ON SUNDAY AT THREE
"Oh, by the way, Miss Marks," said Marise, "you needn't trouble to read
my letters this morning. I--er--slept badly, and I'm up at such an
unearthly hour, I might as well go through them myself."
She spoke from the doorway between her bedroom and the salon, where Miss
Marks, her secretary, was taking off gloves and hat before getting to
work; and she had on the boudoir gown of mousseline de soie and
swansdown sent by the Great Unknown a week ago. This was the first time
she had worn it, and Miss Marks's eyes sent forth a flash which might
mean admiration or jealousy, or both. Marise diagnosed the emotion as
jealousy. If she were right, she was sorry for the girl, who, though
handsome, could not compare with her, and who, though very intelligent,
was only a stenographer, at about twenty-five: two years older than she,
who was already a brilliant star!
This thought was but a flash, brief as the flash in the secretary's
eyes, for instantly the mind of Marise turned to the letters. Thank
goodness she was in time! Another three minutes, and she might have been
too late. Miss Marks would by then have begun her first task of the day:
opening letters and sorting them, placing requests for autographs and
photos in one pile, pleas for money in a second, demands for advice or
help about going on the stage in a third, and so on. Who could tell if
the one envelope whose contents no eye but Marise Sorel's should see
mightn't lie at the very top?
As a matter of fact, it did not lie at the top. It was nearer the
bottom, and long before she found it Marise had begun to fear that it
didn't exist.
The trying part was that the envelopes told her nothing. She had to cut
or tear open each one, unless she recognised the handwriting of the
address, and could then throw it aside till later. She went through the
business curled up on a sofa, sitting on one foot, which showed among
snowdrifts of swansdown. It was a stockingless foot, thrust into a
silver _mule_ lined with blue velvet; and her skin was satin smooth and
creamy pink as the inside of a conch shell. Miss Marks noticed this, and
noticed also how long and thick was the plait of yellow-brown hair that
dangled over the sofa-back, its curling end within a few inches of the
floor. She smiled faintly as she saw how fast her employer worked, and
how she tossed the letters aside after a fevered glance at each. Marise
was quite right. Miss Marks was very intelligent! She knew, almost as
well as if she had been told the whole story, just why Miss Sorel had
got up at so "unearthly an hour" this morning.
"Ah, now she's found the one she didn't want me to see!" the dark girl
said to herself, as the face of Marise turned suddenly pink, and bent
over a letter which she read through twice from beginning to end. Then,
lest she should be caught staring, Miss Marks began to arrange her
newly-sharpened pencils and the writing-pad on which she would take
down, in shorthand, letters dictated by Miss Sorel.
She need not, however, have troubled herself with these elaborate
precautions. Miss Sorel was interested in and puzzled by this handsome
young Jewess with the burning eyes and wet-coral lips; but for the
moment Miss Marks's very existence was forgotten.
The letter had come, as Marise hoped it might, on this the second day of
her advertisement; but the mystery remained unsolved. Indeed, it was
purposely kept up, for the thick parchment paper had neither initial nor
address. The few words on the first page were unsigned, and only one
secret was given away: but to Marise this was of great importance. The
strong, black handwriting was certainly that of a man. She would have
turned sick with chagrin at sight of a woman's penmanship.
"It is I who have to thank you, not you me," she read. "You are
very kind to invite me to call, and say I must come soon. I
will take you at your word. Unless I hear to the contrary
through a second 'personal' in the _New York Record_, I will
ask for you at the Plaza Hotel at three o'clock next Sunday
afternoon."
This was all, and Marise hardly knew whether to be pleased or
disappointed with the brief simplicity of her anonymous admirer. He,
whose original ideas in presents had made her imagine him the most
modern and mundane of men, expressed himself on paper rather like a shy,
old-fashioned schoolboy. A dampening doubt oozed into the girl's mind.
What if he hadn't picked out those wonderful things himself? What if he
had got some woman to choose them? But even a doubt--a piercing, new
doubt--had its fascination. And after Sunday it would be gone for ever.
She would know the worst--or best--of her Mystery Man.
On Sunday afternoons she and her mother were "at home" to their friends,
from four to six; He proposed coming at three, however, and he was sure
to be prompt to the moment. That ought to give an hour before extraneous
people began to pour in. But--what about Mums? Marise concentrated her
mind upon that pressing problem.
Mums was as curious as she concerning the unknown. But Mums, though an
absolute trump and a darling, was the most conventional woman on earth.
Just because she and Marise were not born to the high sphere they now
adorned, Mums was determined that neither should be guilty of the
smallest act unworthy of--at least--a countess. Naturally, as Mums
herself would admit, if you were already a countess, you could perhaps
afford to do what you pleased: and to judge from "smart society" columns
many countesses availed themselves to the full of their prerogatives.
Marise might soon be a countess; and if so, Mums would cease to dictate
from the rules of an etiquette book; but until that day those keen brown
eyes needed no lorgnettes to watch a daughter's doings.
