"My book's hung up," he said impatiently, annoyed with Miss Hicks's lack of tact. There was a girl who never put out feelers ....
"Yes; I thought it was," she went on quietly, and he gave her a startled glance. What the devil else did she think, he wondered? He had never supposed her capable of getting far enough out of her own thick carapace of self-sufficiency to penetrate into any one else's feelings.
"The truth is," he continued, embarrassed, "I suppose I dug away at it rather too continuously; that's probably why I felt the need of a change. You see I'm only a beginner."
She still continued her relentless questioning. "But later-- you'll go on with it, of course?"
"Oh, I don't know." He paused, glanced down the glittering deck, and then out across the glittering water. "I've been dreaming dreams, you see. I rather think I shall have to drop the book altogether, and try to look out for a job that will pay. To indulge in my kind of literature one must first have an assured income."
He was instantly annoyed with himself for having spoken.
Hitherto in his relations with the Hickses he had carefully avoided the least allusion that might make him feel the heavy hand of their beneficence. But the idle procrastinating weeks had weakened him and he had yielded to the need of putting into words his vague intentions. To do so would perhaps help to make them more definite.
To his relief Miss Hicks made no immediate reply; and when she spoke it was in a softer voice and with an unwonted hesitation.
"It seems a shame that with gifts like yours you shouldn't find some kind of employment that would leave you leisure enough to do your real work ...."
He shrugged ironically. "Yes--there are a goodish number of us hunting for that particular kind of employment."
Her tone became more business-like. "I know it's hard to find--almost impossible. But would you take it, I wonder, if it were offered to you--?"
She turned her head slightly, and their eyes met. For an instant blank terror loomed upon him; but before he had time to face it she continued, in the same untroubled voice: "Mr.
Buttles's place, I mean. My parents must absolutely have some one they can count on. You know what an easy place it is ....
I think you would find the salary satisfactory."
Nick drew a deep breath of relief. For a moment her eyes had looked as they had in the Scalzi--and he liked the girl too much not to shrink from reawakening that look. But Mr. Buttles's place: why not?
"Poor Buttles!" he murmured, to gain time.
"Oh," she said, "you won't find the same reasons as he did for throwing up the job. He was the martyr of his artistic convictions."
He glanced at her sideways, wondering. After all she did not know of his meeting with Mr. Buttles in Genoa, nor of the latter's confidences; perhaps she did not even know of Mr.
Buttles's hopeless passion. At any rate her face remained calm.
"Why not consider it--at least just for a few months? Till after our expedition to Mesopotamia?" she pressed on, a little breathlessly.
"You're awfully kind: but I don't know--"
She stood up with one of her abrupt movements. "You needn't, all at once. Take time think it over. Father wanted me to ask you," she appended.
He felt the inadequacy of his response. "It tempts me awfully, of course. But I must wait, at any rate--wait for letters. The fact is I shall have to wire from Rhodes to have them sent. I had chucked everything, even letters, for a few weeks."
"Ah, you are tired," she murmured, giving him a last downward glance as she turned away.
>From Rhodes Nick Lansing telegraphed to his Paris bank to send his letters to Candia; but when the Ibis reached Candia, and the mail was brought on board, the thick envelope handed to him contained no letter from Susy.
Why should it, since he had not yet written to her?
He had not written, no: but in sending his address to the bank he knew he had given her the opportunity of reaching him if she wished to. And she had made no sign.
Late that afternoon, when they returned to the yacht from their first expedition, a packet of newspapers lay on the deck-house table. Nick picked up one of the London journals, and his eye ran absently down the list of social events.
He read:
"Among the visitors expected next week at Ruan Castle (let for the season to Mr. Frederick J. Gillow of New York) are Prince Altineri of Rome, the Earl of Altringham and Mrs. Nicholas Lansing, who arrived in London last week from Paris. "Nick threw down the paper. It was just a month since he had left the Palazzo Vanderlyn and flung himself into the night express for Milan. A whole month--and Susy had not written. Only a month-- and Susy and Strefford were already together!
