rather annoyed
that I had no one to admire the phrase. Otherwise I assure you
that I missed my own particular kind very little indeed, though
I often wished that YOU were there, old chap; particularly when
I went for my lonesome swim; first thing in the morning, when
the Bay was all rose-leaves, and last thing at night, when your
body caught phosphorescent fire! Ah, yes, it was a good enough
life for a change; a perfect paradise to lie low in; another
Eden until . . .
"My poor Eve!"
And he fetched a sigh that took away his words; then his jaws
snapped together, and his eyes spoke terribly while he conquered
his emotion. I pen the last word advisedly. I fancy it is one
which I have never used before in writing of A. J. Raffles, for
I cannot at the moment recall any other occasion upon which its
use would have been justified. On resuming, however, he was not
only calm, but cold; and this flying for safety to the other
extreme is the single instance of self-distrust which the
present Achates can record to the credit of his impious AEneas.
"I called the girl Eve," said he. "Her real name was Faustina,
and she was one of a vast family who hung out in a hovel on the
inland border of the vineyard. And Aphrodite rising from the
sea was less wonderful and not more beautiful than Aphrodite
emerging from that hole!
"It was the most exquisite face I ever saw or shall see in this
life. Absolutely perfect features; a skin that reminded you of
old gold, so delicate was its bronze; magnificent hair, not
black but nearly; and such eyes and teeth as would have made
the fortune of a face without another point. I tell you, Bunny,
London would go mad about a girl like that. But I don't believe
there's such another in the world. And there she was wasting
her sweetness upon that lovely but desolate little corner of it!
Well, she did not waste it upon me. I would have married her,
and lived happily ever after in such a hovel as her people's
—with her. Only to look at her—only to look at her for the
rest of my days—I could have lain low and remained dead even to
you! And that's all I'm going to tell you about that, Bunny;
cursed be he who tells more! Yet don't run away with the idea
that this poor Faustina was the only woman I ever cared about.
I don't believe in all that 'only' rot; nevertheless I tell you
that she was the one being who ever entirely satisfied my sense
of beauty; and I honestly believe I could have chucked the world
and been true to Faustina for that alone.
"We met sometimes in the little temple I told you about,
sometimes among the vines; now by honest accident, now by
flagrant design; and found a ready-made rendezvous, romantic as
one could wish, in the cave down all those subterranean steps.
Then the sea would call us—my blue champagne—my sparkling
cobalt—and there was the dingy ready to our hand. Oh, those
nights! I never knew which I liked best, the moonlit ones when
you sculled through silver and could see for miles, or the dark
nights when the fishermen's torches stood for the sea, and a red
zig-zag in the sky for old Vesuvius. We were happy. I don't
mind owning it. We seemed not to have a care between us. My
mates took no interest in my affairs, and Faustina's family did
not appear to bother about her. The Count was in Naples five
nights of the seven; the other two we sighed apart.
"At first it was the oldest story in literature—Eden plus Eve.
The place had been a heaven on earth before, but now it was
heaven itself. So for a little; then one night, a Monday night,
Faustina burst out crying in the boat; and sobbed her story as
we drifted without mishap by the mercy of the Lord. And that
was almost as old a story as the other.
"She was engaged—what! Had I never heard of it? Did I mean to
upset the boat? What was her engagement beside our love?
'Niente, niente,' crooned Faustina, sighing yet smiling through
her tears. No, but what did matter was that the man had
threatened to stab her to the heart—and
that I had no one to admire the phrase. Otherwise I assure you
that I missed my own particular kind very little indeed, though
I often wished that YOU were there, old chap; particularly when
I went for my lonesome swim; first thing in the morning, when
the Bay was all rose-leaves, and last thing at night, when your
body caught phosphorescent fire! Ah, yes, it was a good enough
life for a change; a perfect paradise to lie low in; another
Eden until . . .
"My poor Eve!"
And he fetched a sigh that took away his words; then his jaws
snapped together, and his eyes spoke terribly while he conquered
his emotion. I pen the last word advisedly. I fancy it is one
which I have never used before in writing of A. J. Raffles, for
I cannot at the moment recall any other occasion upon which its
use would have been justified. On resuming, however, he was not
only calm, but cold; and this flying for safety to the other
extreme is the single instance of self-distrust which the
present Achates can record to the credit of his impious AEneas.
"I called the girl Eve," said he. "Her real name was Faustina,
and she was one of a vast family who hung out in a hovel on the
inland border of the vineyard. And Aphrodite rising from the
sea was less wonderful and not more beautiful than Aphrodite
emerging from that hole!
"It was the most exquisite face I ever saw or shall see in this
life. Absolutely perfect features; a skin that reminded you of
old gold, so delicate was its bronze; magnificent hair, not
black but nearly; and such eyes and teeth as would have made
the fortune of a face without another point. I tell you, Bunny,
London would go mad about a girl like that. But I don't believe
there's such another in the world. And there she was wasting
her sweetness upon that lovely but desolate little corner of it!
Well, she did not waste it upon me. I would have married her,
and lived happily ever after in such a hovel as her people's
—with her. Only to look at her—only to look at her for the
rest of my days—I could have lain low and remained dead even to
you! And that's all I'm going to tell you about that, Bunny;
cursed be he who tells more! Yet don't run away with the idea
that this poor Faustina was the only woman I ever cared about.
I don't believe in all that 'only' rot; nevertheless I tell you
that she was the one being who ever entirely satisfied my sense
of beauty; and I honestly believe I could have chucked the world
and been true to Faustina for that alone.
"We met sometimes in the little temple I told you about,
sometimes among the vines; now by honest accident, now by
flagrant design; and found a ready-made rendezvous, romantic as
one could wish, in the cave down all those subterranean steps.
Then the sea would call us—my blue champagne—my sparkling
cobalt—and there was the dingy ready to our hand. Oh, those
nights! I never knew which I liked best, the moonlit ones when
you sculled through silver and could see for miles, or the dark
nights when the fishermen's torches stood for the sea, and a red
zig-zag in the sky for old Vesuvius. We were happy. I don't
mind owning it. We seemed not to have a care between us. My
mates took no interest in my affairs, and Faustina's family did
not appear to bother about her. The Count was in Naples five
nights of the seven; the other two we sighed apart.
"At first it was the oldest story in literature—Eden plus Eve.
The place had been a heaven on earth before, but now it was
heaven itself. So for a little; then one night, a Monday night,
Faustina burst out crying in the boat; and sobbed her story as
we drifted without mishap by the mercy of the Lord. And that
was almost as old a story as the other.
"She was engaged—what! Had I never heard of it? Did I mean to
upset the boat? What was her engagement beside our love?
'Niente, niente,' crooned Faustina, sighing yet smiling through
her tears. No, but what did matter was that the man had
threatened to stab her to the heart—and
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