After a few minutes' reflection, the girl decided that she would not
confess to Mums what she had done. It would mean a scolding as a first
instalment, and a serial continued day by day of gentle, motherly
nagging. Marise loved her parent, but she hated to be nagged. No. Mums
must somehow be whisked out of the way before three o'clock next Sunday,
and kept out of it long enough for an understanding to be reached with
Him.
Of course, Marise said to herself, she wouldn't tell a fib. She would
just explain frankly (she could see how she would look, her eyes very
blue and big, being frank with Him!) that she hadn't dared tell anyone,
even her mother, about the advertisement. And she would beg him to "help
her out" when she--er--made it seem as if he'd merely written to say he
would call unless he heard to the contrary. By that time she would know
his name, so the thing could be managed easily, and Mums never suspect
to what lengths she had gone. As for Severance, the coast would be clear
of him on Sunday till long after three. Dunstan Belloc was giving a
"stag" luncheon that day, at one-thirty, and she had persuaded Tony
against his will to accept. But Mums? How dispose of her? Suddenly a
bright idea swam to the rescue.
Marise slipped the Unknown's letter into a pocket disguised as a bunch
of silver thistles. Then, with large, innocent eyes, she turned to her
secretary, "Oh, Miss Marks!" she exclaimed. And being an actress, it
occurred to her that the young woman addressed was surprisingly absorbed
in removing lead-pencil dust from her manicured fingers. If
she--Marise--had been secretly studying Miss Marks's profile or back
hair, she would have been equally absent-minded if addressed! She
wondered for the fiftieth time whether it was a coincidence that Miss
Marks had called on the manager of the Plaza the very day after the
Sorels had asked him to find a private secretary.
At first, when Marise saw how handsome the girl was, and heard that
she'd "hoped Miss Sorel might want someone," the wary young actress
feared that Miss Marks wished to go on the stage. But now the
stenographer had been coming to the Plaza each morning for a week, and
had not thrown out such a hint. She was, indeed, entirely business-like,
and possessed of good references. Still, the fact remained that she had
never before applied to the manager of this hotel; and her appearance
had been apropos as that of the sacrificial sheep caught in the bushes.
Besides, Marise had often observed that odd, appreciative flame in the
black eyes, as if Miss Marks were more interested than a secretary need
be in her employer.
"Yes, Miss Sorel?" the dark girl responded. "Would you like me to take
dictation?"
"Not yet, thanks," said Marise. "I haven't had my bath or breakfast, and
I'm hungry. But I've thought of something. Mother and I were so excited
about that Polish boy-dressmaker genius you were talking of yesterday.
He sounds wonderful; and, as he's only beginning, I suppose he's not
choked with orders. He might do some work for me in a hurry?"
"I think he'd sit up at night and go without meals by day to work for
you," replied Miss Marks. "It would be such an advertisement. And he
loves working for pretty people."
"Well, I love helping geniuses." Marise modestly accepted the
compliment. "Didn't you say his flat is on your floor?"
Miss Marks answered that this was the case. Valinski would move to a
fashionable neighbourhood some day. At present his talent budded in 85th
Street.
"I wish I could go to him myself," sighed Marise. "I can't now, for I'm
so hard-worked and tired. But I thought mother might take a taxi after
lunch next Sunday and choose a design for a tea-gown--his specialty, you
said. Would he see her on Sunday--about a quarter to three, so she could
get back for her friends?"
Miss Marks was certain of Valinski's consent. She would come for Mrs.
Sorel, if that would suit, and take her to the dressmaker. Marise
thought it would suit: and Mums, arriving at that moment dressed for the
day, an appointment was made.
The life of Marise Sorel was so full, the pattern of each day so gaily
embroidered with emotions and incidents, that she was surprised at her
own excitement. She did not, however, try to quench it. She loved to
feel that, in spite of the adulation she received, one side of her
nature was as fresh, as unspoiled, as a child's. And she was as guiltily
pleased as a child when, at twenty minutes before three on Sunday
afternoon, her mother went down to a waiting taxi with Zelie Marks.
Patronising the Pole and choosing a design would eat up an hour, Marise
had calculated.
She had put on a white dress of the simplicity whose price is beyond
rubies. Her hair was in a great gleaming knot of gold at the nape of her
neck. She looked about sixteen, and felt it. When the bell of the
telephone rang at three minutes before three, she thrilled all over.
"A gentleman asking for Mademoiselle. He says he has an appointment,"
announced Celine at the 'phone.
"Any name?" Marise inquired.
Celine put her lips to the instrument, the receiver to her ear. "The
gentleman has given no name, because he is expected. But if Mademoiselle
wishes that I insist----?"
"No. Tell them he's to come up at once. And, Celine, be ready to open
the door of the suite."
The Frenchwoman went out noiselessly: Marise rushed to the long mirror,
in front of which tall, scented roses were banked. Her cheeks were very
pink. She was like a rose herself. But hastily she rubbed her little
nose with powder from a vanity box. The gold case was only just snapped
shut, and Marise seated with a book, when she heard a sound in the
vestibule. He had come!