The Marchesa, as might have been expected, descended upon Melissa at
once--upon the afternoon of the day following the supper-party, to be
exact--in pursuit of explanations, and with recrimination in her eye.
“Well,” said she, directly the door had closed and Melissa had
courteously drawn forward a chair for her. “I will say--I was never so
disgusted with a woman in all my life! And for _me_--my good girl--that
is saying quite a bit. Quite--a--bit! What in the world was the matter
with you? You might have been a Quaker. Not that you looked it--I
haven’t a word to say about the way you looked ... all that black and
flesh-color--excellent! Extremely seductive--without being vulgar! But
your conversation--I flatter you by giving it such a name! The merest
school-girl monosyllables. Not a particle of charm ... not a flicker of
esprit ... not a shimmer of wit ... not a vestige of allure! Will you
tell me--” demanded the Marchesa, wagging a furious little forefinger
under Melissa’s nose--“how you expect to captivate any man, with no
more effort than you put forth last night? Do you expect Roderick to
fall into your lap?... Without your lifting a finger? Do you intend....”
“Please!” said Melissa, desperately.
“Well?” said the Marchesa and sat glaring.
“I was not trying--” said Melissa, “to captivate--any one.”
“Quite obvious!” the Marchesa snapped out and blew her nose and sniffed
in ungoverned contempt. “If it hadn’t been for me--he’d never have
looked at you twice--as it is--you’ll have to exert yourself to keep
the ground I gained for you. When I think what the two of us could
do--with my brain and your looks--with my experience and your youth ...
nom d’un nom d’un nom!” shrilled the Marchesa suddenly in a passion of
impotent annoyance ... “it is enough to infuriate a saint! Which I am
not--and never was, I’m glad to say!” The last reflection soothed her
somewhat. She cackled briefly on the heels of it and sat looking at
Melissa for reply.
Melissa, hands tightly folded in her lap, looked back. Without a word.
“Well--” said the Marchesa imperiously, “for a young woman whose
constant conversation in delirium--when one is supposed to be frank,
if ever--was of one man--who broke her engagement to another man,
deliberately,--in order only to ... I will say, Melissa--that your
behavior last night was--utterly ridiculous! How do you explain it?
Come!...”
“I do not explain it,” said Melissa, low-voiced and unhappy.
The Marchesa shook out the folds of one of her absurd little
handkerchiefs and crossed her wrists and ankles.
“Oh, yes, you do!” she corrected. “Don’t forget--I was to know
everything--at once! If there’s anything connected with Roderick’s
return which you have not told me ... if I have not your entire
confidence, you are not living up to the spirit of our agreement. Isn’t
that so?”
“Yes,” said Melissa, “that is so.”
“Ha!” said the Marchesa in triumph. “You have a sense of honor, I
admit. It’s as rare in a woman as thorns on a violet--and almost as
unnecessary ... however--I appeal to it in the present instance! I wish
you to tell me--why, having been mad to meet Roderick in the first
place--completely obsessed with the thought of him--you behave, when
you do meet him, as if he were--of no importance whatsoever--any casual
acquaintance--just an average young man--in brief--nobody!”
Melissa’s thoughts swarmed and settled like bees--a thousand potential
stings. Her head was heavy with want of sleep--with endless and futile
conjecture. She said in a sudden mad desire to destroy the web which
her own folly had woven about her.... “Suppose I told you--it was
because--your nephew when I came to meet him--was not--Mister Roderick
... at all....”
The Marchesa stared for a long moment. Then broke into the thinnest of
reassuring cachinnations.
“He _has_ gotten a bit stout,” she admitted. “And that blond amiable
type seems to lose its hair very early, somehow. I have given Roderick
my own tonic--(from a marvelous Frenchman, the best hairdresser in
Paris) ... and implored him to use it ... but he’s simply too lazy.
However--my dear--do you mean to say--you can’t be such a ridiculous
idealist! He’s just what he always was--an utter dear--with a nice
sense of humor ... and if he _is_ going a bit bald and taking on
weight, why all the more reason why you’ll never be worried with other
women ... surely that’s an advantage!”
Melissa sat mute--without hope. Before a cul-de-sac ... a blind alley.
No good trying to tell--what she hadn’t even a picture to substantiate.
Obviously, no good exposing her heart for the fleshing of the
Marchesa’s talons, merely.
She said more cautiously--poor Melissa, who had no longer any room for
scorn!... “He is very charming. I’m sorry I was so--stupid--last night.”
“There!” said the Marchesa ... “that’s more like it!” Actually she
leaned over and patted Melissa’s arm. Actually the hawk-eyes seemed to
soften. “I’m very fond of Roderick,” his aunt admitted with, for her,
unbelievable simplicity. “I always have been. He’s a fool--but he’s a
sweet fool. He has a wonderful nature. I’d like to see him married.
He might not enjoy it--but it would be good for him. I don’t want
him to be lonely--when he’s older ...” she looked down at her small
wrinkled hands where diamonds burned coldly on ashen flesh,--“when he’s
older--he may want some one....”
The telephone rang. Melissa rose to answer it.
“So--if that’s Roderick,” the Marchesa finished hurriedly--“and I
dare say it is ... he seemed in spite of everything last night, to be
tremendously taken with you ... why--don’t be absurd, Melissa ... tell
him to come up!”
Melissa couldn’t very well tell Roderick to come up, because he wasn’t
near enough. He was telephoning, he said, from his club, and he wanted
to know how she did. Very well, Melissa thanked him and succeeded in
sounding appreciative, so that the Marchesa, listening avidly, nodded
approval and gestured for further by-play.
“I wish,” said Roderick, “you’d consider dining with me, to-night....”
Melissa considered, motionless.
“What on earth!” hissed the Marchesa, “he’ll think you’ve fainted--stop
staring ... and tell him you’ll do whatever he likes!”
Melissa turned back to the mouthpiece.
“I will do,” she said softly but clearly, “whatever you like.”
A smile twitched the corners of her mouth. Her eyes smoldered.
Roderick said he couldn’t ask for more.
“You shan’t have less,” said Melissa.
The Marchesa applauded in dumb-show. Her old eyes lightened like sparks
through smoke.
“At seven?” asked Roderick. He could be heard, a choppy kind of
crackle, beyond the instrument.
“At seven--” said Melissa.
“Is it dinner?” demanded the Marchesa, hushed but insistent. “Tell him
you’ll drive to some place up the river--no atmosphere in town....”
“Can’t we drive--” asked Melissa sweetly, “to some place up the
river...? There’s no air left in town.”
The Marchesa snickered, and settled her hat at a smarter angle.
“Ra-ther!” said Roderick. “You don’t know how I’m looking forward to
seeing you--”
“That’s very nice of you,” said Melissa.
“Say--‘_I_, too!’” whispered the Marchesa, pulling forward the curl
above her left ear.
“I too,” said Melissa--and broke the connection before Roderick could
speak again.
“Was it something,” inquired the Marchesa eagerly--“about his hating to
have to wait--till to-night?”
“Something to that effect,” said Melissa.
The Marchesa adjusted the inevitable black velvet neck-band and drew
the tip of her little finger delicately along her lower lip.
“They don’t change very much,” she observed with an arch slow
smile,--“the cliches of emotion!”