Crawl Hill, when at last they reached it, proved to be a tall frowning
old house, whose once considerable grounds had shrunk to a mere wisp
of withered lawn. Within they breathed a heavy mustiness. It was a bit
ghostly, too—decidedly a place to be visited by daylight.
And as for the little adventure—well, it didn’t, after all, lapse at
the door. Mr. Curry, as they moved on together through the crowd, told
himself there was nothing so very unusual in their having met like this.
He was always meeting people—was a Bohemian—freely admitted it. But was
this lady a Bohemian also? And who was she? He was on the verge of
learning, and the method was rather happy.
It chanced that somewhat apart from the throng stood a satin-wood console
of the French Renaissance period, on which reposed an ornate silver
card tray. She liked the tray—“not that one would really _want_ it, you
know, for of course it is a little ‘overdone’; but it reminds one of
the _Victorians_—doesn’t it?—and I think there was much to _admire_ in
them, although it has become the fashion to sneer at their dust-catching
‘ideas.’”
And the tray gave Mr. Curry an unexpected cue. He smiled and drew out his
wallet, then, selecting one of his cards, tossed it humorously down. Her
eyes lighted quickly, and, without a word, she brought out one of her
own, too, and placed it beside his on the tray. Then they stood there
side by side, like two absurd children, reading each other’s cards. Hers
was very modest and simple: Flora Utterbourne, with no address. But his,
being so ambitious, not to say overwhelming an affair, naturally called
for a small smiling effusion on her part.
“I know you by ‘reputation,’ though I’ve never had the pleasure
of attending one of your _performances_. It’s always sounded so
_interesting_!”
And then—well, then he just plunged in and began telling her all about
the world tour; and she suggested they sit down “in those delightful
Lorenzo di Medici _chairs_;” no one would object, she was sure; and
if they wanted to sell the chairs before he had finished telling her
about the world tour, why then they would just move over to “that
‘Huguenot’ bench in the hall, which is _sure_ not to be ‘put up,’” she
laughed, “until quite the last _thing_!” So they sat in the Lorenzo
di Medici chairs while the auction hummed on about them, and he
opened his ardent heart, and she followed everything he said with an
immense facial responsiveness. (Sometimes people found this a trifle
disconcerting, because her feeling about whatever you were saying had a
way of seeming just a bit stronger than your own.) And, in her large,
rich, impulsive way she would keep interrupting him with fragments of
delighted appreciation. “By _Schooner_!” for instance: “but this is the
most amazing thing I ever _heard_ of!” Or again: “No crew, but a fresh
coat of paint!” She could grasp the essential high points of humour in
a situation and bring them together; yet there was nothing the least
satirical or mocking. The impresario felt on friendly turf, and deluged
her with eager, bustling words. He became inspired, impassioned. He
gestured a little wildly. But she found it all wildness with an appealing
tang, and rejoiced in the current of his really electric enthusiasm. When
he had finished, his whole eloquent person relaxed slowly. Mr. Curry was
like a superb engine, which couldn’t be expected to cool off just in a
minute.