"Only a
conscript
kissing the cook," said Maisie.
Kipling - Poems
When she returned
to England in the autumn--for her pride's sake she could not return
earlier--she would speak to him. She missed the Sunday afternoon
conferences more than she cared to admit. All that Kami said was,
"Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez toujours," and he had been repeating
the wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a cicada,--an
old gray cicada in a black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge felt
hat.
But Dick had tramped masterfully up and down her little studio north
of the cool green London park, and had said things ten times worse than
continuez, before he snatched the brush out of her hand and showed her
where the error lay. His last letter, Maisie remembered, contained
some trivial advice about not sketching in the sun or drinking water at
wayside farmhouses; and he had said that not once, but three times,--as
if he did not know that Maisie could take care of herself.
But what was he doing, that he could not trouble to write? A murmur of
voices in the road made her lean from the window. A cavalryman of the
little garrison in the town was talking to Kami's cook. The moonlight
glittered on the scabbard of his sabre, which he was holding in his hand
lest it should clank inopportunely. The cook's cap cast deep shadows on
her face, which was close to the conscript's. He slid his arm round her
waist, and there followed the sound of a kiss.
"Faugh! " said Maisie, stepping back.
"What's that? " said the red-haired girl, who was tossing uneasily
outside her bed.
"Only a conscript kissing the cook," said Maisie.
"They've gone away now. " She leaned out of the window again, and put a
shawl over her nightgown to guard against chills. There was a very small
night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its head as one
who knew unutterable secrets. Was it possible that Dick should turn his
thoughts from her work and his own and descend to the degradation of
Suzanne and the conscript? He could not! The rose nodded its head and
one leaf therewith. It looked like a naughty little devil scratching its
ear.
Dick could not, "because," thought Maisie, "he is mine,--mine,--mine. He
said he was. I'm sure I don't care what he does. It will only spoil his
work if he does; and it will spoil mine too. "
The rose continued to nod in the futile way peculiar to flowers. There
was no earthly reason why Dick should not disport himself as he chose,
except that he was called by Providence, which was Maisie, to assist
Maisie in her work. And her work was the preparation of pictures that
went sometimes to English provincial exhibitions, as the notices in the
scrap-book proved, and that were invariably rejected by the Salon when
Kami was plagued into allowing her to send them up. Her work in the
future, it seemed, would be the preparation of pictures on exactly
similar lines which would be rejected in exactly the same way----The
red-haired girl threshed distressfully across the sheets.
to England in the autumn--for her pride's sake she could not return
earlier--she would speak to him. She missed the Sunday afternoon
conferences more than she cared to admit. All that Kami said was,
"Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez toujours," and he had been repeating
the wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a cicada,--an
old gray cicada in a black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge felt
hat.
But Dick had tramped masterfully up and down her little studio north
of the cool green London park, and had said things ten times worse than
continuez, before he snatched the brush out of her hand and showed her
where the error lay. His last letter, Maisie remembered, contained
some trivial advice about not sketching in the sun or drinking water at
wayside farmhouses; and he had said that not once, but three times,--as
if he did not know that Maisie could take care of herself.
But what was he doing, that he could not trouble to write? A murmur of
voices in the road made her lean from the window. A cavalryman of the
little garrison in the town was talking to Kami's cook. The moonlight
glittered on the scabbard of his sabre, which he was holding in his hand
lest it should clank inopportunely. The cook's cap cast deep shadows on
her face, which was close to the conscript's. He slid his arm round her
waist, and there followed the sound of a kiss.
"Faugh! " said Maisie, stepping back.
"What's that? " said the red-haired girl, who was tossing uneasily
outside her bed.
"Only a conscript kissing the cook," said Maisie.
"They've gone away now. " She leaned out of the window again, and put a
shawl over her nightgown to guard against chills. There was a very small
night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its head as one
who knew unutterable secrets. Was it possible that Dick should turn his
thoughts from her work and his own and descend to the degradation of
Suzanne and the conscript? He could not! The rose nodded its head and
one leaf therewith. It looked like a naughty little devil scratching its
ear.
Dick could not, "because," thought Maisie, "he is mine,--mine,--mine. He
said he was. I'm sure I don't care what he does. It will only spoil his
work if he does; and it will spoil mine too. "
The rose continued to nod in the futile way peculiar to flowers. There
was no earthly reason why Dick should not disport himself as he chose,
except that he was called by Providence, which was Maisie, to assist
Maisie in her work. And her work was the preparation of pictures that
went sometimes to English provincial exhibitions, as the notices in the
scrap-book proved, and that were invariably rejected by the Salon when
Kami was plagued into allowing her to send them up. Her work in the
future, it seemed, would be the preparation of pictures on exactly
similar lines which would be rejected in exactly the same way----The
red-haired girl threshed distressfully across the sheets.
