Introducing .NET MAUI: Build and Deploy Cross-platform Applications Using C# and .NET Multi-platform App UI 1st Edition Shaun Lawrence download
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Shaun Lawrence
Introducing .NET MAUI: Build and Deploy Cross-platform Applications
Using C# and .NET Multi-platform App UI
Shaun Lawrence
St Ives, UK
Acknowledgments�����������������������������������������������������������������������������xix
Introduction���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xxi
iii
Table of Contents
iv
Table of Contents
v
Table of Contents
VerticalStackLayout�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������132
Data Binding�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������135
Binding��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������136
Applying the Remaining Bindings����������������������������������������������������������������140
MultiBinding������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������141
Command����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������144
Compiled Bindings���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������147
Shell������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������148
ShellContent������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������149
Navigation���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������150
Flyout�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������154
Tabs�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������160
Search���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������160
Taking Your Application for a Spin���������������������������������������������������������������������161
Summary����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������163
Source Code������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������164
Extra Assignment����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������164
vii
Table of Contents
Chapter 7: Accessibility��������������������������������������������������������������������199
What Is Accessibility?���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������199
Why Make Your Applications Accessible?���������������������������������������������������������200
What to Consider When Making Your Applications Accessible��������������������������200
How to Make Your Application Accessible��������������������������������������������������������201
Screen Reader Support�������������������������������������������������������������������������������201
Suitable Contrast�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������208
Dynamic Text Sizing�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������210
Testing Your Application’s Accessibility�������������������������������������������������������������215
Android��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������215
iOS���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������215
macOS���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������216
Windows������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������216
Accessibility Checklist��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������216
Summary����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������218
Source Code������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������219
Extra Assignment����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������219
viii
Table of Contents
ix
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Table of Contents
x
Table of Contents
xi
Table of Contents
xii
Table of Contents
Index�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������437
xiv
About the Author
Shaun Lawrence is an experienced software
engineer who has been specializing in building
mobile and desktop applications for the past
15 years. He is a recognized Microsoft MVP in
Development Technologies; his work helps
the community learn and build with Xamarin
Forms, the predecessor to .NET MAUI. His
recent discovery of the value he can add by
sharing his experience with others has thrust
him on to the path of wanting to find any way possible to continue to do so.
Shaun actively maintains several open-source projects within the .NET
community. A key project for the scope of this book is the .NET MAUI
Community Toolkit where he predominantly focuses on building good
quality documentation for developers to consume. Shaun lives in the
United Kingdom with his wife, two children, and their dog.
Shaun can be found on Twitter @Bijington, on his blog at
https://blog.bijington.com, or on LinkedIn at www.linkedin.com/in/
shaun-lawrence-53a0099/.
xv
About the Technical Reviewer
Gerald Versluis is a Senior Software Engineer
at Microsoft working on .NET MAUI. Since
2009 Gerald has been working on a variety
of projects, ranging from front end to back
end and anything in between that involves
Azure, ASP.NET, and all kinds of other .NET
technologies. At some point he fell in love with
cross-platform and mobile development with
Xamarin. Since then he has become an active
community member, writing, tweeting, and presenting about all things
tech. Gerald can be found on Twitter @jfversluis, blogging at https://
blog.verslu.is, or on his YouTube channel at https://youtube.com/
@jfversluis.
xvii
Acknowledgments
I have a number of people that I would like to thank for their assistance.
Firstly, Dan: Your assistance in both reviewing my content and also
talking through each of my worries and ideas definitely encouraged me
to write.
Secondly, Gerald: You have been fundamental from start to finish. You
encouraged me to accept this project, helped me with decisions, reviewed
the content, and provided fantastic guidance throughout!
Thirdly, the team at Apress: From Joan for initially reaching out to me
in order to present this opportunity, to the rest of the team of Jill, Gryffin,
and Laura for answering all of my questions and guiding me through this
process.
