He told her about his boyhood--Treliss, Scaw
House, his father, Stephen. He told her about Brockett's and Bucket Lane.
He told her, finally, about Clare Rossiter.
He always remembered one thing that she said at this time. They were
sitting at her open window looking down into the blue evening that is in
Westminster quieter even than it is at Chelsea. Behind the faint green
cloud of trees the Abbey's huge black pile soared into space.
"You think you've made a tremendous break?" she said.
"Yes--this is an entirely new life--new in every way. I seem too to be set
amongst an entirely new crowd of people. The division seems to me sharper
every day. I believe I've left it all behind."
She looked at him sharply. "You're afraid of all that earlier time," she
said.
"Yes, I am."
"It made you write 'Reuben Hallard.' Perhaps this life here in London..."
"It's safer," he caught her up.
"Don't," she answered him very gravely, "play for safety. It's the most
dangerous thing in the world." She paused for a moment and then added: "But
probably they won't let you alone."
"I hope to God they will," he cried.
III
He saw Clare Rossiter twice during this time and, on each occasion, it
seemed to him that she was trying to make up to him for his awkwardness at
their first meeting. On the first of these two occasions she had only a few
words with him, but there was a note in her voice that he fancied, wildly,
unreasonably, was different from the tone that she used to other people.
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