshe lived her nights that it was restful to look at him.
"I landed to-night," said Bruce Carmyle, turning and faced her squarely.
"To-night!"
"We docked at ten."
He turned away again. He had made his effect, and was content to leaveher to think it over.
Sally was silent. The significance of his words had not escaped her. Sherealized that his presence there was a challenge which she must answer.And yet it hardly stirred her. She had been fighting so long, and shefelt utterly inert. She was like a swimmer who can battle no longer andprepares to yield to the numbness of exhaustion. The heat of the roompressed down on her like a smothering blanket. Her tired nerves criedout under the blare of music and the clatter of voices.
"Shall we dance this?" he asked.
The orchestra had started to play again, a sensuous, creamy melody whichwas making the most of its brief reign as Broadway's leading song-hit,overfamiliar to her from a hundred repetitions.
"If you like."
Efficiency was Bruce Carmyle's gospel. He was one of these men whodo not attempt anything which they cannot accomplish to perfection.Dancing, he had decided early in his life, was a part of a gentleman'seducation, and he had seen to it that he was educated thoroughly. Sally,who, as they swept out on to the floor, had braced herself automaticallyfor a repetition of the usual bumping struggle which dancing at theFlower Garden had come to mean for her, found herself in the arms ofa masterful expert, a man who danced better than she did, and suddenlythere came to her a feeling that was almost gratitude, a miraculousslackening of her taut nerves, a delicious peace. Soothed and contented,she yielded herself with eyes half closed to the rhythm of the melody,finding it now robbed in some mysterious manner of all its stalecheapness, and in that moment her whole attitude towards Bruce Carmyleunderwent a complete change.
She had never troubled to examine with any minuteness her feelingstowards him: but one thing she had known clearly since their firstmeeting--that he was physically distasteful to her. For all his goodlooks, and in his rather sinister way he was a handsome man, she hadshrunk from him. Now, spirited away by the magic of the dance, thatrepugnance had left her. It was as if some barrier had been broken downbetween them.
"Sally!"
She felt his arm tighten about her, the muscles quivering. She caughtsight of his face. His dark eyes suddenly blazed into hers and shestumbled with an odd feeling of helplessness; realizing with a shockthat brought her with a jerk out of the half-dream into which she hadbeen lulled that this dance had not postponed the moment of decision,as she had looked to it to do. In a hot whisper, the words swept awayon the flood of the music which had suddenly become raucous and blaringonce more, he was repeating what he had said under the trees at Monk'sCrofton on that far-off morning in the English springtime. Dizzilyshe knew that she was resenting the unfairness of the attack at such amoment, but her mind seemed numbed.
The music stopped abruptly. Insistent clapping started it again, butSally moved away to her table, and he followed her like a shadow.Neither spoke. Bruce Carmyle had said his say, and Sally was sittingstaring before her, trying to think. She was tired, tired. Her eyes wereburning. She tried to force herself to face the situation squarely. Wasit worth struggling? Was anything in the world worth a struggle? Sheonly knew that she was tired, desperately tired, tired to the verydepths of her soul.
The music stopped. There was more clapping, but this time the orchestradid not respond. Gradually the floor emptied. The shuffling of feetceased. The Flower Garden was as quiet as it was ever able to be. Eventhe voices of the babblers seemed strangely hushed. Sally closed hereyes, and as she did so from somewhere up near the roof there came thesong of a bird.
Isadore Abrahams was a man of his word. He advertised a Flower Garden,and he had tried to give the public something as closely resemblinga flower-garden as it was possible for an overcrowded, overheated,overnoisy Broadway dancing-resort to achieve. Paper roses festooned thewalls; genuine tulips bloomed in tubs by every pillar; and from theroof hung cages with birds in them. One of these, stirred by the suddencessation of the tumult below, had began to sing.
Sally had often pitied these birds, and more than once had pleaded invain with Abrahams for a remission of their sentence, but somehow atthis moment it did not occur to her that this one was merely praying inits own language, as she often had prayed in her thoughts, to be takenout of this place. To her, sitting there wrestling with Fate, the songseemed cheerful. It soothed her. It healed her to listen to it. Andsuddenly before her eyes there rose a vision of Monk's Crofton, cool,green, and peaceful under the mild English sun, luring her as an oasisseen in the distance lures the desert traveller...
She became aware that the master of Monk's Crofton had placed his handon hers and was holding it in a tightening grip. She looked down andgave a little shiver. She had always disliked Bruce Carmyle's hands.They were strong and bony and black hair grew on the back of them. Oneof the earliest feelings regarding him had been that she would hate tohave those hands touching her. But she did not move. Again that visionof the old garden had flickered across her mind... a haven where shecould rest...
He was leaning towards her, whispering in her ear. The room was hotterthan it had ever been, noisier than it had ever been, fuller than it hadever been. The bird on the roof was singing again and now she understoodwhat it said. "Take me out of this!" Did anything matter except that?What did it matter how one was taken, or where, or by whom, so that onewas taken.
Monk's Crofton was looking cool and green and peaceful...
"Very well," said Sally.
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