Finally, my family—my wife, Levinia, daughters Zoey and Hollie, and
dog, Soco: Without your encouragement I would not have taken the leap to
embark upon this writing journey. I am so grateful for all your help and the
sacrifices made to help get me over the line.
xix
Introduction
Welcome to Introducing .NET MAUI.
This book is for developers who are new to .NET MAUI and cross-platform
development. You should have basic knowledge of C# but require no prior
knowledge of using .NET MAUI. The content ranges from beginner through
to more advanced topics and is therefore tailored to meet a wide range of
experiences.
This book provides an in-depth explanation of each key concept in
.NET MAUI, and you will use these concepts in practical examples while
building a cross-platform application. The content has been designed
to primarily flow with the building of this application; however, there
is a secondary theme that involves grouping as many related concepts
as possible. The idea behind this is to both learn as you go and also to
have content that closely resembles reference information, which makes
returning to this book as easy as possible.
All code examples in this book, unless otherwise stated, are applied
directly to the application you are building. Once key concepts have been
established, the book will offer improvements or alternatives to simplify
your life as you build production-worthy applications. The book does not
rely upon these simplifications as part of the practical examples and the
reason for this is simple: I strongly believe that you need to understand the
concepts before you start to use them.
Finally, all chapters that involve adding code into the application
project contain a link to the resulting source code. This is to show the final
product and for you to use as a comparison if anything goes wrong during
your building of the application.
xxi
CHAPTER 1
Introduction to .NET
MAUI
In this chapter, you will gain an understanding of what exactly .NET
MAUI is, how it differs from other frameworks, and what it offers you as a
developer wishing to build a cross-platform application that can run on
both mobile and desktop environments. I will also cover the reasons why
you should consider it for your next project by weighing the possibilities
and limitations of the framework as well as the rich array of tooling
options.
They came out into the noisy night of the Boulevard. They walked
together, Charnac and Margot with linked arms. The lower floors of
the night restaurants were blazing with light, but in the upper rooms
the drawn blinds subdued the glare, and transformed it into a warm
glow. Cabs and motor-cars came up the steep hill from the Grands
Boulevards below for the revelry of supper after the theatre. The
great doors of the Chariot d'Or were continually moving, and the
uniformed doorkeeper seemed to enjoy the exercise of pulling the
door open every second, as women in wraps, accompanied by men,
crossed the threshold.
They went upstairs into a long brilliant room, all gold and glass and
red plush, with white tablecloths shining in the strong light. In the
corner a group of musicians, dressed in a picturesque costume—it
might have been taken from any of the Balkan States, or from
imagination—played a dragging waltz melody.
A dark woman sat by them, wearing a Spanish dress, orange and
spangled, the bodice low-cut, and the skirt fanciful and short,
showing her thin legs clad in black open-work stockings. She
regarded the room with an air of detached interest, unanswering the
glances of the men. She was the wife of the first violinist.
Charnac led the way to a table; he placed himself next to Margot on
the red plush sofa-cushions, and Humphrey sat with Desirée. While
Charnac was ordering the supper and consulting their individual
tastes, Humphrey glanced round the room at the men who sat at the
little tables with glasses of sparkling amber wine before them, some
of them in evening-dress, with crumpled, soft shirt-fronts, others in
lounge suits or morning-coats. Not all had women with them, but
the women that he saw were luxurious, beautiful creatures, with
indolent eyes and faces of strange beauty.
The lights gleamed under rose-coloured shades on the table, on the
silver dishes piled high with splendid fruits, on bottles swathed
tenderly with napkins, set in silver ice-pails, on tumblers of coloured
wines and liqueurs.
"It's pretty here, eh?" said Desirée.
"It's not so bad. I've never been here before. Do you come often?"
"Oh no! not often: only when Margot brings Gustave to come and
fetch me after I've been singing."
She clapped her hands gaily as the waiter set a steaming dish of
mussels before them. The house was famed for its moules
marinières. "I adore them," she said, unfolding her serviette, and
tucking it under her chin. Charnac ladled out the mussels into soup-
plates. Their blue iridescent shells shone in an opal-coloured gravy
where tiny slices of onion floated on the surface. Her dainty fingers
dipped into the plate, and she fed herself with the mussels, biting
them from the shells with her sharp white teeth. She ate with an
extraordinary rapidity, breaking off generous pieces from the long,
crisp roll of bread before her, and drinking deeply of her red
Burgundy.
