"come, come now, now poor girl! you surely aren't crying like this because you've been kept away from your dance to-night?"
lilian gave a great start, and an "oh!" and, searching hurriedly for a handkerchief inadequate to the damming of torrents, dried up her tears at the source, but could not immediately control the sobs that continued to convulse her whole frame.
"n-no! mr. grig," she whimpered feebly.
then she snatched at a sheet of paper and began to insert it in the machine before her, as though about to start some copying.
"miss grig is rather unwell," said felix grig. "she insisted that i should come up, and so i came." with that he tactfully left the room, obeying the wise rule of conduct under which a man conquers a woman's weeping by running away from it.
lilian's face was red; it went still redder. she was tremendously ashamed of being caught blubbering, and by mr. grig! it would not have mattered if one of the girls had surprised her, or even miss grig. but mr. grig! nor would it have mattered so much if circumstances had made possible any pretence, however absurd and false, that she was not in fact crying. but she had been trapped beyond any chance of a face-saving lie. she felt as though she had committed a sexual impropriety and could never look mr. grig in the eyes again. at the same time she was profoundly relieved that somebody belonging to the office, and especially a man, had arrived to break her awful solitude....
so mr. grig knew that she had a dance that night! there was something piquant and discomposing in that. gertie jackson must have chattered to miss grig--they were as thick as thieves, those two, or, at any rate, the good-natured gertie flattered herself that they were--and miss grig must have told felix. (very discreetly the girls would refer among themselves to mr. grig as "felix.") brother and sister must have been talking about her and her miserable little dance. still, a dance was a dance, and the mere word had a glorious sound. nobody except herself knew that her dance was in a basement.... so he had not come to the office to relieve and reassure her in her unforeseen night-watch, but merely to placate his sister! and how casually, lightly, almost quizzically, he had spoken! she was naught to him--a girl typist, one among a floating population of girl typists.
miss grig had no distinction--her ankles proved that--but felix was distinguished, in manner, in voice, in everything he did. felix was a swell, like the easy flâneurs in bond street that she saw when she happened to go out of the office during work-hours. it was said that he had been married and that his wife had divorced him. lilian surmised that if the truth were known the wife more than felix had been to blame.
all these thoughts were mere foam on the great, darkly heaving thought that felix had horribly misjudged her. not his fault, of course; but he had misjudged her. crying for a lost dance, indeed! she terribly wanted him to be made aware that she was only crying because she had experienced an ordeal to which she ought not to have been exposed and to which no girl ought to have been exposed. miss grig again! it was miss grig, not felix, who had sneered at hold-ups. there had been no hold-up, but there might have been a hold-up, and, in any case, she had passed through the worst sensations of a hold-up. scandalous!
anxious to be effective, she took up the typing of a novel which had been sent in by one of their principal customers, a literary agency, and tried to tap as prosaically as if the hour were 11.30 a.m. instead of 11.30 p.m. bravado! she knew that she would have to do the faulty sheet again; but she must impress felix. then she heard felix calling from the principals' room:
"miss share. miss share!" a little impatient as usual.
"yes, mr. grig." she rushed to the mirror and patted herself with the tiny sponge that under miss grig's orders was supposed to be employed for wetting postage stamps--but never was so employed save in miss grig's presence.
"i shall tell him why i was crying," she said to herself as she crossed the ante-room. "and i shall tell him straight."
he was seated on the corner of the table in the principals' room, and rolling a cigarette. he had lighted the gas-stove. a very slim man of medium height and of no age, he might have been thirty-five with prematurely grizzled hair, or fifty with hair younger than the wrinkles round his grey eyes! miss grig had said or implied that she was younger than her brother, but the girls did not accept without reserve all that miss grig might say or imply. he had taken off his overcoat and now displayed a dinner-jacket and an adorably soft shirt. lilian had never before seen him in evening-dress, for he did not come to the office at night, and nobody expected him to come to the office at night. he was wonderfully attractive in evening-dress, which he carried with the nonchalance of regular custom. so different from her father, who put on ceremonial attire about three times a year, and wore it with deplorable self-consciousness, as though it were a suit of armour! mr. grig was indeed a queer person to run a typewriting office. lilian was aware that he had been to winchester and cambridge, and done all manner of unusual things before he lit on typewriting.
