"What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go."
When, a few days later, Alcee Arobin again called for Edna in his drag,
Mrs. Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pick her up. But as
that lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, she
was not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend the
meeting of a branch Folk Lore Society, and regretted that she could not
accompany them. Arobin appeared nonplused, and asked Edna if there were
anyone else she cared to ask.
She did not deem it worthwhile to go in search of any of the
fashionable acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. She
thought of Madame Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did not
leave the house, except to take a languid walk around the block with her
husband after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at such a
request from Edna. Madame Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing, but for
some reason Edna did not want her. So they went alone, she and Arobin.
The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came
back upon her like a remittent fever. Her talk grew familiar and
confidential. It was no labor to become intimate with Arobin. His manner
invited easy confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming acquainted
was one which he always endeavored to ignore when a pretty and engaging
woman was concerned.
He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire.
They laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was telling
her how different life might have been if he had known her years before.
With ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boy
he had been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wrist
the scar from a saber cut which he had received in a duel outside of
Paris when he was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the red
cicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A quick impulse that was
somewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch
upon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh of
his palm.
She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel.
"The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me," she said.
"I shouldn't have looked at it."
"I beg your pardon," he entreated, following her; "it never occurred to
me that it might be repulsive."
He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old,
vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw
enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he
said his lingering good night.