She was simply an animal. Margot ate in much the same way, with
greedy, quick gestures, until her plate was piled high with empty
mussel shells. And, during the meal, they chattered trivialities,
discussing personal friends in a slangy, intimate phraseology.
The sharp taste of the sauce, with its flavour of the salt sea-water,
made Humphrey thirsty, and he, too, drank plenty of wine; and the
wine and the warmth sent the colour rushing to his cheeks, and
filled him with a sense of comfort. The whole atmosphere of the
place had a soothing effect on him.
The orchestra started to play a Spanish dance, and the woman in
orange rose from her seat, and tossing her lace shawl aside, moved
down the aisle of tables in a sidling, swinging dance, castanets
clicking from her thumbs, marking the sway and poise of her body
above her hips. It was a sexual, voluptuous dance, that stirred the
senses like strong wine. Now she flung herself backwards with a
proud, uplifted chin. One high-heeled satin shoe stamped the floor.
Her eyes flashed darkly and dangerously; she flaunted her bare
throat and bosom before them; now she moved with a lithe sinuous
motion from table to table, one hand on her hip, and the other
swinging loosely by her side.
There was something terrible and triumphant in her dance to the
beat of the music with its rhythm of a heart throbbing in passion.
"Bravo! bravo!" they cried, as the dance finished. "Bis," shouted
Charnac, lolling back in his seat with his arm round Margot's
shoulder.
"She dances well," said Humphrey.
Desirée turned her pale eyes on him. "I can dance better," she said,
and before he had realized it, she was up and in the centre of the
room, and everybody laughed and clapped hands, as Desirée began
to dance with stealthy, cat-like steps. Her face was impudent, as she
twined and twisted her thin body into contortions that set all the
men leering at her. It was frankly repulsive and horrible to
Humphrey; she seemed suddenly to have ceased to be a woman,
just as when she had started to eat. She was inhuman when she
sang and ate and danced.
The blur of white flesh through the smoke, the odour of heavy
scents, and the sight of Desirée writhing in her horrid dance,
sickened him. He saw her white teeth gleaming between her lips,
half-parted with the exhaustion of her dance, he saw her eyes
laughing at him, as though she were proud and expected his
applause, and he felt a profound, inexplicable pity for her that
overwhelmed his disgust.
She flung herself, panting, into her seat, and pushed back her
disordered yellow hair with her hands. "Oh la! ... la!" she cried,
laughing in gasps, "c'est fatiguant, ça ... my throat is like a furnace."
And she clicked her glass against the glass that Humphrey held in
his hand, and drained it to the finish.
"Why did you do that?" asked Humphrey, huskily.
"Do what?"
"Dance like that—in front of all these people?"
"Why shouldn't I, if I want to?"
"I don't like it," he said, wondering why he was impelled to say so.
"Well, you shouldn't have said she dances well," Desirée replied.
"I must be going," Humphrey said.
"Oh, not yet," Charnac said. "Let's all go together."
"No," he pushed his chair away with sudden resolution. "I must go."
"But, my dear—" Desirée began.
"I must go," Humphrey repeated, slowly. It was like the repetition of
a lesson. "I must go now."
"Oh, well—" Charnac said.
The waiter appeared with a bill. "You will allow me to pay?"
Humphrey asked Charnac.
"Mais non, mais non, mon ami," he replied, good-naturedly. "It was I
who asked you to come, wasn't it? Another night it will be your
turn."
"Another night," echoed Margot, in her high-pitched voice. "J'adore
les Anglais, ils sont si gentils."
"And why cannot you stop?" Desirée asked.
