Linda watched Pleydon as he met Markue in the middle of the room. He was
dressed carelessly, improperly for the evening; but she forgave that as
the result of indifference. The informal flannels and soft collar, too,
suited the largeness of his being and gestures. There was a murmur of
meeting, Susanna Noda smiled appealingly; and then, as Pleydon found a
place on a divan, she at once contentedly sat on his lap. Watching her,
Linda thought of a brilliant parrot; but that was only the effect of her
color; for her face, with a tilted nose and wide golden eyes, generous
warm lips, was charming. She lighted a cigarette, turned her graceful
back on the room and company, and chatted in French to the composed
sculptor.
Linda divined that he was the most impressive figure she had
encountered; the quality of his indifference was beautiful and could
only have come in the security of being a “tremendous swell.” That
phrase described all for which she had cared most. It included
everything that her mother had indicated as desirable and a lot that
she, Linda, had added. Money, certainly, was an absolute necessity;
but there were other things now that vaguely she desired. She tried to
decide what they were.
Only the old inner confusion resulted, the emotion that might have
been born in music; however, it was sharper than usual, and bred a new
dissatisfaction with the easier accomplishments. Really it was very
disturbing, for the pressure of her entire experience, all she had
been told, could be exactly weighed and held. The term luxury, too, was
revealing; it covered everything--except her present unformed longing.
There were still newcomers, and Linda was aware of a sudden constraint.
A woman volubly French had appeared with a long pinkish-white dog in a
blanket, and the three Arabians--she had learned that much--had risen
with a concerted expression of surprise and displeasure. Their anxiety,
though, was no more dramatic than that of the dog's proprietor. The
gesture of her hands and lifted eyebrows were keenly expressive of her
impatience with any one who couldn't accept, with her, her dog.
“Markue ought to have it out,” some one murmured. “Dogs, to high caste
Mohammedans, are unclean animals.” Another added, “Worse than that, if
it should touch them, they would have to make the pilgrimage to Mecca.”
Without any knowledge of the situation of Mecca, Linda yet realized that
it must be a very long journey to result from the mere touch of a dog.
She didn't wonder at the restrained excitement of the “colored” people.
The situation was reduced to a sub-acid argument between the Frenchwoman
and the Begum; Madame couldn't exist without her “_p'tit_.” The Oriental
lady could not breathe a common air with the beast. The former managed a
qualified triumph--the “_p'tit_” was caged with a chair in a corner, and
the episode, for the moment, dropped.
Soon, however, Linda saw that the dog had wriggled out of captivity. It
made a cautious progress to where the candy stood on a low stand and
ran an appreciative tongue over the exposed sweet surfaces. Rapidly a
sugared fig was snapped up. Linda held her breath; no one had noticed
the animal yet--perhaps it would reach one of the objectors and she
would have the thrill of witnessing the departure for Mecca.
But, as always, nothing so romantic occurred; the dog was discovered,
and the Mohammedans, with a hurried politeness, made their salaams.
Instead, a man with a quizzical scrutiny through glasses that made him
resemble an owl, stopped before her.
“'Here we go 'round the mulberry-bush,'” he chanted. “Hello, Kate
Greenaway. Have you had a drink?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied sedately.
“Certified milk?”
“It was something with gin,” she particularized, “and too sweet.” He
took the place beside her and solemnly recited a great many nursery
rhymes. On the whole she liked him, deciding that he was very wicked.
Soon he was holding her hand in both of his. “I know you're not real,”
he proceeded. “Verlaine wrote you--_'Les Ingenus':_
“'From which the sudden gleam of whiteness shed
Met in our eyes a frolic welcoming.'
“What if I'd kiss you?”
“Nothing,” she returned coldly.
“You're remarkable!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm. “If you are not
already one of the celebrated beauties you're about to be. As cool as a
fish! Look--Pleydon is going to rise and spill little Russia. Have you
heard her sing Scriabine?” Linda ignored him in a sharp return of her
interest in the big carelessly-dressed man. He put Susanna Noda aside
and moved to the dim middle of the room. His features, Linda saw, were
rugged and pronounced; he was very strong.
For a moment he stood gazing at the Winged Victory, his brow gathered
into a frown, while he made a caressing gesture with his whole hand.
Then he swung about and, from the heavy shadows of his face, he looked
down at her. He was still for a disconcerting length of time, but
through which Linda steadily met his interrogation. Then he bent over
and seriously removed the man beside her.
“Adieu, Louis,” he said.
The weight of Pleydon's body depressed the entire divan. “An ordinary
man,” he told her, “would ask how the devil you got here. Then he would
take you to your home with some carefully chosen words for whatever
parents you had. But I can see that all this is needless. You are an
extremely immaculate person.
“That isn't necessarily admirable,” he added.
“I don't believe I am admirable at all,” Linda replied.
“How old are you?” he demanded abruptly.
She told him.
“Age doesn't exist for some women, they are eternal,” he continued. “You
see, I call you a woman, but you are not, and neither are you a child.
You are Art--Art the deathless,” his gaze strayed back to the Victory.
As she, too, looked at it, it seemed to Linda that the cast filled
all the room with a swirl of great white wings and heroic robes. In an
instant the incense and the dark colors, the uncertain pallid faces
and bare shoulders, were swept away into a space through which she was
dizzily borne. The illusion was so overpowering that involuntarily she
caught at the heavy arm by her.