"I rubbed it out with turps and the knife,"
faltered
Bessie.
Kipling - Poems
She giggled as a nervous housemaid giggles when she tries
to explain the breakage of a pipe.
"I'm very sorry, but you remember I was--I was angry with you before Mr.
Torpenhow went away? "
"You were very angry, child; and on my word I think you had some right
to be. "
"Then I--but aren't you sure Mr. Torpenhow didn't tell you? "
"Tell me what? Good gracious, what are you making such a fuss about when
you might just as well be giving me another kiss? "
He was beginning to learn, not for the first time in his experience,
that kissing is a cumulative poison. The more you get of it, the more
you want.
Bessie gave the kiss promptly, whispering, as she did so, "I was so
angry I rubbed out that picture with the turpentine. You aren't angry,
are you? "
"What? Say that again. " The man's hand had closed on her wrist.
"I rubbed it out with turps and the knife," faltered Bessie. "I thought
you'd only have to do it over again. You did do it over again, didn't
you? Oh, let go of my wrist; you're hurting me. "
"Isn't there anything left of the thing? "
"N'nothing that looks like anything. I'm sorry--I didn't know you'd take
on about it; I only meant to do it in fun. You aren't going to hit me? "
"Hit you! No! Let's think. "
He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but stood staring at the
carpet.
Then he shook his head as a young steer shakes it when the lash of the
stock-whip cross his nose warns him back to the path on to the shambles
that he would escape. For weeks he had forced himself not to think of
the Melancolia, because she was a part of his dead life. With Bessie's
return and certain new prospects that had developed themselves, the
Melancolia--lovelier in his imagination than she had ever been on
canvas--reappeared. By her aid he might have procured more money
wherewith to amuse Bess and to forget Maisie, as well as another
taste of an almost forgotten success.
to explain the breakage of a pipe.
"I'm very sorry, but you remember I was--I was angry with you before Mr.
Torpenhow went away? "
"You were very angry, child; and on my word I think you had some right
to be. "
"Then I--but aren't you sure Mr. Torpenhow didn't tell you? "
"Tell me what? Good gracious, what are you making such a fuss about when
you might just as well be giving me another kiss? "
He was beginning to learn, not for the first time in his experience,
that kissing is a cumulative poison. The more you get of it, the more
you want.
Bessie gave the kiss promptly, whispering, as she did so, "I was so
angry I rubbed out that picture with the turpentine. You aren't angry,
are you? "
"What? Say that again. " The man's hand had closed on her wrist.
"I rubbed it out with turps and the knife," faltered Bessie. "I thought
you'd only have to do it over again. You did do it over again, didn't
you? Oh, let go of my wrist; you're hurting me. "
"Isn't there anything left of the thing? "
"N'nothing that looks like anything. I'm sorry--I didn't know you'd take
on about it; I only meant to do it in fun. You aren't going to hit me? "
"Hit you! No! Let's think. "
He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but stood staring at the
carpet.
Then he shook his head as a young steer shakes it when the lash of the
stock-whip cross his nose warns him back to the path on to the shambles
that he would escape. For weeks he had forced himself not to think of
the Melancolia, because she was a part of his dead life. With Bessie's
return and certain new prospects that had developed themselves, the
Melancolia--lovelier in his imagination than she had ever been on
canvas--reappeared. By her aid he might have procured more money
wherewith to amuse Bess and to forget Maisie, as well as another
taste of an almost forgotten success.