"any work come in to-night, miss share?" he demanded in the bland, kindly, careless, official tone which he always employed to the girls--a tone rendering the slightest familiarity impossible. "anybody called?"
lilian knew that he was merely affecting an interest in the business, acting the rôle of managing proprietor. he had tired of the business long ago, and graciously left all the real power to his sister, who had no mind above typewriting.
"someone did come in just before you, mr. grig," lilian replied, seizing her chance, and in a half-challenging tone she related the adventure with the night-watchman. "it was that that upset me, mr. grig. it might have been a burglar--i made sure it was. and me all alone----"
"quite! quite!" he stopped her. "i can perfectly imagine how you must have felt. you haven't got over it yet, even. sit down. sit down." he said no word of apology for his misjudgment of her, but his tone apologized.
"oh! i'm perfectly all right now, thank you."
"please!" he slipped off the table and pulled round miss grig's chair for her.
she obediently sat down, liking to be agreeable to him. he unlocked his own cupboard and brought out a decanter and a liqueur glass. "drink this."
"please, what is it?"
"brandy. poison." he smiled.
she smiled, sipped, and coughed as the spirit burned her throat.
"i can't drink any more," she appealed.
"that's all right. that's all right."
it was his humorous use of the word "poison" that touched her. this sole word changed their relations. hitherto they had never for a moment been other than employer and employed. now they were something else. she was deeply flattered, assuaged, and also excited. brought up to scorn employment, the hardest task for her in her situation in the grig office had been to admit by her deportment that there was a bar of class between her employer and herself. the other girls addressed mr. grig as "sir"; but she--never! she always called him "mr. grig," and nothing could have induced her to say "sir." now, he was protecting her; he had become the attendant male; his protection enveloped her like a soft swansdown quilt, exquisite, delicious. and it was night. the night created romance. romance suddenly filled the room like a magic vapour, transforming him, herself, and the commonest objects of the room into something ideal.
"several times i've wanted to speak to you about a certain matter," said mr. grig quietly; and paused, gazing at the smoke from his cigarette.
"oh, yes?" lilian murmured nervously, and strove to accomplish the demeanour of a young woman of the world. (she much regretted that she had her wristlets on.) as he was not looking at her she could look at his face. and she looked at it as though she had never seen it before, or with fresh-perceiving eyes. a very clever, rather tired face; superior, even haughty, self-sure; fastidious, dissatisfied, the face of one accustomed to choose sardonically between two evils; impatient, bitter; humorous, with hints of benevolence. she thought: "of course he's never spoken to me because of his sister. even he has to mind his p's and q's with her. and he's one that hates a fuss. now she isn't here----"
she could not conceive what might be the "certain matter." she thrilled to learn it; but he would not be hurried. no, he would take his own time, mr. grig would. this was the most brilliant moment of her life.
he said, looking straight at her and forcing her to look straight at him:
"you know you've no business in a place like this, a girl like you. you're much too highly strung, for one thing. you aren't like miss jackson, for instance. you're simply wasting yourself here. of course you're terribly independent, but you do try to please. i don't mean try to please merely in your work. you try to please. it's an instinct with you. now in typing you'd never beat miss jackson. miss jackson's only alive, really, when she's typing. she types with her whole soul. you type well--i hear--but that's only because you're clever all round. you'd do anything well. you'd milk cows just as well as you'd type. but your business is marriage, and a good marriage! you're beautiful, and, as i say, you have an instinct to please. that's the important thing. you'd make a success of marriage because of that and because you're adaptable and quick at picking up. most women when they're married forget that their job is to adapt themselves and to please. that's their job. they expect to be kowtowed to and spoilt and humoured and to be free to spend money without having to earn it, and to do nothing in return except just exist--and perhaps manage a household, pretty badly. they seem to forget that there are two sides to a bargain. it's dashed hard work, pleasing is, sometimes. i know that. but it isn't so hard as earning money, believe me! now you wouldn't be like the majority of women. you'd keep your share of the bargain, and handsomely. if you don't marry, and marry fifty miles above you, you'll be very silly. for you to stop here is an outrage against common-sense. it's merely monstrous. if i wasn't an old man i wouldn't tell you this, naturally. now you needn't blush. i expect i'm not far off thirty years older than you--and you're young enough to be wise in time."
she was blushing tremendously, and in spite of an effort of courage her gaze dropped from his. at length his gaze shifted, on the pretext of dropping cigarette-ash very carefully into an ash-tray.
