He had called her up the following morning from the office, and had
told her that he thought he had better not see her for a while.
And she had answered with soft concern that he must do what he thought
best without considering her.
What other answer he expected is uncertain; but her gentle acquiescence
in his decision irritated him and he ended the conversation in a tone
of boyish resentment.
To occupy his mind there was, that day, not only the usual office
routine, but some extra business most annoying to Sharrow. For Angelo
Puma had turned up again, as shiny and bland as ever, flashing his
superb smile over clerk and stenographer impartially.
So Sharrow shunted him to Mr. Brooke, that sort of property being his
specialty; and Brooke called in Shotwell.
"Go up town with that preposterous wop and settle this business one
way or another, once for all," he whispered. "A crook named Skidder
owns the property; but we can't do anything with him. The office is
heartily sick of both Skidder and Puma; and Sharrow desires to be rid
of them."
Then, very cordially, he introduced Puma to young Shotwell; and they
took Puma's handsome car and went up town to see what could be done
with the slippery owner of the property in question, who was now
permanently located in New York.
On the way, Puma, smelling oppressively aromatic and looking
conspicuously glossy as to hair, hat, and boots, also became
effusively voluble. For he had instantly recognised Shotwell as
the young man with whom that disturbingly pretty girl had been in
consultation in Sharrow's offices; and his mind was now occupied
with a new possibility as well as with the property which he so
persistently desired to acquire.
"With me," he said in his animated, exotic way, and all creased with
smiles, "my cinema business is not business alone! No! It is Art! It
is the art hunger that ever urges me onward, not the desire for
commercial gain. For me, beauty is ever first; the box-office last!
You understand, Mr. Shotwell? With me, art is supreme! Yes. And
afterward my crust of bread."
"Well, then," said Jim, "I can't see why you don't pay this man
Skidder what he asks for the property."
"I tell you why. I make it clear to you. For argument--Skidder he has
ever the air of one who does not care to sell. It is an attitude! I
know! But he has that air. Well! I say to him, 'Mr. Skidder, I offer
you--we say for argument, one dollar! Yes?' Well, he do not say yes or
no. He do not say, 'I take a dollar and also one quarter. Or a dollar
and a half. Or two dollars.' No. He squint and answer: 'I am not
anxious to sell!' My God! What can one say? What can one do?"
"Perhaps," suggested Jim, "he really doesn't want to sell."
"Ah! That is not so. No. He is sly, Mr. Skidder, like there never has
been in my experience a man more sly. What is it he desires? I ask. I
do not know. But all the time he inquire about my business if it pays,
and is there much money in it. Also, I hear, by channels, that he
makes everywhere inquiries if the film business shall pay."
"Maybe he wants to try it himself."
"Also, that has occurred to me. But to him I say nothing. No. He is
too sly. Me, I am all art and all heart. Me, I am frank like there
never was a man in my business! But Skidder, he squint at me. My God,
those eye! And I do not know what is in his thought."
"Well, Mr. Puma, what do you wish me to do? As I understand it, you
are our client, and if I buy for you this Skidder property I shall
look to you, of course, for my commission. Is that what you
understand?"
"My God! Why should he not pay that commission if you are sufficiently
obliging to buy from him his property?"
"It isn't done that way," explained Jim drily.
"You suppose you can buy me this property? Yes?"
"I don't know. Of course, I can buy anything for you if you'll pay
enough."
"My God! I do not enjoy commercial business. No. I enjoy art. I enjoy
qualities of the heart. I----" He looked at Jim out of his magnificent
black eyes, touched his full lips with a perfumed handkerchief.
"Yes, sir," he said, flashing a brilliant smile, "I am all heart. But
my heart is for art alone! I dedicate it to the film, to the moving
picture, to beauty! It is my constant preoccupation. It is my only
thought. Art, beauty, the picture, the world made happier, better, for
the beauty which I offer in my pictures. It is my only thought. It is
my life."
Jim politely suppressed a yawn and said that a life devoted purely to
art was a laudable sacrifice.
"As example!" explained Puma, all animation and childlike frankness;
"I pay my artists what they ask. What is money when it is a question
of art? I must have quality; I must have beauty--" He shrugged: "I
must pay. Yes?"
"One usually pays for pulchritude."
