E Nesbit

The Incomplete Amorist E Nesbit

THE IRRESISTIBLE. Betty had to run all the way home, and then she was late for dinner. Her step-father's dry face and dusty clothes, the solid comfort of the mahogany furnished dining room, the warm wet scent of mutton, -these seemed needed to wake her from what was, when she had awakened, a dream-the open sky, the sweet air of the May fields and Him. Already the stranger was Him to Betty. But, then, she did not know his name. She slipped into her place at the foot of the long white dining table, a table built to serve a dozen guests, and where no guests ever sat, save rarely a curate or two, and more rarely even, an aunt."You are late again, Lizzie," said her step-father."Yes, Father," said she, trying to hide her hands and the fact that she had not had time to wash them. A long streak of burnt sienna marked one finger, and her nails had little slices of various colours in them. Her paint-box was always hard to open. Usually Mr. Underwood saw nothing. But when he saw anything he saw everything. His eye was caught by the green smudge on her pink sleeve."I wish you would contrive to keep yourself clean, or else wear a pinafore," he said. Betty flushed scarlet."I'm very sorry," she said, "but it's only water colour. It will wash out.""You are nearly twenty, are you not?" the Vicar inquired with the dry smile that always infuriated his step-daughter. How was she to know that it was the only smile he knew, and that smiles of any sort had long grown difficult to him?"Eighteen," she said