"You sent for me, so I have come," Iglesias said, for Poppy St. John,
usually so voluble, just now appeared speechless.
From the moment he had become aware of her presence in the theatre,
Dominic had been sensible that she presented herself under a new
aspect. Of the many different Poppys he had seen, this was by far the
most powerful and dramatic. She stood out from the rest of the audience
as some splendid tropic flower stands out from a thick-set mass of
foliage, conspicuous in form and colour and in promise. There were
handsome women, smart women, beautifully dressed women in plenty, but
Poppy did not shade in with all these, making but part of a general
effect. She remained unique, solitary; and this not merely on account
of her vivid raiment. The effect of her told upon the mind quite as
much as upon the sight. Yet she did not look out of place. She looked,
indeed, preeminently at home. Out of doors, in the country sunshine,
she had struck Dominic as a slight creature, unreal and fictitious.
Here, amid highly artificial and conventional surroundings, she seemed
to him the most natural and vital being present, retaining the
completeness of her individuality, the energy and mystery of it alike,
almost aggressively evident and untouched. Iglesias ceased to consider
her in relation to his and her broken friendship, or in relation to
that which he so reluctantly divined of her private life. He
contemplated her in herself, finding an element of things primitive in
her, which commanded his admiration, though it failed, so far, to touch
his heart. And if this was the impression he received seeing her at a
comparative distance, that impression was greatly intensified seeing
her now at close quarters. The contrast between the subtle softness and
the flare--as of a conflagration--of her dress, the weariness of her
attitude, and the unfathomable melancholy of her eyes, stirred him
profoundly.
"Yes," she answered quietly, almost coldly, "I know I sent. This was
about the last place I should have expected to run across you. I
flattered myself I was safe enough here. I didn't wish to meet you one
little bit. Still, when I did see you, I wanted you. You're the most
plaguey impossible person to rid oneself of somehow"--her voice and
manner softened a little--"so I sent for you. I don't know why, because
now I've got you I seem to have changed my mind. I have nothing to say."
"I can easily go," Iglesias remarked gravely.
"No, no, no," she replied, "why should you hurry? I'm sure those two
freaks you're herding--the beetle turned hind-side before and the
withered leaf--can't be frantically interesting. And I like to look at
you. I never saw you before in evening dress, and you're more _grand
seigneur_ than ever. But something's happened to you. I can't tell
off-hand what it is, whether you've come on or gone back. But you're
altered."
"I have had an illness," Iglesias said simply; "and I have been very
unhappy."
"Neither of those are good enough," Poppy answered. "The alteration is
right inside you, in your soul. But you're well again now?" she added.
"Yes, I am well again now."
"And you're no longer unhappy?"
"No," he said. "I am sad, for life is sad; but I am no longer unhappy."
"That's a nice distinction," Poppy put in, with a rather scornful
inflection. "What's cured your unhappiness? Not an affair of the heart?
Please don't tell me it's anything to do with a woman, for I warn you
I'm awfully off the affections to-night."
"You can make yourself quite easy on that point," Dominic said with a
lift of the head, his native pride asserting itself.
"Ah! that's more like old times!" Poppy's voice softened again, so did
the expression of her face. "Suppose you sit down, dear lunatic. This
wait is a long one, I know. Dot Parris told me it was. Let the freaks
play about together for a little. It will do them good. And I find I
wanted you rather more than I knew at first. I'm beginning to have
something to say after all. Words, only words, perhaps; still it's a
_soulagement_ to sit here with you like this." The corners of Poppy's
mouth drooped and quivered. "I'm having an infernally bad time; and
there's worse ahead."
"I am sorry. I am grieved," Iglesias said. For the charm had begun to
work again, and friendship, as he began to know, although
broken-winged, was very far from dead.
"We won't talk about that," she put in, "or I might make a fool of
myself. Dear man, I think I'd better go home. I'm awfully tired. Still,
I'm better for seeing you." She stood up. "Just help me on with my
coat. Thanks--that's right. Oh! I say, there are the freaks on the
prowl, looking for you!" Poppy's tragic eyes turned naughty, malicious,
gay even for a moment. "What sport!" she said--"unhappy freaks! The
withered leaf has intentions. I see that. She'd like to eat me without
salt. Don't marry her--promise me you won't. Ah! heavenly, heavenly,"
she cried. "I need no promises, bless you. Your face is quite enough.
Wretched withered leaf! But look here," she went on, as she gathered
the soft warm garment about her, "I'm tired of your incognito. Give me
your card. I may want you again. So let me have your name and address."
And Iglesias giving it to her as she requested, she studied it for a
minute silently. Then she turned away.
"I want nothing more. Don't come down with me. One of the boys will get
me a hansom. I'd rather be alone; so just go back to your flabbergasted
freaks, beloved and no-longer-nameless one," she said.