"Ah! As example! I watch always on the streets as I pass by. I see a
face. It has beauty. It has quality. I follow. I speak. I am frank
like there never was a man. I say, 'Mademoiselle, you shall not be
offended. No. Art has no frontiers. It is my art, not I who address
you. I am Angelo Puma. The Ultra-Film Company is mine. In you I
perceive possibilities. This is my card. If it interests you to have a
test, come! Who knows? It may be your life's destiny. The projection
room should tell. Adieu!'"
"Is that the way you pick stars?" asked Jim curiously.
"Stars? Bah! I care nothing for stars. No. I should go bankrupt. Why?
Beauty alone is my star. Upon it I drape the mantle of Art!"
He kissed his fat finger-tips and gazed triumphantly at Jim.
"You see? Out of the crowd of passersby I pick the perfect and
unconscious rosebud. In my temple it opens into perfect bloom. And Art
is born! And I am content. You comprehend?"
Jim said that he thought he did.
"As example," exclaimed Puma vivaciously, "while in conversation once
with Mr. Sharrow, I beheld entering your office a young lady in
mourning. Hah! Instantly I was all art!" Again he kissed his gloved
fingers. "A face for a picture! A form for the screen! I perceive. I
am convinced.... You recall the event, perhaps, Mr. Shotwell?"
"No."
"A young lady in mourning, seated beside your desk? I believe she was
buying from you a house."
"Oh."
"Her name--Miss Dumont--I believe."
Jim glanced at him. "Miss Dumont is not likely to do anything of that
sort," he said.
"And why?"
"You mean go into the movies?" He laughed. "She wouldn't bother."
"But--my God! It is Art! What you call movies, and, within, this young
lady may hide genius. And genius belongs to Art. And Art belongs to
the world!"
The unthinkable idea of Palla on the screen was peculiarly distasteful
to him.
"Miss Dumont has no inclination for the movies," he said.
"Perhaps, Mr. Shotwell," purred Puma, "if your amiable influence could
induce the young lady to have a test made----"
"There isn't a chance of it," said Jim bluntly. Their limousine
stopped just then. They got out before one of those new apartment
houses on the upper West Side.
* * * * *
Mr. Skidder, it appeared, was in and would receive them.
A negro servant opened the door and ushered them into a parlour where
Mr. Elmer Skidder, sprawling over the debris of breakfast, laid aside
newspaper and coffee cup and got up to receive them in bath robe and
slippers.
And when they were all seated: "Now, Mr. Skidder," said Jim, with his
engaging frankness, "the simplest way is the quickest. My client, Mr.
Puma, wants to purchase your property; and he is, I understand,
prepared to pay considerably more than it is worth. We all have a very
fair idea of its actual value. Our appraiser, yours, and other
appraisers from other companies and corporations seem, for a wonder,
to agree in their appraisal of this particular property.
"Now, how much more than it is worth do you expect us to offer you?"
Skidder had never before been dealt with in just this way. He squinted
at Jim, trying to appraise him. But within his business experience in
a country town no similar young man had he encountered.
"Well," he said, "I ain't asking you to buy, am I?"
"We understand that," rejoined Jim, good humouredly; "_we_ are asking
_you_ to sell."
"You seem to want it pretty bad."
"We do," said the young fellow, laughing.
"All right. Make your offer."
Jim named the sum.
"No, sir!" snapped Skidder, picking up his newspaper.
"Then," remarked Jim, looking: frankly at Puma, "that definitely lets
us out." And, to Skidder: "Many thanks for permitting us to interrupt
your breakfast. No need to bother you again, Mr. Skidder." And he
offered his hand in smiling finality.
"Look here," said Skidder, "the property is worth all I ask."
"If it's worth that to you," said Jim pleasantly, "you should keep
it." And he turned away toward the door, wondering why Puma did not
follow.
"Are you two gentlemen in a rush?" demanded Skidder.
"I have other business, of course," said Jim.
"Sit down. Hell! Will you have a drink?"
When they were again seated, Skidder squinted sideways at Angelo
Puma.
"Want a partner?" he inquired.
"Please?" replied Puma, as though mystified.
"Want more capital to put into your fillum concern?" demanded
Skidder.
Puma, innocently perplexed, asked mutely for an explanation out of his
magnificent dark eyes.
"I got money," asserted Skidder.
Puma's dazzling smile congratulated him upon the accumulation of a
fabulous fortune.
"I had you looked up," continued Skidder. "It listened good. And--I
got money, too. And I got that property in my vest pocket. See. And
there's a certain busted fillum corporation can be bought for a
postage stamp--all 'ncorporated 'n everything. You get me?"
