Ivy Gilbert heard of the paragraph of course; every one did. She heard
of it that evening, but she gave it even less thought than Sir Charles
did; for he wondered idly who had inspired it and why, but Ivy did not
even do that. She heard of it, but she did not trouble to read it, and
Emma, watching, wondered if she’d been mistaken in believing that Ivy
had come to take more than a friendly interest in Mr. Sên. If she did,
she gave no sign now.
Of the ugly stories that were clouding Sên’s name more persistently
every day, no word ever had been spoken by Lady Snow as yet. Emma Snow
had no wish to mention them to her cousin, and had she wished, which she
did not, to speak of them to Sir Charles, would not have dared do it.
A few days after the morning journal had eaten its yesterday’s words,
Lady Snow’s drawing-room was very full even for her “at home” day.
Emmeline Hamilton came very early, and finding a moment and a corner
alone with Ivy, said suddenly, “Do you care for King-lo?”
Ivy stiffened. “Do I what, Miss Hamilton?”
“You know that my brother cares for you.”
“We will not discuss that,” Ivy cut her short.
“And Sên King-lo is all the world to me.”
“Oh—hush,” Ivy cried, ashamed to her core that any girl could be so
brazen—for such she considered the other’s avowal of feeling for a man
with whom, as Ivy knew, her acquaintance was very slight. It did not
shock her at all that Miss Hamilton had come to care for a Chinese—for
she, Ivy herself, had ceased to think of Sên King-lo as of a race apart
and debarred and even unconsciously thought of him as of one far less
alien to her than most of the men she met here.
“He is,” Emmeline went desperately on, “and I don’t care who knows
it——”
“That is evident,” Ivy Gilbert thought. But she said nothing.
“—and he’d have been engaged to me now, if it wasn’t for you.”
“That is preposterous,” Ivy interrupted indignantly.
“It _is_ preposterous,” Emmeline agreed quickly; “for he does not care
for you really, and I don’t believe that you care for him. If you do
care for him, say so—” Ivy’s lip curled—“and then it will be a fair
fight between you and me. But, if you don’t, won’t you give him back to
me? I want him. Do you?”
“I think you must be mad, and I know you are disgusting,” Ivy rather
panted, looking at Emmeline with horror-widened eyes, and moving to go.
But Emmeline caught at her wrist with vise-like thin fingers; and short
of making a scene in Emma’s drawing-room, where already a few other
guests were trickling in, there was no escape. So she sat down again.
You must humor lunatics; she had always heard that. Well—she hoped
she’d not meet another lunatic soon.
“Answer me! You shall! Do you care for King-lo?”
“I like Mr. Sên—as I think every one does,” Ivy said coldly.
“Only that?”
Ivy bent her head, with a look of contempt straight into Emmeline’s
eyes.
“Oh—he is perfect!” Emmeline bleated. “Will you give him back to me?”
“I cannot give what is not mine. And I will not listen to any more
insult—not if I have to appeal to my cousin.”
“Is he coming here today?” Emmeline pleaded abjectly, a sudden change in
tone and manner. Dr. Ray would have read it apprehensively; but Ivy was
merely blankly amazed.
“I do not know,” she answered truthfully.
“Did he give you those flowers you are wearing?”
But that was too much—scene or no scene. Miss Gilbert rose again, and
this time the other made no attempt to stay her but called after her, “I
know he did,” in an overstrained voice that made heads turn and eyebrows
raise.
Guests came and went, but Emmeline Hamilton stayed. Lady Snow looked at
her curiously more than once. Ivy kept out of her way.
It was growing late, but half a dozen tardy comers lingered over the
blazing logs and tinkling tea-cups, and Emmeline pushed into the group,
shivering a little, and drawing about her thin, lightly clad shoulders
the long-drooping fur that she had not left in the hall. Her mood had
changed again.
“You were speaking of Sên King-lo,” she said—but no one had mentioned
him there. “Every one is. It is odious that he should be tolerated among
us. He ought to be horsewhipped out of the place.” And in spite of Lady
Snow’s imperative gesture, she plunged into all the recent scandal—even
into noisome details. And Sên King-lo came into the room as she shrilly
told one nauseous item. “Had you heard all this?” she demanded pointedly
of Ivy.
“Yes—all, though worded less uncomfortably, I’m glad to say, than you
have,” Miss Gilbert said clearly, rising and crossing the room to Sên
King-lo, who stood in the doorway with Sir Charles Snow beside him.
“Good afternoon Mr. Sên,”—it was then that the other women turned and
saw him,—“I was wishing you’d come. I want you to ride with me
tomorrow. Will you take me?”
“You know how glad I always am,” he replied, as she gave him her hand.
His face had not changed as he had unavoidably heard Emmeline’s last
sentences. But his eyes flashed into Ivy’s as he held her fingers, and
then he turned and went to his hostess, cool and quiet as he always was.
But Ivy spoke to him again as soon as Emma had greeted him.
“Thank you for my lilies,” she said with a glance down at them, and a
smile into his eyes: “they are lovelier than ever today, I think.”
Before Sên could reply—and he never was slow—Miss Hamilton rose from
her chair dramatically; but before she could speak, Sir Charles Snow
gave her his arm and led her courteously from the room. Sên King-lo went
to the door and opened and held it.
The others went almost at once, and Lady Snow went into the hall with
the last to go and did not come back. But she said to Sên as she passed
him, “Do stay and dine—we’ll none of us dress.”
“Shall I stay?” Sên asked Ivy, as the closed door left them alone.
“I want you to,” she answered. “And thank you again for my lilies. Won’t
you have a few sprays—they’ll dress you for dinner—as they do me,” and
she held out the sprays she’d pulled from her dress as she spoke.
“So they will,” Sên said, as he bowed over the tiny white bells of
perfume and the fingers that gave them. “Thank you.”