The Planter of Malata. Джозеф Конрад

speaking Renouard saw again the sway of her figure in a movement of grace and strength--felt the pressure of her hand-- heard the last accents of the deep murmur that came from her throat so white in the light of the window, and remembered the black rays of her steady eyes passing off his face when she turned away. He remembered all this visually, and it was not exactly pleasurable. It was rather startling like the discovery of a new faculty in himself. There are faculties one would rather do without--such, for instance, as seeing through a stone wall or remembering a person with this uncanny vividness. And what about those two people belonging to her with their air of expectant solicitude! Really, those figures from home got in front of one. In fact, their persistence in getting between him and the solid forms of the everyday material world had driven Renouard to call on his friend at the office. He hoped that a little common, gossipy information would lay the ghost of that unexpected dinner-party. Of course the proper person to go to would have been young Dunster, but, he couldn't stand Willie Dunster--not at any price.

      In the pause the Editor had changed his attitude, faced his desk, and smiled a faint knowing smile.

      "Striking girl--eh?" he said.

      The incongruity of the word was enough to make one jump out of the chair. Striking! That girl striking! Stri … ! But Renouard restrained his feelings. His friend was not a person to give oneself away to. And, after all, this sort of speech was what he had come there to hear. As, however, he had made a movement he re- settled himself comfortably and said, with very creditable indifference, that yes--she was, rather. Especially amongst a lot of over-dressed frumps. There wasn't one woman under forty there.

      "Is that the way to speak of the cream of our society; the 'top of the basket,' as the French say," the Editor remonstrated with mock indignation. "You aren't moderate in your expressions--you know."

      "I express myself very little," interjected Renouard seriously.

      "I will tell you what you are. You are a fellow that doesn't count the cost. Of course you are safe with me, but will you never learn. … "

      "What struck me most," interrupted the other, "is that she should pick me out for such a long conversation."

      "That's perhaps because you were the most remarkable of the men there."

      Renouard shook his head.

      "This shot doesn't seem to me to hit the mark," he said calmly. "Try again."

      "Don't you believe me? Oh, you modest creature. Well, let me

      assure you that under ordinary circumstances it would have been a good shot. You are sufficiently remarkable. But you seem a pretty acute customer too. The circumstances are extraordinary. By Jove they are!"

      He mused. After a time the Planter of Malata dropped a negligent -

      "And you know them."

      "And I know them," assented the all-knowing Editor, soberly, as though the occasion were too special for a display of professional vanity; a vanity so well known to Renouard that its absence augmented his wonder and almost made him uneasy as if portending bad news of some sort.

      "You have met those people?" he asked.

      "No. I was to have met them last night, but I had to send an apology to Willie in the morning. It was then that he had the bright idea to invite you to fill the place, from a muddled notion that you could be of use. Willie is stupid sometimes. For it is clear that you are the last man able to help."

      "How on earth do I come to be mixed up in this--whatever it is?" Renouard's voice was slightly altered by nervous irritation. "I only arrived here yesterday morning."