No; Mr. Puma, who was all art and heart, could not comprehend what Mr.
Skidder was driving at.
"This here busted fillum company is called the _Super-Picture
Fillums_," said Skidder. "What's the matter with you and me buying it?
Don't you ever do a little tradin'?"
Jim rose, utterly disgusted, but immensely amused at himself, and
realising, now, how entirely right Sharrow had been in desiring to be
rid of this man Skidder, and of Puma and the property in question.
He said, still smiling, but rather grimly: "I see, now, that this is
no place for a broker who lives by his commissions." And he bade them
adieu with perfect good humour.
"Have a seegar?" inquired Skidder blandly.
"Why do you go, sir?" asked Puma innocently. No doubt, being all heart
and art, he did not comprehend that brokers can not exist on cigars
alone.
* * * * *
His commission had gone glimmering. Sharrow, evidently foreseeing
something of that sort, had sent him out with Puma to meet Skidder and
rid the office of the dubious affair.
This Jim understood, and yet he was not particularly pleased to be
exploited by this bland pair who had come suddenly to an understanding
under his very nose--the understanding of two petty, dickering,
crossroad traders, which coolly excluded any possibility both of his
services and of his commission.
"No; only a kike lawyer is required now," he said to himself, as he
crossed the street and entered Central Park. "I've been properly
trimmed by a perfumed wop and a squinting yap," he thought with
intense amusement. "But we're well clear of them for good."
* * * * *
The park was wintry and unattractive. Few pedestrians were abroad, but
motors sparkled along distant drives in the sunshine.
Presently his way ran parallel to one of these drives. And he had been
walking only a little while when a limousine veered in, slowing down
abreast of him, and he saw a white-gloved hand tapping the pane.
He felt himself turning red as he went up, hat in hand, to open the
door and speak to the girl inside.
"What on earth are you doing?" she demanded, laughingly, "--walking
all by your wild lone in the park on a wintry day!"
He explained. She made room for him and he got in.
"We rather hoped you'd be at the opera last night," she said, but
without any reproach in her voice.
"I meant to go, Elorn--but something came up to prevent it," he added,
flushing again. "Were they singing anything new?"
"Yes, but you missed nothing," she reassured him lightly. "Where on
earth have you kept yourself these last weeks? One sees you no more
among the haunts of men."
He said, in the deplorable argot of the hour: "Oh, I'm off all that
social stuff."
"But I'm not social stuff, am I?"
"No. I've meant to call you up. Something always seems to happen--I
don't know, Elorn, but ever since I came back from France I haven't
been up to seeing people."
She glanced at him curiously.
He sat gazing out of the window, where there was nothing to see except
leafless trees and faded grass and starlings and dingy sparrows.
The girl was more worth his attention--one of those New York examples,
built on lean, rangy, thoroughbred lines--long limbed, small of hand
and foot and head, with cinder-blond hair, greyish eyes, a sweet but
too generous mouth, and several noticeable freckles.
Minute grooming and a sure taste gave her that ultra-smart appearance
which does everything for a type that is less attractive in a dinner
gown, and still less in negligee. And which, after marriage, usually
lets a straight strand of hair sprawl across one ear.
But now, coiffeur, milliner, modiste, and her own maiden cleverness
kept her immaculate--the true Gotham model found nowhere else.
They chatted of parties already past, where he had failed to
materialise, and of parties to come, where she hoped he would appear.
And he said he would.
They chatted about their friends and the gossip concerning them.
Traffic on Fifth Avenue was rather worse than usual. The competent
police did their best, but motors and omnibuses, packed solidly, moved
only by short spurts before being checked again.
"It's after one o'clock," she said, glancing at her tiny platinum
wrist-watch. "Here's Delmonico's, Jim. Shall we lunch together?"
He experienced a second's odd hesitation, then: "Certainly," he said.
And she signalled the chauffeur.
The place was beginning to be crowded, but there was a table on the
Fifth Avenue side.
As they crossed the crowded room toward it, women looked up at Elorn
Sharrow, instantly aware that they saw perfection in hat, gown and
fur, and a face and figure not to be mistaken for any imitation of the
Gotham type.
She wore silver fox--just a stole and muff. Every feminine eye
realised their worth.
When they were seated:
"I want," she said gaily, "some consomme and a salad. You, of course,
require the usual nourishment of the carnivora."
