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Authors: Mary Burchell
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a matter of fact. But you've impressed your own personality on it. I don't know quite what you've done, but—it's you. That's why it is restful."
Elinor was touched. This was the first time she had thought of Ilsa as being in the least in need of anything that she could supply. Until now the situation had been very much the reverse—the sophistication and experience of the other girl being
something on which she herself instinctively leaned. Now Ilsa seemed, in some curious way, to have something in common with Anne when things went wrong at the shop. Or even with Deborah when school became too much for her.
The coffee was brought by a sympathetic maid who explained that the Herr Doktor had just left Herr von Eiberg, and it seemed that the injury was not a very serious one—only somewhat incapacitating.
Most of this was detailed at length in German, though she courteously threw in the few English words she had, for Elinor's benefit. As hardly any of these fitted the situation, however, Elinor was little the wiser, and Ilsa had to explain when the girl had gone.
"Then it really isn't a major disaster," Elinor said consolingly. "As I said before, I can't help being glad for my own sake that I shall have you here a little longer. I hope it doesn't upset your own plans too much. Was it vital that you should go to Vienna just now?"
"Vital—no. Nothing's ever really vital, as you put it." And again Ilsa pushed back her hair with that weary, slightly disillusioned air.
Elinor regarded her gravely.
"Why, Ilsa, you make that sound as though nothing really matters very much."
"Well, does it?" The other girl laughed shortly.
"Why, of course it does!" Elinor was a good deal shocked at such a view. "I think almost everything matters," she added earnestly.
Ilsa looked half indulgent, half impatient. "Oh, you're so young!" she said.
"Not all that much younger than you," Elinor protested. And then, as some sort of inner knowledge touched her—"Am I?"
"About ten years in actual fact, I suppose." Ilsa smiled dryly, but not unkindly. "And about a hundred in experience."
"Oh, nonsense!" It was Elinor's turn to smile, indulgently. "That's just the way you see things at
the moment. You're a bit shaken and depressed after the accident, you know. You really ought to be in bed."
"I don't want to go to bed," Ilsa retorted almost fretfully. She was as obstinate—very nearly as childish—about that as Deborah could be. "Go on talking to me. You soothe me."
Elinor laughed.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Anything. Your philosophy of life; whatever it is that makes you serene and gentle and—caring about what happens to people."
"I don't know that I have a philosophy of life," Elinor said slowly. Certainly she had never thought of herself as having anything which sounded so impressive! "When you say I am serene and gentle, I suppose you mean that I'm quiet." She smiled reflectively. "I come of a dear and noisy and busy family who are all passionately interested in their own affairs. I'm interested too. I like to hear about them, rather than to do things myself, quite often. I am used to listening, Ilsa. And so it comes naturally to me to be—I suppose 'passive' is the word."
"Oh, indeed, it isn't!" Ilsa dismissed that with a laugh. "If you were passive you would be dull. It's because you are actively interested and yet quiet that you fascinate people like me and Rudi.'
Elinor was silent. She had not known that she fascinated him—them. But it was both moving and exciting to hear that she did.
"Go on," Ilsa urged.
"Well, I am genuinely interested in people," Elinor said at last. "I don't have to pretend to be. I just am. I was interested in you and Rudi the very first moment I saw you in the dining car. I thought you were like people in a book, and I longed to know what language you were talking and where you came from. I was thrilled when you spoke to me in the corridor. I don't know quite how I could have been
Elinor was touched. This was the first time she had thought of Ilsa as being in the least in need of anything that she could supply. Until now the situation had been very much the reverse—the sophistication and experience of the other girl being
something on which she herself instinctively leaned. Now Ilsa seemed, in some curious way, to have something in common with Anne when things went wrong at the shop. Or even with Deborah when school became too much for her.
The coffee was brought by a sympathetic maid who explained that the Herr Doktor had just left Herr von Eiberg, and it seemed that the injury was not a very serious one—only somewhat incapacitating.
Most of this was detailed at length in German, though she courteously threw in the few English words she had, for Elinor's benefit. As hardly any of these fitted the situation, however, Elinor was little the wiser, and Ilsa had to explain when the girl had gone.
"Then it really isn't a major disaster," Elinor said consolingly. "As I said before, I can't help being glad for my own sake that I shall have you here a little longer. I hope it doesn't upset your own plans too much. Was it vital that you should go to Vienna just now?"
"Vital—no. Nothing's ever really vital, as you put it." And again Ilsa pushed back her hair with that weary, slightly disillusioned air.
Elinor regarded her gravely.
"Why, Ilsa, you make that sound as though nothing really matters very much."
"Well, does it?" The other girl laughed shortly.
"Why, of course it does!" Elinor was a good deal shocked at such a view. "I think almost everything matters," she added earnestly.
Ilsa looked half indulgent, half impatient. "Oh, you're so young!" she said.
"Not all that much younger than you," Elinor protested. And then, as some sort of inner knowledge touched her—"Am I?"
"About ten years in actual fact, I suppose." Ilsa smiled dryly, but not unkindly. "And about a hundred in experience."
"Oh, nonsense!" It was Elinor's turn to smile, indulgently. "That's just the way you see things at
the moment. You're a bit shaken and depressed after the accident, you know. You really ought to be in bed."
"I don't want to go to bed," Ilsa retorted almost fretfully. She was as obstinate—very nearly as childish—about that as Deborah could be. "Go on talking to me. You soothe me."
Elinor laughed.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Anything. Your philosophy of life; whatever it is that makes you serene and gentle and—caring about what happens to people."
"I don't know that I have a philosophy of life," Elinor said slowly. Certainly she had never thought of herself as having anything which sounded so impressive! "When you say I am serene and gentle, I suppose you mean that I'm quiet." She smiled reflectively. "I come of a dear and noisy and busy family who are all passionately interested in their own affairs. I'm interested too. I like to hear about them, rather than to do things myself, quite often. I am used to listening, Ilsa. And so it comes naturally to me to be—I suppose 'passive' is the word."
"Oh, indeed, it isn't!" Ilsa dismissed that with a laugh. "If you were passive you would be dull. It's because you are actively interested and yet quiet that you fascinate people like me and Rudi.'
Elinor was silent. She had not known that she fascinated him—them. But it was both moving and exciting to hear that she did.
"Go on," Ilsa urged.
"Well, I am genuinely interested in people," Elinor said at last. "I don't have to pretend to be. I just am. I was interested in you and Rudi the very first moment I saw you in the dining car. I thought you were like people in a book, and I longed to know what language you were talking and where you came from. I was thrilled when you spoke to me in the corridor. I don't know quite how I could have been
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