The Business of Life. Chambers Robert William
you finished?" she asked.
A trifle out of countenance he rose and explained that he had, and laid the letter on her blotter. Realising that she was expecting him to take his leave, he also realised that he didn't want to. And he began to spar with Destiny for time.
"I suppose this matter will require several visits from you," he inquired.
"Yes, several."
"It takes some time to catalogue and appraise such a collection, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
She answered him very sweetly but impersonally, and there seemed to be in her brief replies no encouragement for him to linger. So he started to pick up his hat, thinking as fast as he could all the while; and his facile wits saved him at the last moment.
"Well, upon my word!" he exclaimed. "Do you know that you and I have not yet discussed terms?"
"We make our usual charges," she said.
"And what are those?"
She explained briefly.
"That is for cataloguing and appraising only?"
"Yes."
"And if you sell the collection?"
"We take our usual commission."
"And you think you can sell it for me?"
"I'll have to – won't I?"
He laughed. "But can you?"
"Yes."
As the curt affirmative fell from her lips, suddenly, under all her delicate, youthful charm, Desboro divined the note of hidden strength, the self-confidence of capability – oddly at variance with her allure of lovely immaturity. Yet he might have surmised it, for though her figure was that of a girl, her face, for all its soft, fresh beauty, was a woman's, and already firmly moulded in noble lines which even the scarlet fulness of the lips could not deny. For if she had the mouth of Aphrodite, she had her brow, also.
He had not been able to make her smile, although the upcurled corners of her mouth seemed always to promise something. He wondered what her expression might be like when animated – even annoyed. And his idle curiosity led him on to the edges of impertinence.
"May I say something that I have in mind and not offend you?" he asked.
"Yes – if you wish." She lifted her eyes.
"Do you think you are old enough and experienced enough to catalogue and appraise such an important collection as this one? I thought perhaps you might prefer not to take such a responsibility upon yourself, but would rather choose to employ some veteran expert."
She was silent.
"Have I offended you?"
She walked slowly to the end of the room, turned, and, passing him a third time, looked up at him and laughed – a most enchanting little laugh – a revelation as delightful as it was unexpected.
"I believe you really want to do it yourself!" he exclaimed.
"Want to? I'm dying to! I don't think there is anything in the world I had rather try!" she said, with a sudden flush and sparkle of recklessness that transfigured her. "Do you suppose anybody in my business would willingly miss the chance of personally handling such a transaction? Of course I want to. Not only because it would be a most creditable transaction for this house – not only because it would be a profitable business undertaking, but" – and the swift, engaging smile parted her lips once more – "in a way I feel as though my own ability had been questioned – "
"By me?" he protested. "Did I actually dare question your ability?"
"Something very like it. So, naturally, I would seize an opportunity to vindicate myself – if you offer it – "
"I do offer it," he said.
"I accept."
There was a moment's indecisive silence. He picked up his hat and stick, lingering still; then:
"Good-bye, Miss Nevers. When are you going up to Silverwood?"
"To-morrow, if it is quite convenient."
"Entirely. I may be there. Perhaps I can fix it – put off that shooting party for a day or two."
"I hope so."
"I hope so, too."
He walked reluctantly toward the door, turned and came all the way back.
"Perhaps you had rather I remained away from Silverwood."
"Why?"
"But, of course," he said, "there is a nice old housekeeper there, and a lot of servants – "
She laughed. "Thank you very much, Mr. Desboro. It is very nice of you, but I had not considered that at all. Business women must disregard such conventions, if they're to compete with men. I'd like you to be there, because I may have questions to ask."
"Certainly – it's very good of you. I – I'll try to be there – "
"Because I might have some very important questions to ask you," she repeated.
"Of course. I've got to be there. Haven't I?"
"It might be better for your interests."
"Then I'll be there. Well, good-bye, Miss Nevers."
"Good-bye, Mr. Desboro."
"And thank you for undertaking it," he said cordially.
"Thank you for asking me."
"Oh, I'm – I'm really delighted. It's most kind of you. Good-bye, Miss Nevers."
"Good-bye, Mr. Desboro."
He had to go that time; and he went still retaining a confused vision of blue eyes and vivid lips, and of a single lock of hair astray once more across a smooth, white cheek.
When he had gone, Jacqueline seated herself at her desk and picked up her pen. She remained so for a while, then emerged abruptly from a fit of abstraction and sorted some papers unnecessarily. When she had arranged them to her fancy, she rearranged them. Then the little Louis XVI desk interested her, and she examined the inset placques of flowered Sèvres in detail, as though the little desk of tulip, satinwood and walnut had not stood there since she was a child.
Later she noticed his card on her blotter; and, face framed in her hands, she studied it so long that the card became a glimmering white patch and vanished; and before her remote gaze his phantom grew out of space, seated there in the empty chair beside her – the loosened collar of his raincoat revealing to her the most attractive face of any man she had ever looked upon in her twenty-two years of life.
Toward evening the electric lamps were lighted in the shop; rain fell more heavily outside; few people entered. She was busy with ledgers and files of old catalogues recording auction sales, the name of the purchaser and the prices pencilled on the margins in her father's curious handwriting. Also her card index aided her. Under the head of "Desboro" she was able to note what objects of interest or of art her father had bought for her recent visitor's grandfather, and the prices paid – little, indeed, in those days, compared with what the same objects would now bring. And, continuing her search, she finally came upon an uncompleted catalogue of the Desboro collection. It was in manuscript – her father's peculiar French chirography – neat and accurate as far as it went.
Everything bearing upon the Desboro collection she bundled together and strapped with rubber bands; then, one by one, the clerks and salesmen came to report to her before closing up. She locked the safe, shut her desk, and went out to the shop, where she remained until the shutters were clamped and the last salesman had bade her a cheery good night. Then, bolting the door and double-locking it, she went back along the passage and up the stairs, where she had the two upper floors to herself, and a cook and chambermaid to keep house for her.
In the gaslight of the upper apartment she seemed even more slender than by daylight – her eyes bluer, her lips more scarlet. She glanced into the mirror of her dresser as she passed, pausing to twist up the unruly lock that had defied her since childhood.
Everywhere