In that very short time the boy had distinctly shown her by his marked attention how much he admired her. He thought her lovely. He was devoted to music and she had sung to him.

Aylmer also liked music, but apparently did not care to hear her sing.

On the occasion that she did, it seemed to irritate him. Indeed, she knew she was merely the most amateurish of musicians, and could just accompany herself in a few songs, though the voice itself was a rare gift.... How perfect Aylmer had been!... There was a sharp ring. She closed the book, turned out the little electric lamp and went downstairs.

She was looking ideally pretty in the becoming uniform, but uniforms are always becoming, whatever the uniforms or the people may be. The reason of this is too obscure to fathom. One would say that to dress to suit oneself would be more becoming to men and women. Yet, in fact, the limitation and the want of variety in this sort of dress had a singular attraction. However, if she had chosen it to suit her, nothing could have been more becoming. The severity of the form, the dull colour, relieved by the large scarlet cross, showed off to the greatest advantage her dense dark hair, her Madonna-like face and the slim yet not angular lines of her figure. Dulcie's beauty was of a kind that is thrown into relief by excessive plainness of dress.

CHAPTER XIX

As she came in, Aylmer looked at her with more observation than usual, and he acknowledged to himself that she was pretty--remarkably pretty, quite a picture, as people say, and he liked her, as one likes a confidante, a reliable friend. He trusted her, remembering how he had given himself away to her that dreadful day in the Boulogne hospital....

And she had another quality that pleased him immensely; she was neither coquettish nor affected, but simple and serious. She appeared to think solely of her duties, and in Aylmer's opinion that was just what a nurse should do.

But Edith's remark that Dulcie was madly in love with him had made a certain impression on his mind. Indeed, everything Edith said, even a merely trivial observation, was of importance to Aylmer. Edith wouldn't have said that unless she meant it. If it was true, did it matter?

Aylmer was very free from vanity and masculine coquetry. He had a good deal of pride and great self-respect. Like almost every human being who is superior to the average, he didn't think ill of himself; there were things that he was proud of. He was proud, secretly, of having gone into the army and of having been wounded. It made him feel he was not on the shelf, not useless and superannuated. He took a certain pride also in his judgement, his excellent judgement on pictures and literature.

Perhaps, even, having been a spoilt only child, he was privately proud of some of his faults. He knew he was extravagant and impatient. The best of everything was barely good enough for Aylmer. Long before he inherited the property that had come to him a year ago he had never been the sort of young man who would manage on little; who would, for example, go to the gallery by Underground or omnibus to see a play or to the opera. He required comfort, elbow-room, ease. For that reason he had worked really hard at the Bar so as to have enough money to live according to his ideas. Not that he took any special interest in the Bar. His ideal had always been--if it could be combined--to be either a soldier or a man of leisure, devoted to sport, literature and art.

Now he had a.s.serted himself as a soldier, and he meant to go back. But he looked forward to leisure to enjoy and indulge his favourite tastes, if possible, with the only woman he had ever been deeply in love with.

He was particularly attractive to women, who liked his strong will and depth of feeling, his a.s.sertive manner and that feeling of trust that he inspired. Women always know when a man will not treat them badly.

Teddy's mother, his first wife, he had really married out of pity.

When she died everyone regarded it as a tragedy except himself. He still worshipped his mother, whose little miniature he kept always by him, and he had always fancied that Edith resembled her. This was simply an _idee d'amoureux_, for there was no resemblance. His mother, according to the miniature, had the dark hair and innocent expression that were the fashion at the time, while Edith was fair, with rather dark eyebrows, grey eyes and the mouth and chin characteristic of Burne-Jones's and Rossetti's pictures. But though she might be in appearance a Burne-Jones, she was very modern. His favourite little photograph of her that he had shown, in his moment of despair, to Dulcie, showed a charming face, sensuous yet thoughtful, under a large hat. She had fur up to her chin, and was holding a m.u.f.f; it was a snapshot taken the winter before they had parted.

Aylmer worshipped these two women: his dead mother and the living woman whom he had never given up entirely. How unlike were both the types to Dulcie Clay, with her waved Madonna hair, dark skin, large, clear blue eyes, softened by eyelashes of extraordinary length. Her chin was very small, her mouth fine, rather thin; she had a pathetic expression; one could imagine her attending, helping, nursing, holding a child in her arms, but not his intellectual equal, guiding and directing like his mother; and without the social brilliance and charm of Edith.

Seeing him looking at her with a long, observant look, Dulcie became nervous and trembled slightly. She waited for him to speak.

'Come here, Miss Clay. I want to speak to you.'

Instantly she sat down by him.

'I wanted to say--you've been most awfully kind to me.'

Dulcie murmured something.

'I'm nearly well now--aren't I?'

'Dr Wood says you can go out driving next week.'

'Yes; but I don't mean that. I mean, I'm well in myself?'

He spoke quickly, almost impatiently.

'The doctor says you're still suffering from nervous shock;' she answered in a toneless voice, professionally.

'Still, very soon I shan't need any attendance that a valet or a housekeeper couldn't give me, shall I?'

'No, I suppose not.'

'Well, my dear Miss Clay--of course, I shall hate you to go,' he said politely, 'but don't you think we ought to be thinking--'

He stopped.

She answered:

'Of course I'll go whenever you and Dr Wood think it right.'

'You see,' he went on, 'I know I shall need a housekeeper, especially when Teddy comes back. He's coming back on leave next week'--Aylmer glanced at the telegram in his hand--'and, well--'

'You don't think I could--'

'Of course you would make a splendid housekeeper,' he laughed. 'You are already, but--'

She didn't wish to make him uncomfortable. Evidently he was thinking what she knew herself. But she was so reluctant to go.

'Don't you think I could remain here for a little while?' she said modestly. 'To do the housekeeping and be useful? You see, I've nowhere to go really.'

'But, my dear girl, excuse me, don't you see you're rather too--young.

It would be selfish of me to let you.'

He wished to say that it would be compromising, but a certain consciousness prevented his saying it. He felt he would be ridiculous if he put it into words.

'Just as you like. How soon do you think I ought to go?'

Though she tried not to show it, there was a look almost of despair in her face. Her eyes looked startled, as if trying not to shed tears.

He was very sorry for her, but tried to hide it by a cool and impatient manner.

'Well, shall we say in about a fortnight?'

'Certainly.' She looked down.

'I shall miss you awfully,' he said, speaking more quickly than usual to get it over.

She gave a very small smile.

'Er--and then may I ask what you're thinking of doing next?'

'That was just what I was thinking about,' she answered rather navely.

'There are so few things I can do.'

Then fearing this sentence sounded like begging to remain, she hastily added: