Her sense of separation from her mother made Charmian the more desirous of further intercourse with Susan Fleet. She felt as if only Miss Fleet could help her, though how she did not know. After repeated attempts on her part a meeting was at last arranged, and one afternoon the Theosophist made her appearance in Berkeley Square and was shown upstairs to Charmian's little sitting-room.
Charmian was playing a Polonaise of Chopin's on a cottage piano. She played fairly well, but not remarkably. She had been trained by a competent master and had a good deal of execution. But her playing lacked that grip and definite intention which are the blood and bone of a performance. Several people thought nevertheless that it was full of charm.
"Oh, Susan!"--she stopped abruptly on a diminished seventh. "Come and sit here! May I?"
She kissed the serene face, clasping the white-gloved hands with both of hers.
"What a fit! I simply must go there. D'you like my little room?"
Susan looked quietly round, examining the sage-green walls, the water-colors, the books in Florentine bindings, the chairs and sofas covered with chintz, which showed a bold design of purple grapes with green leaves, the cream-colored rough curtains, and Charmian's dachshund, Caroline, who lay awake before the small fire which burned in a grate lined with Morris tiles.
"Yes, I like it very much. It looks like your home and as if you were fond of it."
"I am, so far as one can be fond of a room."
She paused, hesitating, thinking of the little island and her sudden outburst, longing to return at once to the subject which secretly obsessed her, yet fearing to seem childish, too egoistic, perhaps naively indiscreet. Susan looked at her with a friendly gaze.
"How are things going with you? Are you happier than you were at Mustapha?"
"Do I look uglier?" cried Charmian, almost with sharpness.
Susan Fleet could not help smiling, but in her smile there was no sarcasm, only a gentle, tolerant humor.
"I hardly know. People say my ideas about looks are all crazy. I can't admire many so-called beauties, you see. There's more expression in your face, I think. But I don't know that I should call it happy expression."
"I wish I were like you. I wish I could feel indifferent to happiness!"