Everyman's Land

								

glass of milk.
In fifteen minutes the exhibition (consisting of six sketches!) was
ready in the showroom of the hotel, the yellow salon which had been
occupied as a bedchamber one night by the Empress Eugénie, and was
always kept locked except on gala occasions. I, not knowing how I had
been over-praised to the audience, was also ready, quivering with the
haste I had made in pinning up the pictures and opening the musty, close
room to the air. Then came in a young man.
As I write, Padre, I am back again in that salon jaune, and he is
walking in at the door, pausing a second on the threshold at sight of
me. I will give you the little play in one act. We smile. The hero of
the comedy-drama has a rather big mouth, and such white teeth that his
smile, in his brown face, is a lightning-flash at dusk. It is a thin
face with two dimples that make lines when he laughs. His eyes are gray
and long, with the eagle-look that knows far spaces; deep-set eyes under
straight black brows, drawn low. His lashes are black, too, but his
short crinkly hair is brown. He has a good square forehead, and a high
nose like an Indian's. He is tall, and has one of those lean, lanky
loose-jointed figures that crack tennis-players and polo men have. I
like him at once, and I think he likes me, for his eyes light up; and
just for an instant there's a feeling as if we looked through clear
windows into each other's souls. It is almost frightening, that effect!
I begin to talk, to shake off an odd embarrassment.
"Madame Mounet tells me you want to see my brother's pictures," I say.
"Here are a few sketches. He has taken all the rest worth looking at to
Paris."
"It's good of you to let me come in," the hero of the play answers.
Instantly I know he's not English. He has one of those nice American
voices, with a slight drawl, that somehow sound extraordinarily frank. I
don't speculate about his name. I don't stop to wonder who he is. I
think only of what he is. I forget that Madame has exploited him as a
millionaire. I don't care whether or not he buys a picture. I want
nothing, except the pleasure of talking with him, and seeing how he
looks at me.
I mumble some polite nonsense in return for his. He gazes at Brian's
water-colours and admires them. Then he turns from the pictures to me.
We discuss the sketches and the scenes they represent. "Oh, have you
been there?" "Why, I was at that place a week ago!" "How odd!" "We
must have missed each other by a day." And we drift into gossip about
ourselves. Still we don't come to the subject of names. Names seem to be
of no importance. They belong to the world of conventions.
We talk and talk--mostly of France, and our travels, and pictures and
books we love; but our eyes speak of other things. I feel that his are
saying, "You are beautiful!" Mine answer, "I'm glad you think that. Why
do you seem so different to me from other people?" Then suddenly,