He avoided her eyes. Never could he explain in this room, with its
scent and its music and its warmth, that turned vice into happiness
and made virtue as chilling and intractable as marble. He only knew
that he had to go. He made some excuse—any excuse—work—a
headache ... he did not know what he was saying; he was only
conscious of those narrow eyes beneath pale eyebrows, and red
parted lips, and the soft hand that lay in his—the soft hand with the
finger-tips as beautiful as rosy sea-shells.
They were not to blame; they could not be expected to know his
innermost life, nor why it was that he felt suddenly as if he had
profaned himself, and all that was most sacred to him. But that finer,
nobler self that was always dormant within him, as eager to awaken
to influences as it was to be lulled to sleep by them, became active
and alert....
There was a hint of dawn in the sky as he came out into the empty
street, his mind charged with a deep melancholy. But, as the cool air
played about his face, he breathed more freely after the stuffy
warmth of the room, and he walked with a firm step, square-
shouldered, erect and courageous.
V
Some weeks later there came a letter which brought the reality of
things into his own life. It was a short and regretful letter from a
firm of Easterham solicitors, announcing the death of his aunt.
They informed him of the fact in a few, brief, dignified words. There
was an undercurrent of excuse, as if they felt themselves personally
responsible for the sudden demise, and were anxious to apologise
for any inconvenience that might be felt by Mr Quain. He gathered
that his aunt had lived on an annuity, which expired with her; that a
little financial trouble—loans to a brother of whom Humphrey had
never heard—absorbed her furniture and all her possessions, with
the exception of a watch and chain, which she had willed to
Humphrey. The funeral was to take place two days hence—and that
was all.
The letter moved him neither to tears nor sorrow. His aunt had been
as remote from him in life as she was in death. An unbridgeable
abyss had divided them. Never, during the years he had lived in
Easterham, after his father's death, had they talked of the
fundamental things that mattered to one another. He felt that he
owed her nothing, least of all love, for she remained in his memory a
masterful, powerful influence, trying to fetter him down to a narrow
life, without comprehension of the broad, beautiful world that lay at
her doors.
He could see her now in her dress of some mysterious black pattern,
and always a shawl over her shoulder, her white hair plastered close
to her heavy gold earrings, her lips thin and compressed, and her
eyes hard-set, when she said, "You must Get On." She did not know,
when she urged him to go forward, how far he meant to go. Her
vision of Getting On was bounded by Easterham—what could she
know and understand of all the bewildering phases he had
undergone; the bitter heartaches, the misery of failure, and the glory
of conquest in a world wider than a million Easterhams.
But, as he thought of her dead, a strange feeling came to him that
now she could understand everything, that she knew all, and was
even ready to reach out in sympathy to him. Her last pathetic
message—a watch and chain! The rude knowledge that he had
gained of the secret things of her life—how she lived, her loan to the
brother; it seemed that some hidden door which they had both kept
carefully locked had been flung open widely—that his eyes were
desecrating her profoundest secrets.
It was not the first time that Death had stirred his life, but this was a
sudden and unexpected snapping of a chain that bound him with his
boyhood. Always he had been subconsciously aware of his aunt's
presence in the scheme of things; there had been ingrained in him a
certain fear of her, that he had never quite shaken off. Behind the
individuality of his own life she had lurked, a shadowy figure, yet
ready to emerge from the shadows at a moment of provocation, and
become real and distinct and forbidding.
And now he could scarcely realize that she was dead—that he was
absolutely alone in the world, though there might be, somewhere,
cousins and kinspeople whom he had never seen.
She had not been demonstratively kind to him in life. The watch and
chain she left was the first present he could ever remember
receiving from her. But he felt that he could not absent himself from
her funeral; it would be a sad and desolate business in the
Easterham churchyard, with not many people there, yet he knew
that he could not pass the day in Paris without thinking of her,
lowered into the grave to the eternal loneliness of death.
He sent a telegram to London, and received a reply a few hours
later, giving him permission to leave Paris, and the next day he
travelled to England.
