“I consider him,” said Mrs. Strong, wife of Gerald Strong the banker, “I
consider him, Kate, the handsomest and most attractive man I have ever
met. Everybody on the steamer was charmed with him. Even your father, who
is not impressionable, was fascinated by Count Szalaki.”
“His name sounds like the toothache,” remarked Kate Strong, gazing
at her mother with an unbending countenance. They were seated in the
drawing-room of one of the most luxurious homes in upper Fifth Avenue,
half an hour before the time set for dinner.
Kate Strong resembled her mother in face and figure. They were tall,
graceful women, with clear-cut, patrician features. The difference in
their ages was not strongly marked. Mrs. Strong often remarked playfully
that she and her daughter had grown up together. But, while Mrs. Strong’s
hair had begun to turn white beneath the touch of advancing years, the
golden glory of youth still rested upon Kate’s head. Furthermore, there
was a great contrast in the habitual expression that animated their
respective faces. There were firm, almost harsh, lines around Mrs.
Strong’s mouth that told of a strong will and indicated a set purpose in
life. Kate’s face, beautiful in contour and dazzling in the freshness of
its tints, betrayed a rebellious, restless nature that had not yet found
in existence an ambition that fully satisfied her soul. The mother’s lips
seemed fashioned for command, the daughter’s for something they had not
yet tasted.
“You are so flippant, Kate,” remarked Mrs. Strong, reprovingly. “I am
sure that when you see the count you will not feel inclined to joke about
anything connected with him—not even his name.”
“He seems to have hypnotized you, mamma. Tell me about him. Is he very
high in rank?”
Mrs. Strong smiled at her daughter’s show of interest. It pleased her.
“We really don’t know, Kate, just how prominent he is in Rexania. It’s
a queer country, you know. They’re always having outbreaks there, and
the kings and nobles have to go armed most of the time. But your father
says that the count, although he is very reticent about his country and
its affairs, seems to be on intimate terms with all the crowned heads of
Europe.”
At this moment, Ned Strong, a youth a few years older than Kate, entered
the room, carefully attired in evening dress.
“I suppose, mamma, that your friend the count will be late. It’s a way
those foreigners have. There’s no snap about them: is there, Kate?”
The girl looked up admiringly at her tall, handsome brother, whose manly,
vibrant voice indicated an energetic temperament that possessed large
dynamic possibilities for good or evil.
“That’s the reason I like them,” she exclaimed, inconsistently. “They
don’t seem to feel that they were put into the world to do something.
They are clever. They made their ancestors do their work.”
Ned Strong glanced at his mother quizzically.
“I wish,” he said earnestly, “that we could get Kate to have a few firm
convictions. What she is in favor of one day she is sure to be opposed to
the next. It is so hard to tell what she really thinks.”
Kate smiled amusedly. “Forgive me, Ned,” she implored. “I’m sorry I don’t
please you. But I’ll make you a promise. If you are really anxious to
know what I think of Count Szalaki, I’ll tell you to-night after he has
gone. But here’s papa. He knows more about Count Szalaki than mamma does.”
“Yes, father,” put in Ned, rising as Gerald Strong, a portly,
clean-shaven, gray-haired man, entered the drawing-room. “Tell us about
the count. Is there anything to him besides his title?”
“Yes, Ned, I think there is,” answered Mr. Strong, seating himself and
looking at his watch. “He’s got manners and good looks, speaks several
languages, and seems to have read a good deal. But he’s awfully green
about this country. He really seemed to think that Chicago was more of
a place than New York. He’ll get over that, of course. I wanted to have
him meet some of our people to-night, but he begged me to receive him _en
famille_. He seems to dread notoriety.”
“That looks suspicious,” commented Kate.
“I am astonished, Kate,” exclaimed Mrs. Strong. “One would think that you
could not trust your father and myself to travel alone for fear that we
should be imposed upon. Count Szalaki wants to see the country, not to be
interviewed by reporters.”
“By the way,” remarked Ned, looking at his father, “are there many
Rexanians in New York?”
“A few hundred, I believe, on the East Side,” answered Mr. Strong, who
had taken a practical interest in politics during the revival of reform
movements. “Most of them came over here about ten years ago, when the
present king banished a large number of revolutionists. I have heard that
they make good citizens, but are inclined to talk anarchy when under the
influence of beer.”
“Did you talk politics with the count?”
“I tried to,” answered Mr. Strong, again glancing at his watch, for
he was sorely in need of a dinner. “He is a very sensible young man,
considering the fact that he has a title and estates in a monarchical
country. But he got more out of me than I obtained from him. He asked
me a hundred questions—some of them really laughable—about our form
of government and my opinion of the ability of a free people to rule
themselves.”
“Of course,” remarked Ned, sarcastically, “you gave him to understand
that we place entire confidence in the ‘people,’ _hoi polloi_, _demos_.
You said nothing to him about ‘bosses’?”
Mr. Strong glanced at his son deprecatingly.
“Satire is not your strong point, Ned. Of course I didn’t dwell upon the
defects of our system to the count. I rather encouraged him to think that
our experiment in self-government had been a thorough success.”
“It certainly has, father—for the bankers,” commented the young man,
gazing quizzically at Mr. Strong.
“Isn’t Ned unbearable!” cried Kate, warmly. “Perhaps, Ned, you’ll be
willing to tell the count just how this country ought to be governed.”
“I leave that to you, Kate. Don’t you attend Professor Smith’s lectures
on representative government? Surely the count can learn more about our
institutions from the women of our set than from the men.”
“We have more patriotism,” cried Kate.
“No, you have more leisure,” answered Ned.
“Be quiet, children,” whispered Mrs. Strong, nervously, as the butler
appeared at the door and announced:
“Count Szalaki.”
A young man entered the drawing-room hastily, and bent courteously over
Mrs. Strong’s outstretched hand.
“He looks like Lord Byron,” whispered Kate to her brother. Then she
turned and met the smiling eyes of a youth whose glance was strangely
magnetic.