The Wings of the Dove, Henry James [thriller books to read .TXT] 📗

“So she tells me she fears. For if he is there he’ll be constantly about with her.”

“And she’ll be constantly about with you?”

“As we’re great friends⁠—yes.”

“Well then,” said Sir Luke, “you won’t be four women alone.”

“Oh no; I quite recognise the chance of gentlemen. But he won’t,” Milly pursued in the same wondrous way, “have come, you see, for me.”

“No⁠—I see. But can’t you help him?”

“Can’t you?” Milly after a moment quaintly asked. Then for the joke of it she explained. “I’m putting you, you see, in relation with my entourage.”

It might have been for the joke of it too, by this time, that her eminent friend fell in. “But if this gentleman isn’t of your ‘entourage’? I mean if he’s of⁠—what do you call her?⁠—Miss Croy’s. Unless indeed you also take an interest in him.”

“Oh certainly I take an interest in him!”

“You think there may be then some chance for him?”

“I like him,” said Milly, “enough to hope so.”

“Then that’s all right. But what, pray,” Sir Luke next asked, “have I to do with him?”

“Nothing,” said Milly, “except that if you’re to be there, so may he be. And also that we shan’t in that case be simply four dreary women.”

He considered her as if at this point she a little tried his patience. “You’re the least ‘dreary’ woman I’ve ever, ever seen. Ever, do you know? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a really splendid life.”

“So everyone tells me,” she promptly returned.

“The conviction⁠—strong already when I had seen you once⁠—is strengthened in me by having seen your friend. There’s no doubt about it. The world’s before you.”

“What did my friend tell you?” Milly asked.

“Nothing that wouldn’t have given you pleasure. We talked about you⁠—and freely. I don’t deny that. But it shows me I don’t require of you the impossible.”

She was now on her feet. “I think I know what you require of me.”

“Nothing, for you,” he went on, “is impossible. So go on.” He repeated it again⁠—wanting her so to feel that today he saw it. “You’re all right.”

“Well,” she smiled⁠—“keep me so.”

“Oh you’ll get away from me.”

“Keep me, keep me,” she simply continued with her gentle eyes on him.

She had given him her hand for goodbye, and he thus for a moment did keep her. Something then, while he seemed to think if there were anything more, came back to him; though something of which there wasn’t too much to be made. “Of course if there’s anything I can do for your friend: I mean the gentleman you speak of⁠—?” He gave out in short that he was ready.

“Oh Mr. Densher?” It was as if she had forgotten.

“Mr. Densher⁠—is that his name?”

“Yes⁠—but his case isn’t so dreadful.” She had within a minute got away from that.

“No doubt⁠—if you take an interest.” She had got away, but it was as if he made out in her eyes⁠—though they also had rather got away⁠—a reason for calling her back. “Still, if there’s anything one can do⁠—?”

She looked at him while she thought, while she smiled. “I’m afraid there’s really nothing one can do.”

Not yet so much as this morning had she felt herself sink into possession; gratefully glad that the warmth of the Southern summer was still in the high florid rooms, palatial chambers where hard cool pavements took reflections in their lifelong polish, and where the sun on the stirred seawater, flickering up through open windows, played over the painted “subjects” in the splendid ceilings⁠—medallions of purple and brown, of brave old melancholy colour, medals as of old reddened gold, embossed and beribboned, all toned with time and all flourished and scalloped and gilded about, set in their great moulded and figured concavity (a nest of white cherubs, friendly creatures of the air) and appreciated by the aid of that second tier of smaller lights, straight openings to the front, which did everything, even with the Baedekers and photographs of Milly’s party dreadfully meeting the eye, to make of the place an apartment of state. This at last only, though she had enjoyed the palace for three weeks, seemed to count as effective occupation; perhaps because it was the first time she had been alone⁠—really to call alone⁠—since she had left London, it ministered to her first full and unembarrassed sense of what the great Eugenio had done for her. The great Eugenio, recommended by grand-dukes and Americans, had entered her service during the last hours of all⁠—had crossed from Paris, after multiplied pourparlers with Mrs. Stringham, to whom she had allowed more than ever a free hand, on purpose to escort her to the Continent and encompass her there, and had dedicated to her, from the moment of their meeting, all the treasures of his experience. She had judged him in advance⁠—polyglot and universal, very dear and very deep⁠—as probably but a swindler finished to the fingertips; for he was forever carrying one well-kept Italian hand to his heart and plunging the other straight into her pocket, which, as she had instantly observed him to recognise, fitted it like a glove. The remarkable thing was that these elements of their common consciousness had rapidly gathered into an indestructible link, formed the ground of a happy relation; being by this time, strangely, grotesquely, delightfully, what most kept up confidence between them and what most expressed it.

She had seen quickly enough what was happening⁠—the usual thing again, yet once again. Eugenio had, in an interview of five minutes, understood her, had got hold, like all the world, of the idea not so much of the care with which she must be taken up as of the care with which she must be let down. All the world understood her, all the world had got hold; but for nobody yet, she felt, would the idea have been so close a tie or won from herself so patient a surrender. Gracefully, respectfully, consummately enough⁠—always with hands in position and the look, in his