he had, then, been thinking about her all those months, differentiating her from the others, summing her up! and how well he had summed her up, and how well he had expressed himself--so romantically (somehow) and yet with such obvious truth! (of course he had been having a dig at his own wife, who had divorced him! you could see how embittered he was on the subject of wives!) she wondered if he had thought her beautiful for long. fancy him moving about the office and forming ideas about all of them, and never a sign, never the slightest sign that he could tell one of them from another! and he had chosen that night to reveal his mind to her. she was inexpressibly flattered. because mr. grig was clearly a connoisseur--she had always felt that. if mr. grig considered her beautiful...!
and in fact she had an established assurance of beauty. she knew a good deal about herself. proudly she reflected, amid her blushes, upon the image of her face and hair--the eyes that matched her hair, the perfectly formed ears, the softness of the chin and the firmness of the nose, the unchallengeable complexion, the dazzling teeth. she was simple enough to be somewhat apologetic about the largeness of her mouth, unaware that a man of experience flees from a small rosebud mouth as from the devil, and that a large mouth is the certain sign of goodwill and understanding in a woman. she was apologetic, too, about the scragginess of her neck, and with better reason. but the wrists and the ankles, the legs, the shoulders, the swelling of the hips, the truly astounding high, firm and abundant bosom! beyond criticism! and she walked beautifully, throwing back her shoulders and so emphasizing the line of the waist at the back. she walked with her legs and hips, and the body swam forward above them. she had observed the effect thousands of times in street mirrors. the girls all admitted that she walked uniquely. then, further, she had a smile (rarely used) which would intensify in the most extraordinary way the beauty of her face, lighting it, electrifying the eyes, radiating a charm that enraptured. she knew that also. a superlative physical pride rose up out of the subconscious into the conscious, and put her cheap pretty clothes to shame. it occurred to her that mr. grig had been talking very strangely, very unusually.
"i don't suppose i shall ever marry," she said plaintively. "how can i?" she meant, and without doubt he understood: "how can i possibly meet a man who is worth marrying?" she thought with destructive disdain of every youth who had ever reacted to her charm. the company at the dance she had missed seemed contemptible. they were still dancing. what a collection of tenth-rate fellows!
she became gloomy, pessimistic, as she saw the totality of her existence and its prospects. the home at putney had been a prison. she had escaped from it, but only to enter another prison. she saw no outlet. she was trapped on every side. she could not break out of the infernal circle of poverty and of the conventions. not in ten years could she save enough to keep her for a year. she had to watch every penny. if she was mad enough to go to a west end theatre she had to consider the difference between a half-crown and a three-shilling pit. thousands of men and women negligently fling themselves into expensive taxis, but a rise in bus fares or tube fares would seriously unbalance lilian's budget. she passed most of her spare time in using a needle to set off her beauty, but what a farce was the interminable study and labour! she could not possibly aspire to even the best gloves; and as for the best stockings, or the second best!--the price of such a pair came to more than she could earn in a week. it was all absurd, tragic, pitiful. she had common-sense ample enough to see that her beauty was futile, her ambitions baseless, and her prospects nil. if she had been a vicious girl, she might have broken through the dreadful ring into splendours which she glimpsed and needed. but she was not vicious.
"pooh!" exclaimed mr. grig impatiently. "you could marry anybody you liked if you put your mind to it."
and he spoke so scornfully of her lack of faith, so persuasively, so inspiringly, that she had an amazing and beautiful vision of herself worshipped, respected, alluring, seductive, arousing passion, reciprocating passion, kind, benevolent, eternally young, eternally lovely, eternally exercising for the balm and solace of mankind and a man the functions for which she was created and endowed--in a word, fulfilling herself. and for the moment, in the ecstasy of resolution to achieve the impossible, she was superb and magnificent and the finest thing that a man could ever hope to witness.
and she thought desperately:
"i'm twenty-three already. time is rushing past me. to-morrow i shall be old."
after a silence mr. grig said:
"you're very tired. there's no reason why you shouldn't go home to bed."
"indeed i shan't go home, mr. grig," she answered sharply, with grateful, eager devotion. "i shall stay. supposing some work came in! it's not twelve o'clock yet."
she surprised quite a youthful look on mr. grig's face. nearly thirty years older than herself? ridiculous! there was nothing at all in a difference of years. some men were never old. back in the clerks' room she got out her vanity bag and carefully arranged her face. and as she looked in the glass she thought:
"after to-night i shall never be quite the same girl again.... did he really call me in to ask me about the work, or did he only do it because he wanted to talk to me?"
