CHAPTER VI. THE PRACTICAL FRIEND
When her husband had set forth, Amy seated herself in the study
and took up a new library volume as if to read. But she had no
real intention of doing so; it was always disagreeable to her to
sit in the manner of one totally unoccupied, with hands on lap, and even when she consciously gave herself up to musing an open book was generally before her. She did not, in truth, read much nowadays; since the birth of her child she had seemed to care less than before for disinterested study. If a new novel that had succeeded came into her hands she perused it in a very practical spirit, commenting to Reardon on the features of the work which had made it popular; formerly, she would have thought much more of its purely literary merits, for which her eye was very keen. How often she had given her husband a thrill of exquisite pleasure by pointing to some merit or defect of which the common reader would be totally insensible! Now she spoke less frequently on such subjects. Her interests were becoming more personal; she liked to hear details of the success of popular authors—about their wives or husbands, as the case might be, their arrangements with publishers, their methods of work. The gossip columns of literary papers—and of some that were not literary—had an attraction for her. She talked of questions such as international copyright, was anxious to get an insight into the practical conduct of journals and magazines, liked to know who 'read' for the publishing-houses. To an impartial observer it might have appeared that her intellect was growing more active and mature.
More than half an hour passed. It was not a pleasant train of
thought that now occupied her. Her lips were drawn together, her
brows were slightly wrinkled; the self-control which at other
times was agreeably expressed upon her features had become rather
too cold and decided. At one moment it seemed to her that she
heard a sound in the bedroom—the doors were purposely left ajar-
-and her head turned quickly to listen, the look in her eyes
instantaneously softening; but all remained quiet. The street
would have been silent but for a cab that now and then passed—
the swing of a hansom or the roll of a four-wheeler—and within
the buildings nothing whatever was audible.
Yes, a footstep, briskly mounting the stone stairs. Not like that
of the postman. A visitor, perhaps, to the other flat on the
topmost landing. But the final pause was in this direction, and
then came a sharp rat-tat at the door. Amy rose immediately and
went to open.
Jasper Milvain raised his urban silk hat, then held out his hand
with the greeting of frank friendship. His inquiries were in so
loud a voice that Amy checked him with a forbidding gesture.
'You'll wake Willie!'
'By Jove! I always forget,' he exclaimed in subdued tones. 'Does
the infant flourish?'
'Oh, yes!'
'Reardon out? I got back on Saturday evening, but couldn't come
round before this.' It was Monday. 'How close it is in here! I
suppose the roof gets so heated during the day. Glorious weather
in the country! And I've no end of things to tell you. He won't
be long, I suppose?'
'I think not.'
He left his hat and stick in the passage, came into the study, and glanced about as if he expected to see some change since he was last here, three weeks ago.
'So you have been enjoying yourself?' said Amy as, after
listening for a moment at the door, she took a seat.
'Oh, a little freshening of the faculties. But whose acquaintance
do you think I have made?'
'Down there?'
'Yes. Your uncle Alfred and his daughter were staying at John
Yule's, and I saw something of them. I was invited to the house.'
'Did you speak of us?'
'To Miss Yule only. I happened to meet her on a walk, and in a
blundering way I mentioned Reardon's name. But of course it
didn't matter in the least. She inquired about you with a good
deal of interest—asked if you were as beautiful as you promised
to be years ago.'
Amy laughed.