The young man opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by another young fellow who awkwardly took off his cap. He did not know what to do with it and was stuffing it into his coat-pocket, when the other took it from him. The act was done quietly and naturally, and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. “He understands,” was his thought.
He walked at his companion’s heels. The wide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and he was in terror lest his broad shoulders should collide with the doorways. He watched the easy walk of the young man in front of him, and for the first time realized that his walk was different from that of other men. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walk so uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead in tiny beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with his handkerchief.
His companion tried to reassure him. “You mustn’t be frightened at us,” he said. “We’re just homely people. Hello, there’s a letter for me!”
He stepped back to a table piled with books and began to read his letter giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And the stranger understood and appreciated. He glanced about him with a controlled face, though in the eyes there was an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear the trap. He was surrounded by the unknown, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked and bore himself awkwardly. He cursed himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he would carry it through. He looked about more unconcernedly, every detail of the pretty interior registering itself on his brain. He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.
An oil-painting caught and held him. There was beauty, it drew him irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting – very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His face expressed his astonishment. He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away. Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas. “A trick picture,” was his thought. He did not know painting. He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far. He had seen oil-paintings, it was true, in the show-windows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.
He glanced around at his friend reading the letter, and saw the books on the table. He looked at them as a starving man would look at food. Approaching the table he glanced at the titles of the books and the authors’ names, read fragments of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands. He took up a volume of poetry and began reading steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. He did not notice that a young woman had entered the room. The first he knew was when he heard Arthur’s voice saying:
“Ruth, this is Mr. Eden.”
The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he was thrilling to the new impression, which was not of the girl, but of her brother’s words. “Mister Eden” was what he had thrilled to – he who had been called “Eden,” or “Martin Eden,” or just “Martin,” all his life.
And then he turned and saw the girl. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide, spiritual blue eyes, and golden hair. He did not know how she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. He compared her to a pale gold flower upon a slender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; such beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books were right, and there were many such as she in the upper walks of life.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Eden?” the girl said. “I have been looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave of you —”
He muttered that it was nothing at all what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it. She noticed that his hands were covered with fresh abrasions in the process of healing. Also, with quick, critical eyes, she noticed a scar on his cheek and another on his neck. Likewise her feminine eye took in the cheap clothes he wore. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands. They were in the way wherever he put them. Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden felt lost, alone there in the room with that pale girl.
“You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden,” the girl was saying. “How did it happen? I am sure it must have been some adventure.”
“A Mexican with a knife, miss,” he answered, moistening his parched lips and clearing his throat. “It was just a fight. After I got the knife away, he tried to bite off my nose.”
“Oh!” the girl said in a faint far voice, and he noticed the shock in her sensitive face.
He felt a shock himself, and a blush of embarrassment shone faintly on his sunburned cheeks. People in the books, in her walks of life, did not talk about such things – perhaps they did not know about them either.
There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to get started, then she asked about the scar on his cheek.
