"I have called on your mother," said she. "I thought you would be on your way to Rome."
Her lips were red and rather full: her cheeks were pink, her throat and brows were white. Her demeanour was, while modest, neither shy nor self-conscious. David was struck by her height and the extreme slightness of her figure. She wore a large Gainsborough hat with long plumes, a black gown, and a collar of old _point de Venise_. She had come up from the country, and her presence brought its freshness.
"Why are you in town?" he asked abruptly.
"The trousseau?" she said, lifting her eyes for the first time to his.
"They say it is unlucky to try on your wedding-dress," he continued, seeking relief in the very torture of reminding himself that the date of her marriage with Lord Reckage was fixed.
"I never think about luck," she answered.
"I met Reckage at the play last night. I lunched with him to-day," said Rennes.
"I am so glad that you are friends. I want you to like him."
"No doubt he thinks me mad. Politicians always regard artists as madmen."
"But Beauclerk is considered very cultured. I hate the word. He is interested in art."
"No doubt--as a means of investment, an educational influence, or a topic of conversation for light moments."
"You are severe. Yet I like to hear you talk."
She hoped that his talk would drown the singing in her heart, the whispering in her ears, the footsteps of doubt--doubt of herself, doubt of Reckage, coming nearer and nearer. She had been taught everything. She had discovered nothing. Love itself had come to her in the shape of a cruel code of responsibilities. Lately she had been dwelling with an almost feverish emphasis on the question of duty. She had wearied Reckage; she had exhausted herself by the tenacity of her mind toward that dull subject. And the real truth about much in life was forcing itself upon her. She was essentially a woman of affairs. Her face absorbed the poetry of her nature, just as a flower extracts every excellence from its surrounding soil, and, shining out for the sun, wastes no blossom underground. It had been her earliest ambition to marry a Member of Parliament and help him--by her prayers and counsel--on his conscientious career toward Downing Street. She had received an austere education, and even her native generosity of heart could not soften the indignation she had been trained to feel against any neglect of duty. Duty was a term which she applied to that science of things generally expedient which tradition has presented to us in the household proverbs and maxims of every nation. Early rising, controlling one's temper, paying one's debts, consideration for others, working while it is day, taking stitches in time--all these to that orthodox mind were matters of imperative obligation, if not Divine command. David's impulsive nature and self-indulgent habits filled her with overwhelming sorrow and dismay. She could not understand the rapid changes of mood, the disordered views, the storm and violence which are characteristic of every artist whose work is a form of autobiography rather than a presentment of impersonal forms and effects.