But I
say, look here, Stephen. That woman I thought I cared for--may I tell
you what she was like? Somehow I want you to know. Don't think me a cad.
I don't mean to be. But--may I tell?"
"Of course. Why not?"
"She was dark and awfully handsome, and though she wasn't an actress,
she would have made a splendid one. She thought only of herself.
I--there was a picture in a London paper lately which reminded me of
her--the picture of a young lady you know--or think you know.
They--those two--are of the same type. I don't believe either could make
a man happy."
Stephen laughed--a short, embarrassed laugh. "Oh, happy!" he echoed.
"After twenty-five we learn not to expect happiness. But--thank you
for--everything, and especially for inviting me here." He knew now why
it had occurred to Nevill to ask him to Algiers. Nevill had seen
Margot's picture. In silence they walked towards the open door of the
dining-room. Somewhere not far away the Kabyle dogs were barking
shrilly. In the distance rose and fell muffled notes of strange passion
and fierceness, an Arab tom-tom beating like the heart of the conquered
East, away in the old town.
Stephen's short-lived gaiety was struck out of his soul.
"For a moment white, then gone forever."
He pushed the haunting words out of his mind. He did not want them to
have any meaning. They had no meaning.
It seemed to him that the perfume of the lilies was too heavy on the
air.
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