The collection of papers and magazines rested unread in his lap. He
looked from the window on the succession of pictures that flashed
and disappeared—a blue-bloused labourer at work in the fields, or a
waggoner toiling along a country lane; children shouting by the
hedgerows, and the signal-women who sat by their little huts on the
railway as the train sped by. He could not read; sometimes, with a
sigh, he sought a paper (France had just caught the popular
magazine habit from England), turned the pages restlessly, and,
finally, leaning on the arm-rest, stared out of the window....
The shuttle of his mind went to and fro, twining together the
disconnected threads of his thoughts into a pattern of memories—
memories of his youth and his work and his aunt interwoven with
the strong, dominating thought of Elizabeth....
His thoughts turned continually to Elizabeth; sometimes they spun
away to something else, but always they were led back through a
series of memories to that night when he had kissed her for the first
time.
It was odd how this absence from her seemed to have changed her
in his mind. There had been an undercurrent of disappointment in
their relations, of late. Her letters had been strangely sterile and
unsatisfying. She had written an evasive reply, after a delay, an
answer to his last letter begging her to come to him....
Yet he was eager to see her and to kiss her. He felt that she was all
that he had left to him in the world: that she and his work were all
that mattered....
A garrulous Frenchman lured him into conversation during dinner;
he was glad, for it gave him relief from the monotonous burden of
his thoughts ... and on the boat he dozed in the sunshine of a
smooth crossing.
Once in England again, the delight of an exile returning to his home
provided new sensations. The porters were deferentially solicitous
for his comfort; the Customs officers behaved with innate politeness,
and the little squat train, with its separate compartments, brought a
glow of happiness to him. He saw England as a stranger might see it
for the first time: he observed the discipline and order of the railway
station that came not from oppression but from high organization
and planning. There were no mistakes made; the boy brought his
tea-basket and did not overcharge him; the porter accepted sixpence
and touched his hat, not obsequiously, but in acknowledgment,
without a suggestion of haggling for more. It seemed incredible that
he should find this perfection, where a year ago he could not see
it....
There were Frenchmen in the carriage, and he sat with the
conscious pride of an Englishman in his own country. The train
moved out, giving a glimpse of the harbour and the sea breaking in
white lines over the sloping beach; and then through a tunnel that
emerged on fields. The first thing he noticed was the vivid green of
the country, and the way it was cut up and divided into squares and
oblongs: the small clumps of low-set trees, the fat cattle, and the
peace brooding over the land. And then he noticed the little houses,
low-storied and thatched, with a feather of blue smoke waving from
their chimneys. The whole journey was a series of new impressions
that elated him. Stations flashed and left behind a blurred memory
of advertisements, and names that breathed of yeoman England:
Ashford—Paddock Wood—Sevenoaks—Knockholt; and then the
advertisement-boards stood out of the green fields, blatantly
insisting on lung tonics and pills, marking off mile after mile that
brought him nearer to London. The houses closed in on the railway
line; the train ran now through larger stations of red brick, passing
the peopled platforms with an echoing roar; other crowded trains
passed them, going slowly to the suburbs they had left behind. A
new note seemed to come into the journey as the evening
descended, and the world outside was populous with lights.
The memory of the clean, sweet country, with its toy houses, was
wiped away by a swift blot of darkness as the train flashed through
New Cross, and out into the broad network of rails with which
London begins.
He saw the factories and the sidings and the busy traffic of trains
overtaking one another, running parallel for a space, and then
swaying apart as one branched off to the south-eastern suburbs. He
saw the smoke hanging in thick clouds on the far horizon; masts and
rigging made spidery silhouettes against the sky; and the tall,
factory chimneys thrust out their monstrous tongues of livid fire.
The city was before him right and left, overgrown and tremendous.
They ran level with crooked chimney-pots and the scarred roofs of
endless rows of houses. The upper windows were yellow with light,
and he caught glimpses of women before mirrors and men in their
shirt-sleeves. Dark masses of clouds rolled before the moon.
Something wet splashed on his cheek.
A silent Englishman sitting next to him, said moodily: "Raining as
usual. I've never once come home without it raining." He laughed as
though it were a bitter joke.
