Chapter V

Next morning Valentia received M. Rollo's answer to her letter. He apologised for his delay in answering.

'_You are a philosopher_,' he said--she could see the little
snigger with which he had written the words--'_You are a
philosopher, and I was afraid lest my reply should disturb the
course of your reflections on friendship. I confess that I did not
entirely understand your letter, but I gathered that the sentiments
were correct, and it gave me great pleasure to know that your
experiment has had such excellent results. I gather that you have
not yet discovered that there is more than a verbal connection
between Friendship and Love._'

The reference is to the French equivalents of those states of mind.

'_But to speak seriously, dear child. You are young and beautiful
now, but not so very many years shall pass before your lovely skin
becomes coarse and muddy, and your teeth yellow, and the wrinkles
appear about your mouth and eyes. You have not so very many years
before you in which to collect sensations, and the recollection of
one's loves is, perhaps, the greatest pleasure left to one's old
age. To be virtuous, my dear, is admirable, but there are so many
interpretations of virtue. For myself, I can say that I have never
regretted the temptations to which I succumbed, but often the
temptations I have resisted. Therefore, love, love, love! And
remember that if love at sixty in a man is sometimes pathetic, in a
woman at forty it is always ridiculous. Therefore, take your youth
in both hands and say to yourself, "Life is short, but let me live
before I die!"_'

She did not show the letter to Ferdinand.

* * * * *

Next day it rained. Valentia retired to a room at the top of the house and began to paint, but the incessant patter on the roof got on her nerves; the painting bored her, and she threw aside the brushes in disgust. She came downstairs and found Ferdinand in the dining-room, standing at the window looking at the rain. It came down in one continual steady pour, and the water ran off the raised brickwork of the middle of the street to the gutters by the side, running along in a swift and murky rivulet. The red brick of the opposite house looked cold and cheerless in the wet.... He did not turn or speak to her as she came in. She remarked that it did not look like leaving off. He made no answer. She drew a chair to the second window and tried to read, but she could not understand what she was reading. And she looked out at the pouring rain and the red brick house opposite. She wondered why he had not answered.

The innkeeper brought them their luncheon. Ferdinand took no notice of the preparations.

'Will you come to luncheon, Mr White?' she said to him. 'It is quite ready.'

'I beg your pardon,' he said gravely, as he took his seat.

He looked at her quickly, and then immediately dropping his eyes, began eating. She wished he would not look so sad; she was very sorry for him.

She made an observation and he appeared to rouse himself. He replied and they began talking, very calmly and coldly, as if they had not known one another five minutes. They talked of Art with the biggest of A's, and they compared Dutch painting with Italian; they spoke of Rembrandt and his life.

'Rembrandt had passion,' said Ferdinand, bitterly, 'and therefore he was unhappy. It is only the sexless, passionless creature, the block of ice, that can be happy in this world.'

She blushed and did not answer.

The afternoon Valentia spent in her room, pretending to write letters, and she wondered whether Ferdinand was wishing her downstairs.

At dinner they sought refuge in abstractions. They talked of dykes and windmills and cigars, the history of Holland and its constitution, the constitution of the United States and the edifying spectacle of the politics of that blessed country. They talked of political economy and pessimism and cattle rearing, the state of agriculture in England, the foreign policy of the day, Anarchism, the President of the French Republic. They would have talked of bi-metallism if they could. People hearing them would have thought them very learned and extraordinarily staid.

At last they separated, and as she undressed Valentia told herself that Ferdinand had kept his promise. Everything was just as it had been before, and the only change was that he used her Christian name. And she rather liked him to call her Valentia.

But next day Ferdinand did not seem able to command himself. When Valentia addressed him, he answered in monosyllables, with eyes averted; but when she had her back turned, she felt that he was looking at her. After breakfast she went away painting haystacks, and was late for luncheon.

She apologised.

'It is of no consequence,' he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. And those were the only words he spoke to her during the remainder of the day. Once, when he was looking at her surreptitiously, and she suddenly turned round, their eyes met, and for a moment he gazed straight at her, then walked away. She wished he would not look so sad. As she was going to bed, she held out her hand to him to say good-night, and she added,--

'I don't want to make you unhappy, Mr White. I'm very sorry.'

'It's not your fault,' he said. 'You can't help it, if you're a stock and a stone.'

He went away without taking the proffered hand. Valentia cried that night.

In the morning she found a note outside her door:--

'_Pardon me if I was rude, but I was not master of myself. I am
going to Volendam; I hate Monnickendam_.'