But it seemed not. However, he ordered a high-ball, feeling curiously
depressed. Then he addressed himself to making the hour agreeable,
conscious, probably, that reparation was overdue.
Friends from youthful dancing-class days, these two had plenty to
gossip about; and gradually he found himself drifting back into the
lively, refreshing, piquant intimacy of yesterday. And realised that
it was very welcome.
For, about this girl, always a clean breeze seemed to be blowing; and
the atmosphere invariably braced him up.
And she was always responsive, whether or not agreeing with his views;
and he was usually conscious of being at his best with her. Which
means much to any man.
So she dissected her pear-salad, and he enjoyed his whitebait, and
they chatted away on the old footing, quite oblivious of people around
them.
Elorn was having a very happy time of it. People thought her
captivating now--freckles, mouth and all--and every man there envied
the fortunate young fellow who was receiving such undivided attention
from a girl like this.
But whether in Elorn's heart there really existed all the gaiety that
laughed at him out of her grey eyes, is a question. Because it seemed
to her that, at moments, a recurrent shadow fell across his face. And
there were, now and then, seconds suggesting preoccupation on his
part, when it seemed to her that his gaze grew remote and his smile a
trifle absent-minded.
* * * * *
She was drawing on her gloves; he had scribbled his signature across
the back of the check. Then, as he lifted his head to look for their
waiter, he found himself staring into the brown eyes of Palla Dumont.
The heavy flush burnt his face--burnt into it, so it seemed to him.
She was only two tables distant. When he bowed, her smile was the
slightest; her nod coolly self-possessed. She was wearing orchids.
There seemed to be a girl with her whom he did not know.
Why the sudden encounter should have upset him so--why the quiet glance
Elorn bestowed upon Palla should have made him more uncomfortable
still, he could not understand.
He lighted a cigarette.
"A wonderfully pretty girl," said Elorn serenely. "I mean the girl you
bowed to."
"Yes, she is very charming."
"Who is she, Jim?"
"I met her on the steamer coming back. She is a Miss Dumont."
Elorn's smile was a careless dismissal of further interest. But in her
heart perplexity and curiosity contended with concern. For she had
seen Jim's face. And had wondered.
He laid away his half-consumed cigarette. She was quite ready to go.
She rose, and he laid the stole around her shoulders. She picked up
her muff.
As she passed through the narrow aisle, she permitted herself a casual
side-glance at this girl in black; and Palla looked up at her, kept
her quietly in range of her brown eyes to the limit of breeding, then
her glance dropped as Jim passed; and he heard her speaking serenely
to the girl beside her.
At the revolving doors, Elorn said: "Shall I drop you at the office,
Jim?"
"Thanks--if you don't mind."
In the car he talked continually, not very entertainingly, but there
was more vivacity about him than there had been.
"Are you doing anything to-night?" he inquired.
She was, of course. Yet, she felt oddly relieved that he had asked
her.... But the memory of the strange expression in his face persisted
in her mind.
Who was this girl with whom he had crossed the ocean? And why should
he lose his self-possession on unexpectedly encountering her?
Had there been anything about Palla--the faintest hint of inferiority
of any sort--Elorn Sharrow could have dismissed the episode with
proud, if troubled, philosophy. For many among her girl friends had
cub brothers. And the girl had learned that men are men--sometimes
even the nicest--although she could not understand it.
But this brown-eyed girl in black was evidently her own sort--Jim's
sort. And that preoccupied her; and she lent only an inattentive ear
to the animated monologue of the man beside her.
Before the offices of Sharrow & Co. her car stopped.
"I'm sorry, Jim," she said, "that I'm so busy this week. But we ought
to meet at many places, unless you continue to play the recluse. Don't
you really go anywhere any more?"
"No. But I'm going," he said bluntly.
"Please do. And call me up sometimes. Take a sporting chance whenever
you're free. We ought to get in an hour together now and then. You're
coming to my dance of course, are you not?"
"Of course I am."
The girl smiled in her sweet, generous way and gave him her hand
again.
And he went into the office feeling rather miserable and beginning to
realise why.
For in spite of what he had said to Palla about the wisdom of
absenting himself, the mere sight of her had instantly set him afire.
And now he wanted to see her--needed to see her. A day was too long to
pass without seeing her. An evening without her--and another--and
others, appalled him.
And all the afternoon he thought of her, his mind scarcely on his
business at all.
* * * * *
His parents were dining at home. He was very gay that evening--very
amusing in describing his misadventures with Messrs. Puma and Skidder.
