They found the guests of the pension at dinner in the garden. There were
ten or twelve people at the table, and Over and Catalina were conscious
of a conspicuous entrance; and a certain familiar lighting of the eye in
those facing the door heralded them as a distinguished young couple on
their honeymoon. Catalina, whose spirits had ebbed far out, frowned and
took the vacant chair beside Mrs. Rothe, that at least she might not be
obliged to talk to a man, and Over sat himself beside the husband. In a
moment Catalina saw her mistake; there was but one person between her
cavalier and the blonde young woman who had inspired her with distrust.
The American girl sat at the head of the table with the air of a hostess
entertaining her guests. She was perhaps twenty-six, but she had the
aplomb of a woman who not only has been a gracious hostess for many
years, but has exacted and received much tribute. She wore a thin black
gown which became her fairness marvellously well, and had dressed her
smooth, ashen hair both high and low. Her long back was straight without
effort, and if her shoulders were a shade too broad her waist and hips
were less mature. Everybody else looked dowdy in comparison, even Mrs.
Rothe suffering an eclipse.
But if her toilette was triumphant, her manner was more so. On one side
of her sat a Frenchman, on the other a Spaniard, opposite Captain Over a
German, and she addressed each in his language, taking care that none
should suffer at the expense of the other; and it was manifest that they
all adored her. She was, in fact, a brilliant figure, and if her sweet
smile was somewhat mechanical, and her fine, gray eyes keen and
passionless, her swains were too dazzled by her manner and her handsome
appearance to detect the flaws.
Catalina cocked her ears, but found neither wisdom nor cleverness in the
remarks that fell from the thin, well-cut lips. It was the girl’s
linguistic accomplishment, her bright manner of saying nothing, and
willingness to hear men talk, that were responsible for the delusion
that she was a brilliant woman. Catalina’s curiosity could no longer
contain itself, and she turned abruptly to Mrs. Rothe and spoke for the
first time.
“Who is she?” she asked. “Have you heard?”
“Her name is Holmes, and I heard her sister, that dowdy little artist
over there, call her Edith.”
“I wonder who—what—she is?”
“Nobody in particular, I should think.”
“But she—she—dominates everything.”
“That is the American girl—a certain type. You’ll see a great many of
them if you go about enough. This specimen was born with a respectable
amount of good looks, a high opinion of herself, and some magnetism. On
her way through life she has acquired what some call autorité, others
bluff. She probably has no position to speak of at home—she never would
wear her hair in that Florodora lump on her forehead if she had—but she
has made a great deal of running in summer and winter resorts, and in
Europe. The study of her life is twofold: dress and how to please
men—while deluding them that they are graciously permitted to please
her. Her knack for languages stands her in good stead, her tact is
almost—never quite—perfect; for she too often makes the mistake of
snubbing women. She knows the value of every glance, she has a genius
for small talk and dress—probably she has not an income of a hundred and
fifty dollars a month, and her sister has to dress like a sweep to help
her out—and I should be willing to stake all I have that she dances to
perfection. She is the sort of girl that men delight to make a belle of,
not only because she flatters them and is always ‘all there,’ but
because she does them so much credit. But they usually are quite content
to swell her train, and forget to propose. What she is on the lookout
for, of course, is a rich husband; but every year she becomes more and
more the veteran flirt, more polished and mechanical, and less
seductive, and will end by taking any one she can get.”
“She is a type, then. I fancied her unique.”
“Dear me! There are hundreds like her.”
“All the same, I can’t take my eyes off her. She fascinates me. I don’t
like her—but I think I’d like to be like her.”
“Heaven forbid! She is a very second-rate person, my dear, and your
beauty is real, while hers is only a matter of effect. She fascinates
you because she is young and successful, and you see her like for the
first time. But she is nothing in the world but a man’s woman, and while
as chaste as an Amazon—I suppose Amazons were chaste—has probably been
engaged several times—the type is sentimental—I might add, experimental.
I caught Lolly hanging over her this afternoon, and she will doubtless
put him through his paces. It won’t hurt him; she is not the type that
men die for—not even what the French call an allumeuse—just a plain
American flirt.”
“She has style,” sighed Catalina.
“Of a sort,” said the New-Yorker, indifferently. Then she turned
suddenly to Catalina with the charming sympathy of glance and manner
that blinded her friends to the poor ruin of her face. “How you could
rout her if you would!” she said. “Don’t you know, my dear, that the
woman who receives that sort of promiscuous adulation is always the
woman who wants it, who works for it? Given a decent amount of natural
charm, and any determined woman can be a belle. But it means more work
and self-repression, more patience with bores as well as with the wary,
than you would ever give to it. And it means popularity with men and
nothing more; no depth of accomplishment or interest in anything vital;
and under that assumption of glorified independence she is really a
slave, afraid to relax her vigilance lest she lose her hold, never
daring to be absent-minded or careless in her dress. Of all the girls I
have ever known you have the least reason to envy any one—so banish the
cloud!”
Catalina glowed, and reminded herself of the opportunities thrust upon
her to be the belle of a season that she had spurned with less than
politeness; but in a moment her brows met and she lost her appetite.
Over had been drawn into the magnetic current at the head of the table.
Miss Holmes was leaning forward as if graciously permitting the stranger
to enter, yet herself lured by the wisdom—it was a comment on the
narrowness of Moorish streets—that flowed from his lips.
“What idiots men are!” thought Catalina, viciously. “I suppose if I hung
on his words like that he’d not hesitate a minute about being in love
with me. But I’d like to see myself!”