The gulf that lay between us was wider now than it had ever been, and he stood away from me, with his back turned, on the further shore. I felt young and small and very much alone, and now, in spite of my pride, I found his handkerchief and blew my nose, throwing my drab appearance to the winds. It could never matter.
“To hell with this,” he said suddenly, as though angry, as though bored, and he pulled me beside him, and put his arm round my shoulder, still looking straight ahead of him, his right hand on the wheel. He drove, I remember, even faster than before. “I suppose you are young enough to be my daughter, and I don’t know how to deal with you,” he said. The road narrowed then to a corner, and he had to swerve to avoid a dog. I thought he would release me, but he went on holding me beside him, and when the corner was passed, and the road came straight again he did not let me go. “You can forget all I said to you this morning,” he said; “that’s all finished and done with. Don’t let’s ever think of it again. My family always call me Maxim, I’d like you to do the same. You’ve been formal with me long enough.” He felt for the brim of my hat, and took hold of it, throwing it over his shoulder to the backseat, and then bent down and kissed the top of my head. “Promise me you will never wear black satin,” he said. I smiled then, and he laughed back at me, and the morning was gay again, the morning was a shining thing. Mrs. Van Hopper and the afternoon did not matter a flip of the finger. It would pass so quickly, and there would be tonight, and another day tomorrow. I was cocksure, jubilant; at that moment I almost had the courage to claim equality. I saw myself strolling into Mrs. Van Hopper’s bedroom rather late for my bezique, and when questioned by her, yawning carelessly, saying, “I forgot the time. I’ve been lunching with Maxim.”
I was still child enough to consider a Christian name like a plume in the hat, though from the very first he had called me by mine. The morning, for all its shadowed moments, had promoted me to a new level of friendship, I did not lag so far behind as I had thought. He had kissed me too, a natural business, comforting and quiet. Not dramatic as in books. Not embarrassing. It seemed to bring about an ease in our relationship, it made everything more simple. The gulf between us had been bridged after all. I was to call him Maxim. And that afternoon playing bezique with Mrs. Van Hopper was not so tedious as it might have been, though my courage failed me and I said nothing of my morning. For when, gathering her cards together at the end, and reaching for the box, she said casually, “Tell me, is Max de Winter still in the hotel?” I hesitated a moment, like a diver on the brink, then lost my nerve and my tutored self-possession, saying, “Yes, I believe so—he comes into the restaurant for his meals.”
Someone has told her, I thought, someone has seen us together, the tennis professional has complained, the manager has sent a note, and I waited for her attack. But she went on putting the cards back into the box, yawning a little, while I straightened the tumbled bed. I gave her the bowl of powder, the rouge compact, and the lipstick, and she put away the cards and took up the hands glass from the table by her side. “Attractive creature,” she said, “but queer-tempered I should think, difficult to know. I thought he might have made some gesture of asking one to Manderley that day in the lounge, but he was very close.”
I said nothing. I watched her pick up the lipstick and outline a bow upon her hard mouth. “I never saw her,” she said, holding the glass away to see the effect, “but I believe she was very lovely. Exquisitely turned out, and brilliant in every way. They used to give tremendous parties at Manderley. It was all very sudden and tragic, and I believe he adored her. I need the darker shade of powder with this brilliant red, my dear: fetch it, will you, and put this box back in the drawer?”
And we were busy then with powder, scent, and rouge, until the bell rang and her visitors came in. I handed them their drinks, dully, saying little; I changed the records on the gramophone, I threw away the stubs of cigarettes.
“Been doing any sketching lately, little lady?” The forced heartiness of an old banker, his monocle dangling on a string, and my bright smile of insincerity: “No, not very lately; will you have another cigarette?”
It was not I that answered, I was not there at all. I was following a phantom in my mind, whose shadowy form had taken shape at last. Her features were blurred, her coloring indistinct, the setting of her eyes and the texture of her hair was still uncertain, still to be revealed.