But his mother appeared to be more interested in the description of
his encounter with Elorn.
"She's such a dear," she said. "If you go to the Speedwells' dinner on
Thursday you'll see her again. You haven't declined, I hope; have you,
Jim?"
It appeared that he had.
"If you drop out of things this way nobody will bother to ask you
anywhere after a while. Don't you know that, dear?" she said. "This
town forgets overnight."
"I suppose so, mother. I'll keep up."
His father remarked that it was part of his business to know the sort
of people who bought houses.
Jim agreed with him. "I'll surely kick in again," he promised
cheerfully.... "I think I'll go to the club this evening."
His mother smiled. It was a healthy sign. Also, thank goodness, there
were no girls in black at the club.
At the club he resolutely passed the telephone booths and even got as
far as the cloak room before he hesitated.
Then, very slowly, he retraced his steps; went into the nearest booth,
and called a number that seemed burnt into his brain. Palla answered.
"Are you doing anything, dear?" he asked--his usual salutation.
"Oh. It's you!" she said calmly.
"It is. Who else calls you dear? May I come around for a little
while?"
"Have you forgotten what you----"
"No! May I come?"
"Not if you speak to me so curtly, Jim."
"I'm sorry."
She deliberated so long that her silence irritated him.
"If you don't want me," he said, "please say so."
"I certainly don't want you if you are likely to be ill-tempered,
Jim."
"I'm not ill-tempered.... I'll tell you what's the trouble if I may
come. May I?"
"Is anything troubling you?"
"Of course."
"I'm so sorry!"
"Am I to come?"
"Yes."
She herself admitted him. He laid his hat and coat on a chair in the
hall and followed her upstairs to the living-room.
When she had seated herself she looked up at him interrogatively,
awaiting his pleasure. He stood a moment with his back to the fire,
his hands twisting nervously behind him. Then:
"My trouble," he explained naively, "is that I am restless and unhappy
when I remain away from you."
The girl laughed. "But, Jim, you seemed to be having a perfectly good
time at Delmonico's this noon."
He reddened and gave her a disconcerted look.
"I don't see," she added, "why any man shouldn't have a good time
with such an attractive girl. May I ask who she is?"
"Elorn Sharrow," he replied bluntly.
Palla's glance had sometimes wandered over social columns in the
papers and periodicals, and she was not ignorant concerning the
identity and local importance of Miss Sharrow.
She looked up curiously at Jim. He was so very good to look at!
Better, even, to know. And Miss Sharrow was his kind. They had seemed
to belong together. And it came to Palla, hazily, and for the first
time, that she herself seemed to belong nowhere in particular in the
scheme of things.
But that was quite all right. She had now established for herself a
habitation. She had some friends--would undoubtedly make others. She
had her interests, her peace of mind, and her independence. And behind
her she had the dear and tragic past--a passionate memory of a dead
girl; a terrible remembrance of a dead God.
The heart of the world alone could make up to her these losses. For
now she was already preparing to seek it in her own way, under her own
Law of Love.
"Jim," she said almost timidly, "I have not intended to make you
unhappy. Don't you understand that?"
He seated himself: she lighted a cigarette for him.
"I suppose you can't help doing it," he said glumly.
"I really can't, it seems. I don't love you. I wish I did."
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course I do.... I wish I were in love with you."
After a moment she said: "I told you how much I care for you. But--if
you think it is easier for you--not to see me----"
"I can't seem to stay away."
"I'm glad you can't--for my sake; but I'm troubled on your account. I
do so adore to be with you! But--but if----"
"Hang it all!" he exclaimed, forcing a wry smile. "I act like an
unbaked fool! You've gone to my head, Palla, and I behave like a
drunken kid.... I'll buck up. I've got to. I'm not the blithering,
balmy, moon-eyed, melancholy ass you think me----"
Her quick laughter rang clear, and his echoed it, rather uncertainly.
"You poor dear," she said, "you're nearest my heart of anybody. I told
you so. It's only that one thing I don't dare do."
He nodded.
"Can't you really understand that I'm afraid?"
"Afraid!" he repeated. "I should think you might be, considering your
astonishing point of view. I should think you'd be properly scared to
death!"
"I am. No girl, afraid, should ever take such a chance. Love and Fear
cannot exist together. The one always slays the other."
