When Blanche was fairly adrift upon the current of her articulate reflections, it was the habit of her companions--indeed, it was a sort of tacit agreement among them--simply to make a circle and admire. They sat about and looked at her--yawning, perhaps, a little at times, but on the whole very well entertained, and often exchanging a smiling commentary with each other.
She looked at them, smiled at them each, in succession.
Every one had his turn, and this always helped to give Blanche an audience. Incoherent and aimless as much of her talk was, she never looked prettier than in the attitude of improvisation--or rather, I should say, than in the hundred attitudes which she assumed at such a time. Perpetually moving, she was yet constantly graceful, and while she twisted her body and turned her head, with charming hands that never ceased to gesticulate, and little, conscious, brilliant eyes that looked everywhere at once--eyes that seemed to chatter even faster than her lips--she made you forget the nonsense she poured forth, or think of it only as a part of her personal picturesqueness.
The thing was a regular performance; the practice of unlimited chatter had made her perfect. She rested upon her audience and held it together, and the sight of half a dozen pairs of amused and fascinated faces led her from one piece of folly to another. On this occasion, her audience was far from failing her, for they were all greatly interested.
Captain Lovelock's interest, as we know, was chronic, and our three other friends were much occupied with a matter with which Blanche was intimately connected. Bernard, as he listened to her, smiling mechanically, was not encouraged.
He remembered what Mrs. Vivian had said shortly before she came in, and it was not pleasant to him to think that Gordon had been occupied half the day in contrasting the finest girl in the world with this magnified butterfly. The contrast was sufficiently striking as Angela sat there near her, very still, bending her handsome head a little, with her hands crossed in her lap, and on her lips a kind but inscrutable smile.
Mrs. Vivian was on the sofa next to Blanche, one of whose hands, when it was not otherwise occupied, she occasionally took into her own.
"Dear little Blanche!" she softly murmured, at intervals.
These few remarks represent a longer pause than Mrs. Gordon often suffered to occur. She continued to deliver herself upon a hundred topics, and it hardly matters where we take her up.
"I have n't the least idea what we are going to do.
I have nothing to say about it whatever. Gordon tells me every day I must decide, and then I ask Captain Lovelock what he thinks; because, you see, he always thinks a great deal.
Captain Lovelock says he does n't care a fig--that he will go wherever I go. So you see that does n't carry us very far.
I want to settle on some place where Captain Lovelock won't go, but he won't help me at all. I think it will look better for him not to follow us; don't you think it will look better, Mrs. Vivian? Not that I care in the least where we go--or whether Captain Lovelock follows us, either. I don't take any interest in anything, Mrs. Vivian; don't you think that is very sad? Gordon may go anywhere he likes--to St. Petersburg, or to Bombay."
"You might go to a worse place than Bombay," said Captain Lovelock, speaking with the authority of an Anglo-Indian rich in reminiscences.
Blanche gave him a little stare.
"Ah well, that 's knocked on the head! From the way you speak of it, I think you would come after us; and the more I think of that, the more I see it would n't do. But we have got to go to some southern place, because I am very unwell.
I have n't the least idea what 's the matter with me, and neither has any one else; but that does n't make any difference.
It 's settled that I am out of health. One might as well be out of it as in it, for all the advantage it is.
If you are out of health, at any rate you can come abroad.
It was Gordon's discovery--he 's always ****** discoveries.
You see it 's because I 'm so silly; he can always put it down to my being an invalid. What I should like to do, Mrs. Vivian, would be to spend the winter with you--just sitting on the sofa beside you and holding your hand.
It would be rather tiresome for you; but I really think it would be better for me than anything else. I have never forgotten how kind you were to me before my marriage--that summer at Baden.
You were everything to me--you and Captain Lovelock. I am sure I should be happy if I never went out of this lovely room.
You have got it so beautifully arranged--I mean to do my own room just like it when I go home. And you have got such lovely clothes. You never used to say anything about it, but you and Angela always had better clothes than I. Are you always so quiet and serious--never talking about chiffons--always reading some wonderful book? I wish you would let me come and stay with you. If you only ask me, Gordon would be too delighted. He would n't have to trouble about me any more.
He could go and live over in the Latin Quarter--that 's the desire of his heart--and think of nothing but old bottles.
I know it is n't very good manners to beg for an invitation,"
Blanche went on, smiling with a gentler radiance; "but when it 's a question of one's health. One wants to keep one's self alive--does n't one? One wants to keep one's self going. It would be so good for me, Mrs. Vivian; it would really be very good for me!"
She had turned round more and more to her hostess as she talked; and at last she had given both her hands to Mrs. Vivian, and sat looking at her with a singular mixture of earnestness and jocosity.
It was hard to know whether Blanche were expressing a real desire or a momentary caprice, and whether this abrupt little petition were to be taken seriously, or treated merely as a dramatic pose in a series of more or less effective attitudes. Her smile had become almost a grimace, she was flushed, she showed her pretty teeth; but there was a little passionate quiver in her voice.