Lark Ascending. Mazo de la Roche

light or two and the intermittent beam of the lighthouse.

      He looked over her shoulder at the picture on the easel. “Come on down, Josie, and make the coffee.”

      “Let someone else make it. I don’t want to go down when Purley Bond’s there.”

      “Don’t worry. He’ll never notice you! He just sits staring at Fay.”

      Josie made a contemptuous sound with her lips. “People make me sick! I’m going to stay up here.”

      “You won’t get any coffee.”

      “I don’t want any. . . . I wish you’d leave me alone.” She turned and looked at him, and continued to look with something of the same absorption as she had given his picture.

      “Well,” he said ironically, “do you think you can do anything with me in this light?”

      Her cheeks flamed bright and angry.

      “Now you’re getting a pretty colour,” he jeered. “What will they think if you go down looking like that? See here—I’ll tone it down for you!”

      He picked up a brush and a palette and squeezed a worm of white paint from a tube on to it. She did not realise what he was going to do until he came toward her brush in hand. She drew back against the wall but he caught her, pinning her arms to her sides. They struggled silently. Then he mastered her, held her tight while he painted a white spot on each of her cheeks, covering the red. She stared up into his eyes, her mouth compressed, making no sound, feeling the smooth stroke of the brush on her cheeks, the press of his strong body against hers.

      He drew back and looked at her. He said:

      “Now you look nice and ladylike. Let’s go down.”

      She went to the looking-glass, gave her face one furious look, then marched to the stairway. He followed her laughing softly to himself.

      The kettle was always on the range. It sat there singing now as if cheerfully ready for any emergency. With a set face Josie went about making the coffee. Diego lounged in the doorway watching her.

      When she appeared in the sitting-room carrying the tray, Fay Palmas screamed at the sight of her. “Good heavens, Josie! Have you gone crazy?”

      “Diego did it,” answered Josie sullenly. “I had no time to take it off if you were to get your coffee.”

      Fay laughed loudly and threw a mischievous look at Diego. Bond stirred his coffee with a feeling of dislike for the girl. He felt that she was proud of what Diego had done to her, that she was shewing off.

      “You look a perfect little clown,” said Fay. “I’m sure Purley’s disgusted with you.” She got up and went into the bakeshop. She took a pumpkin pie from the case. “Get that bowl of whipped cream, Josie,” she called.

      When the large slice of pie, topped by a mound of whipped cream, was set in front of Bond, he seemed to remember having seen something like it before. Why, it was only a couple of hours since he had eaten a similar slice, probably from the same oven. But he meekly took the fork given him by Josie and set about devouring it.

      “How do you like it?” asked Fay.

      “It’s mighty good,” he answered. “Did you make it?”

      “I? No—Josie. I suppose it’s good. But you get tired of sweet things when you smell them all day. I hear that the French don’t eat pie. I guess that is one reason why I’m going to Paris.”

      A mouthful of pie crust was stuck motionless in Bond’s throat. Then he bolted it.

      “Paris!” he exclaimed. “You’re not in earnest.”

      She laughed at his astonishment. There was an intimate note in her laughter that separated them from the others. “Yes. Paris. Why not?”

      “Well, I suppose it’s no more expensive than Boston———”

      “Me go to Boston? Half the people in Boston have heard of Palmases’ Bakery.”

      Bond scarcely agreed with this, but he would not belittle the bakery to her. He said:

      “Well, then, why not try New York?”

      “Not if I know it! I have five cousins and a sister-in-law there. Everyone we met would hear about the bakery.”

      “I don’t believe they would. New York’s a pretty big place. And if they did—what would be the difference? There’s no disgrace in being a baker. And Diego’s artist friend would be useful. He’d introduce him to other artists. . . .”

      Her anger flamed intimately against him as her laughter had sounded intimately. “Yes—and tell every one of them that we kept a bakery! No—my husband was an engineer when I married him—my father was the principal of the school—Josie’s father was—well—Josie’s father never seemed to settle down to anything. But he was always a gentleman. Good heavens, Josie, I wish you’d take that paint off your face! You look like a clown.”

      The girl sat in a corner invincible, drinking coffee. Diego lay like a spoiled child, half asleep, on the sofa. His half-shut eyes rested on Josie’s face. He had a feeling of sleepy power.

      “I see what you mean,” said Bond gravely. “What I don’t see is how you’re going to live for any length of time in a city like Paris. It will take quite a lot of money to get you over there, and I should think it would be a bad place to be poor in.”

      “We’re willing to risk it. We want to live. We don’t care if there is danger in it. And I have faith in us. I don’t believe anything can hold us down. Diego has genius. Mr. Selby is a grudging sort of man, but I made him acknowledge that. I just pestered him till he did.” She clasped her long slender fingers together and looked beseechingly at Bond. “You do understand, don’t you? I’m thinking about my voice. A complete change and rest may bring it back. A singing teacher told me that this summer. Perhaps you’ll live to see me having a great success in Paris. And even if I don’t—we’ll be living—living dangerously! That’s what we want—isn’t it, children?”

      A great compassion for her moved Bond to his depths. She had had an awful life. She was calling those others “children” when she herself was more of a child than they. Three children setting out on a risky adventure. And he envied them too. Wished that he might be going with them to Paris. Supposing that she had accepted him. . . .

      “Then it was all settled,” he said, “before I came. You didn’t really want my advice at all.”

      “Purley, don’t throw that up to me! I just wanted to get you here to tell you about it. You’re the only one we have to talk things over with.”

      Bond turned to Diego. “You’re the man of the family. You’ll have to look after these two.”

      Josie gave a sneering laugh. Bond turned and looked sharply at her. She was sitting looking straight before her, the grotesque painted spots on her cheeks shining white. She did not look as though she had uttered a sound.

      Bond said to Fay Palmas:

      “It’s the money that I’m worrying about. We must see if we can get you more money to start out on.”

      An idea had come into his head, but he did not tell them that night what it was.

      CHAPTER III

      JOSIE FROWARD could talk fluently enough when she was alone with Fay Palmas. Then she was freed from the shyness that hedged her in when she was with strangers. She was free also from the necessity of watching Diego, paying him the homage of watchfulness and female sneers. She and Fay talked for hours, interrupting each other, chiming in on each other, but always developing one theme, like chimes in a steeple. High on a hill the bakeshop stood with its flight of steps leading to the door. They would hear someone mount the steps, the bell inside the shop door would jangle, and their talk cease. Josie would wipe her hands and go in behind the counter,