He looked at her curiously, remembering what Estridge had told him
about her--how, on that terrible day in the convent chapel, this
girl's love had truly slain the fear within her as she faced the Red
assassins and offered to lay down her life for her friend. Than which,
it is said, there is no greater love....
"Of what are you thinking?" she asked, watching his expression.
"Of you--you strange, generous, fearless, wilful girl!" Then he
squared his shoulders and shook them as though freeing himself of
something oppressive.
"What you _may_ need is a spanking!" he suggested coolly.
"Good heavens, Jim!----"
"But I'm afraid you're not likely to get it. And what is going to
happen to you--and to me--I don't know--I don't know, Palla."
"May I prophesy?"
"Go to it, Miriam."
"Behold, then: I shall never care for any man more than I care now
for you; I shall never care more for you than I do now.... And
if you are sweet-tempered and sensible, we shall be very happy
with each other.... Even after you marry.... Unless your wife
misunderstands----"
"My wife!" he repeated derisively.
"Miss Sharrow, for instance."
He turned a dull red; the girl's heart missed a beat, then hurried a
little before it calmed again under her cool recognition and instant
disdain of the first twinge of jealousy she could remember since
childhood.
The absurdity of it, too! After all, it was this man's destiny to
marry. And, if it chanced to be that girl----
"You know," he said in a detached, musing way, "it is well for you to
remember that I shall never marry unless I marry you.... Life is long.
There are other women.... I may forget you--at intervals.... But I
shall never marry except with you, Palla."
Her smile forced the gravity from her lips and eyes:
"If you behave like a veiled prophet you'll end by scaring me," she
said.
But he merely gathered her into his arms and kissed her--laid back her
head and looked down into her face and kissed her lips, without haste,
as though she belonged to him.
Her head rested quite motionless on his shoulder. Perhaps she was
still too taken aback to do anything about the matter. Her heart had
hurried a little--not much--stimulated, possibly, by the rather
agreeable curiosity which invaded her--charmingly expressive, now, in
her wide brown eyes.
"So that's the way of it," he concluded, still looking down at her.
"There are other women in the world. And life is long. But I marry you
or nobody. And it's my opinion that I shall not die unmarried."
She smiled defiantly.
"You don't seem to think much of my opinions," she said.
"Are you more friendly to mine?"
"Certain opinions of yours," he retorted, "originated in the diseased
bean of some crazy Russian--never in your mind! So of course I hold
them in contempt."
She saw his face darken, watched it a moment, then impulsively drew
his head down against hers.
"I do care for your opinions," she said, her cheek, delicately warm,
beside his. "So, even if you can not comprehend mine, be generous to
them. I'm sincere. I try to be honest. If you differ from me, do it
kindly, not contemptuously. For there is no such thing as 'noble
contempt!' There is respectability in anger and nobility in tolerance.
But none in disdain, for they are contradictions."
"I tell you," he said, "I despise and hate this loose socialistic
philosophy that makes a bonfire of everything the world believes in!"
"Don't hate other creeds; merely conform to your own, Jim. It will
keep you very, very busy. And give others a chance to live up to their
beliefs."
He felt the smile on her lips and cheek:
"I can't live up to my belief if I marry you," she said. "So let us
care for each other peacefully--accepting each other as we are. Life
is long, as you say.... And there are other women.... And ultimately
you will marry one of them. But until then----"
He felt her lips very lightly against his--cool young lips, still and
fragrant and sweet.
After a moment she asked him to release her; and she rose and walked
across the room to the mirror.
Still busy with her hair, she turned partly toward him:
"Apropos of nothing," she said, "a man was exceedingly impudent to me
on the street this evening. A Russian, too. I was so annoyed!"
"What do you mean?"
"It happened just as I started to ascend the steps.... There was a man
there, loitering. I supposed he meant to beg. So I felt for my purse,
but he jumped back and began to curse me roundly for an aristocrat and
a social parasite!"
"What did he say?"
"I was so amazed--quite stupefied. And all the while he was swearing
at me in Russian and in English, and he warned me to keep away from
Marya and Vanya and Ilse and mind my own damned business. And he said,
also, that if I didn't there were people in New York who knew how to
deal with any friend of the Russian aristocracy."
She patted a curly strand of hair into place, and came toward him in
her leisurely, lissome way.
"Fancy the impertinence of that wretched Red! And I understand that
both Vanya and Marya have received horribly insulting letters. And
Ilse, also. Isn't it most annoying?"
She seated herself at the piano and absently began the Adagio of the
famous sonata.