After that Stella thought of course he would leave her and find some one
else on whom to spend his superlative charms. It seemed incredible he
shouldn’t. But instead he gave her his ceremonious arm again and escorted
her to a romantic, shadowy nook, and sat down beside her. And it was
then, for the first time, that Stella dared think he might be growing
really interested in her.
“He must be impressed!” she thought, thrilling more than ever.
“Perhaps....” But she dared not, even in secret, tempt herself with
all the delirious possibilities that crowded her brain just then.
King leaned a little toward her as she sat excitedly opening and shutting
Elsa’s fan in her lap.
“You must feel warm, even though you don’t show it,” he said, smiling
gallantly. “Let me fan you.” And when she had surrendered the fan, with a
delighted, coquettish gesture, Mr. King began waving it slowly back and
forth as he talked—not really stirring up a great deal of breeze, but
beautifully establishing an atmosphere of coolness and languor.
“You can imagine you’re an Egyptian princess, and I’m one of those nice
glossy black slaves, with a fan of papyrus or ostrich plumes—what is it
they use?”
“Oh, dear,” replied Stella in a very worldly tone, “I’m afraid I don’t
know, really!” She laughed a brief, happy laugh, and, after a little more
appropriate repartee, she insisted: “I’m sure your arm must be getting
tired. Suppose the Egyptian princess tells her slave he may stop fanning
her until ...”
“Until after she’s danced again?”
Too late Stella realized she had gauchely precipitated a second
invitation. But he seemed genuinely to welcome it (“That’s a divine
waltz,” he observed irreproachably) and anyhow she couldn’t resist
appearing on the floor again with him. As they danced she could hardly
help noticing how people watched them. It was a delicious sensation.
Fortunate for her he had come late—too late to fill his card. Normally,
she guessed, it wouldn’t require much exertion on his part!
And still he didn’t leave her. Jesting merrily they went about in search
of another shadowy nook, and when they had found one to their liking, sat
down and resumed their talk. Of course in talk they didn’t go beneath
those superficial currents which sociologists tell us are essential to
mutual soundings-out within the herd. One talks of the weather or the
high cost of everything, or if one is especially gifted, perhaps, one
talks about Egyptian princesses—and all the while keeps his ears alert
for that “low growl” which shall warn him he is in the wrong pew. But
behold! there was no low growl. She heard none, he heard none. And yet it
would seem as though these two: this girl in revolt against life and this
the most fascinating man at the ball, must belong in very widely severed
pews indeed.
“Where is your home, Mr. King?” she asked.
“Ah, how shall I answer?” he cried in mock consternation. “I’m afraid
I’ve become a kind of permanent tramp—travelling a lot and—well, jogging
about generally.”
“Abroad?” she asked, clasping her hands but making otherwise a valiant
effort not to be overcome with awe.
“Pretty much all over the globe,” he admitted. “I’ve whistled up the sun
sitting astride the pyramids; I’ve strummed a ukulele on the beach at
Waikiki; I’ve dabbled a bit at Monte Carlo; I’ve sipped tea with little
doll-like geisha girls in Yokohama. What haven’t I done, and where
haven’t I been?” He looked honestly almost appalled at his own wealth of
experience; and she hung on his words, her face responsive to the thrill
in her heart.
A little later on they were speaking of the earthquake and how the city
had developed out of calamity. And then, since she had quoted, in this
connection, something her father had said, and since they were on the
subject of business generally Mr. King suggested: “May I ask what your
father’s business is?”
And Stella—unhappy Stella. She ran her fingers nervously along the
feathers of the fan in her lap, and was silent for just a moment, the old
rebellion, impotent but hot, bringing its flush to her face. Then slowly
she raised her eyes to his, unexpectedly found in them the inspiration
she had missed elsewhere, and replied quite frankly, with the same sort
of candour that had slipped in more than once already: “My father’s
business is harness.”
Did he hear a growl? Was he in the wrong pew? Destiny seemed to hold her
breath. But if there was any growl now it was so faint as to recommend
no drastic alarums and excursions. “Harness—ah.” That was all. And he
went on in the same gracefully adjusted tone: “Perhaps not quite so much
demand, but still an important item.” And he added, breaking into the
more general field the topic seemed prompting: “I like a good horse. I
suppose you ride, Miss Meade?”
“Oh—occasionally,” she replied, her face still slightly flushed with
suppressed rebellion, but smiling with that attempt at archness she told
herself the situation required. “Occasionally”—yet what she really meant
was a long time ago; for it was highly possible the staid old family
horse, used only for driving now, might expire of amazement were Stella
to take a notion to mount.
“It would give me ever so much pleasure if I might call. May I?” He
looked very worldly and pleading over the conventional request.
And then—ah, but one knows in advance what she must say, and one sees
most clearly, at length, how it was that she forgot the supper dance
entirely.
Here seemed the dawn of a wonderful dream indeed—as though gates were
suddenly opening in her life. She responded to Ferdinand King in waves
of delirium. Just once she thought of Jerome; and his defects, under the
warm spell of beauty which surrounded her now, turned him into almost a
caricature. Jerome and Mr. King! She forgot herself and laughed aloud;
then, flushing, made her head toss flirtingly and pretended she had been
thinking of something else entirely.
Well, in truth, the contrast would be nothing short of striking; for at
this stage of his career Ferdinand King was in the finest prime of his
incontestible fascination. He was about forty, with rich plumy hair,
white at either temple. His face, so arrestingly handsome, was just a
little too ruddy, perhaps, to allow any one’s crediting his destiny with
never having wooed the heartening cup. His mouth was almost a perfect
“cupid’s bow.” A very grand, big, daring, gallant, adventurous sort of
man, who appeared altogether superb in evening clothes, and would make
a magnificent perpetual best man at fashionable weddings. One at once
associated him with gardenias and teacups; yet there was always that
indefinable grandness and air of _difference_ about him which made the
man seem far indeed from any mere usual type of social flâneur. A gay
old dog, though a mature and worldly and white-templed dog, too—which
from the beginning of the world, has been the most fascinating type to be
encountered.