Fantastic reflections wriggled on the wet, shining approach to
London Bridge—a swift vision of bus-drivers, with oilcloth capes
glinting in the rain, hurrying crowds, and something altogether new
—a motor-omnibus.
Then the train, with a dignified, steady movement, swung slowly
across Hungerford Bridge, and he saw the strong, resolute river,
black and broad, flowing to the bridges, within the jewelled girdle of
the Embankment.
The sense of England's greatness came to him, as the landmarks of
London were set in a semicircle before him: the tall dome of St
Paul's, the spires of churches, the turrets of great hotels, grey
Government offices, culminating in the vague majesty of the Houses
of Parliament.
How different the streets were from Paris! There was a force and an
energy that seemed to be driving everything perpetually forward.
This business of getting to dinner—it was about half-past seven—
was a terribly earnest and crowded affair. The throng of motor-cars
and omnibuses jammed and flocked together in the Strand, held in
leash by a policeman's uplifted hand, and when it was released, it
crawled sluggishly forward. Here and there, rare sight for Humphrey,
one of the new motor-omnibuses lumbered forward heavily,
threatening instant annihilation of everything. There was no chatter
of voices in the crowd—no gesticulation—the people walked silently
and hurriedly with a set concentration of purpose.
He went to a hotel in the Adelphi to leave his bag. Then he came
out, pausing for a moment irresolutely in the crowd. It was too late,
as he had foreseen, to go to Elizabeth. He had made up his mind to
see her on his return from Easterham.
An omnibus halted by him: he boarded it, and as he passed the
Griffin, he breathed deeply like a monarch entering his own domain,
for the scent of the Street was in his nostrils and the old, well-known
vision of the lit windows passed before him, and a newsboy ran
along shouting a late edition. This was the only Street in the world,
he felt, that he loved; its people were his people, and its life was his
life.
He turned into the Pen Club, to friendship, good-fellowship and
welcome. And all the old friends were there—Larkin, retelling old
stories, Chander spinning merry yarns, and Vernham making
melancholy epigrams. Willoughby, he learnt, was away on a mystery
in the north, and Jamieson was at a first night.
"By the way," said Larkin, "heard about Tommy Pride?"
"No. What's happened?"
"He's left The Day."
"Sacked?" asked Humphrey.
Larkin nodded. "Rather rough on poor old Tommy. Married, isn't he?"
A picture of his first visit to the home of the Prides leapt before
Humphrey's eyes, and the comfort, the cheeriness, that hid all the
hard work of the week. The news hurt him queerly.
"What's he doing?" he asked.
"Well, not much. Tommy's not a youngster, you know. I suppose the
Newspaper Press Fund will tide him over a bit."
Larkin dropped the subject, to listen to a story from Vernham. After
all, it was the most casual thing in the happenings of Fleet Street to
them: it might happen to them any day; it was bound to happen to
them one day. And there would always be young men ready to take
their places. Nobody was to blame; it was just one of the chances of
the inexorable system which made their work a gamble, where men
hazarded their wits and their lives, and lost or won in the game.
Humphrey knew more than they did what it meant for Tommy Pride.
He heard as a mocking echo now, the old cry, "Two pounds a week
and a cottage in the country."...
"Have a drink," Larkin said.
He became suddenly out of tune with the place. His perception of
Fleet Street altered. He saw the relentless cruelty of it, the
implacable demand for sacrifice that it always made. He visioned it
as a giant striding discordantly through the lives of men, crushing
them with a strength as mighty as its own machines that roared in
the night ... a clumsy and senseless giant, that towered above them,
against whom all struggles were pitiful ... futile.
VI
"One lump or two?" asked Elizabeth, holding the sugar-tongs poised
over his cup of tea.
"One, please," said Humphrey.
"Milk or cream?"
"Milk."
She handed him the cup in silence. There was something in the
frank, questioning look in her blue eyes that made him avert his
gaze. Their meeting had not been at all as he had imagined it. He
did not spring towards her, boyishly, and take her in his arms and
kiss her. He had approached her humbly and timidly when she stood
before him, in all her white purity and beauty, and their lips had met
in a brief kiss of greeting. Her manner had been curiously formal and
restrained, empty of all outward display of emotion.
