CHAPTER TEN

ThroughthedisusedgraveyardintheparishofSt.Pancras,FannyElmerstrayedbetweenthewhitetombswhichleanagainstthewall,crossingthegrasstoreadaname,hurryingonwhenthegrave-keeperapproached,hurryingintothestreet,pausingnowbyawindowwithbluechina,nowquicklymakingupforlosttime,abruptlyenteringabaker'sshop,buyingrolls,addingcakes,goingonagainsothatanyonewishingtofollowmustfairlytrot.Shewasnotdrablyshabby,though.Sheworesilkstockings,andsilver-buckledshoes,onlytheredfeatherinherhatdrooped,andtheclaspofherbagwasweak,foroutfellacopyofMadameTussaud'sprogrammeasshewalked.Shehadtheanklesofastag.Herfacewashidden.Ofcourse,inthisdusk,rapidmovements,quickglances,andsoaringhopescomenaturallyenough.ShepassedrightbeneathJacob'swindow. Thehousewasflat,dark,andsilent.Jacobwasathomeengageduponachessproblem,theboardbeingonastoolbetweenhisknees.Onehandwasfingeringthehairatthebackofhishead.Heslowlybroughtitforwardandraisedthewhitequeenfromhersquarethenputherdownagainonthesamespot.Hefilledhispiperuminatedmovedtwopawnsadvancedthewhiteknightthenruminatedwithonefingeruponthebishop.NowFannyElmerpassedbeneaththewindow. ShewasonherwaytosittoNickBramhamthepainter. ShesatinafloweredSpanishshawl,holdinginherhandayellownovel. "Alittlelower,alittlelooser,so—better,that'sright,"Bramhammumbled,whowasdrawingher,andsmokingatthesametime,andwasnaturallyspeechless.Hisheadmighthavebeentheworkofasculptor,whohadsquaredtheforehead,stretchedthemouth,andleftmarksofhisthumbsandstreaksfromhisfingersintheclay.Buttheeyeshadneverbeenshut.Theywereratherprominent,andratherbloodshot,asiffromstaringandstaring,andwhenhespoketheylookedforaseconddisturbed,butwentonstaring.Anunshadedelectriclighthungaboveherhead. Asforthebeautyofwomen,itislikethelightonthesea,neverconstanttoasinglewave.Theyallhaveittheyallloseit.Nowsheisdullandthickasbaconnowtransparentasahangingglass.Thefixedfacesarethedullones.HerecomesLadyVenicedisplayedlikeamonumentforadmiration,butcarvedinalabaster,tobesetonthemantelpieceandneverdusted.Adapperbrunettecompletefromheadtofootservesonlyasanillustrationtolieuponthedrawing-roomtable.Thewomeninthestreetshavethefacesofplayingcardstheoutlinesaccuratelyfilledinwithpinkoryellow,andthelinedrawntightlyroundthem.Then,atatop-floorwindow,leaningout,lookingdown,youseebeautyitselforinthecornerofanomnibusorsquattedinaditch—beautyglowing,suddenlyexpressive,withdrawnthemomentafter.Noonecancountonitorseizeitorhaveitwrappedinpaper.Nothingistobewonfromtheshops,andHeavenknowsitwouldbebettertositathomethanhaunttheplate-glasswindowsinthehopeofliftingtheshininggreen,theglowingruby,outofthemalive.Seaglassinasaucerlosesitslustrenosoonerthansilksdo.Thusifyoutalkofabeautifulwomanyoumeanonlysomethingflyingfastwhichforasecondusestheeyes,lips,orcheeksofFannyElmer,forexample,toglowthrough. Shewasnotbeautiful,asshesatstifflyherunderliptooprominenthernosetoolargehereyestooneartogether.Shewasathingirl,withbrilliantcheeksanddarkhair,sulkyjustnow,orstiffwithsitting.WhenBramhamsnappedhisstickofcharcoalshestarted.Bramhamwasoutoftemper.Hesquattedbeforethegasfirewarminghishands.Meanwhileshelookedathisdrawing.Hegrunted.Fannythrewonadressing-gownandboiledak