And now they sat at tea in her room with the conversation lagging
between them. As he looked round at the room with its chintzes and
rose-bowls, its old restfulness reasserted itself. But to Humphrey it
seemed now more than restful—it seemed stagnant and out of the
world.... Somewhere, in Paris, there were music and laughter, but
here, in this quiet backwater of London, one's vision became narrow,
and life seemed a monotonous repetition of days. He felt moody,
depressed; a sense of coming disaster hung over his mind, like a
shadow. Her quick sympathy perceived his gloom.
"You ought not to have gone," she said, softly.
"You mean to the funeral?"
"Yes; you are too susceptible ... too easily influenced by
surroundings. There was no need to come all this way to make
yourself miserable."
"I don't know why I went," he said. "We never had much in
common, my aunt and I, but somehow ... I don't know ... I couldn't
bear the thought of not being present at her funeral. I had a silly
sort of idea that she would know if I were not there."
"You are too susceptible," she repeated. "Sometimes I wish you
were stronger. You are too much afraid of what people will think of
you. This death has meant nothing at all to you, but you are
ashamed to say so."
"It has meant something to me," he said. "I don't mean that I felt a
wrench, as if some one whom I loved very dearly had gone ... I felt
that when my father died ... but her death has changed me
somehow—here—" and he tapped his breast, "I feel older. I feel as if
I had stood over the grave and seen the burial of my youth."
"It has made you gloomy," Elizabeth said. "I think you would have
been truer to yourself if you had remained in Paris."
He reflected for a few moments, drinking his tea. He felt sombre
enough in his black clothes and black tie—dreary concessions to
conventionality.
"Ah, but I wanted to see you, Elizabeth," he said earnestly. "It's
terribly lonely without you."
She leaned forward and laid her hand lightly on his, with a soft,
caressing touch. "It's good of you to say that," she said, and then,
with a frank smile, "tell me, Humphrey, do you really miss me very
much?"
"I do," he said; and he began talking of himself and all that he did in
Paris. Elizabeth listened with an amused smile playing about her lips.
He told her of his work and his play, growing enthusiastic over Paris,
speaking with all the self-centredness of the egotist.
"It seems very pleasant," she said. "You are to be envied, I think.
You ought to be very happy: doing everything that you want to do;
occupying a good position in journalism."
He purred mentally under her praise. Already he felt better; her
presence stimulated him; but he could not see, nor understand, the
true Elizabeth, for the mists of vanity, ambition and selfishness
clouded his vision at that moment. If only he had forgotten himself
... if only he had asked her one question about herself and her work,
or shown the smallest interest in anything outside his own career, he
might have risen to great heights of happiness.
This was the second in which everything hung in the balance. He
saw Elizabeth lean her chin in the palm of her hand and contemplate
reflectively the distance beyond him. He marked the beauty of her
lower arm, bare to the rounded charm of the elbow, as it rested on
the curve of the arm-chair. So, he thought, would she sit in Paris,
and grace his life.
And then, suddenly, her face became grave, and she said, abruptly:
"Humphrey, I want to talk to you very seriously. I want to know
whether you will give up journalism."
He remembered her hint of this far back in the months when she
had first allowed him to tell her of his love. He had thought the
danger was past, but now she came to him, with a deliberate,
frontal attack on the very stronghold of his existence.
"Give up journalism!" he echoed. "What for?"
All the weapons of her sex were at her command. She might have
said, "For me"; she might have smiled and enticed and cajoled. But
she brushed these weapons aside disdainfully. Hers was the earnest
business of putting Humphrey to the test.
"Because I think you and I will never be happy together if you do
not. Because, if I marry you (he noticed she did not say, 'When I
marry you'), I should not want your work to occupy a larger place in
our lives than myself. Because I hate your work, and I think you can
do better things. Those are my reasons."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out on the trees that
made an avenue of the quiet road. A man with a green baize
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