The dinner was as pleasant and heterogeneous as Olive's dinners always
were. But Sophy could not rouse from the dark mood into which Olive's
confidences had thrown her. The hateful scene with her husband had
already destroyed all the gay anticipation which she had felt at the
idea of an evening in the brilliant, whimsical world that liked and
spoiled her. She had been kept at home by Cecil's humours and strange
illness all during the early spring. Of late, he had been in his gentler
frame of mind. Very "nice" to her. He had seemed to want her to have the
pleasure of this evening's gaiety. She was only twenty-seven. To be
known as a beauty in London society, and petted by some of its most
famous circle--this was very bewitching to seven-and-twenty--even with
Tragedy glowering in the background. But now all was spoiled for her.
As she went with Olive again to the latter's bedroom, while the other
women chattered over their wraps in the hall below, she said: "I don't
think I'll go on to this musicale with you, Olive. I'm tired. I think
I'll just have Parkson call me a cab and go home."
"_Now_ ... I _do_ feel a wretch!" Mrs. Arundel exclaimed, turning on her
a reproachful face. "It's those horrid things I repeated to you, of
course!"
She caught both Sophy's hands in hers.
"_Don't_ make me feel a pig by not going, there's a _darling_," she
pleaded. "Don't, _don't_ be _morbid_!"
"I'm not morbid-- I'm really tired," said Sophy, looking down at the tip
of her shoe and moving it softly on the carpet, in that way she had when
deeply troubled or very angry.
"And if you _will_ go home, don't talk about having a _cab_. I'll send
you in Jack's brougham. It's _beastly_ of Cecil not giving you a
carriage!"
"He says we can't afford it."
"Then Gerald ought to give you one. The Wychcotes simply _stink_ of
money!"
Sophy smiled faintly. She could never get used to hearing such words
come so simply from pretty lips. Her black "Mammy" had once washed her
little tongue with soap for saying "stink."
"I know," she said; "but Gerald gives Cecil an allowance as it is."
Olive opened her hyacinth-blue eyes frankly.
"But Cecil had quite a fortune of his own! How does that happen?"
"I don't know," said Sophy tiredly. Money did not interest her. She had
a thousand dollars a year from her father's estate. That gave her a rich
feeling of independence. She loved to feel that her clothes, even her
underlinen and shoes and stockings, were bought with her own money. She
did not know how much it was that Gerald Wychcote allowed his younger
brother. She had never asked. But she knew that the house in Regent's
Park belonged to Gerald and that he let them have it for a nominal rent.
"I think it's a shame!" said Olive. "I suppose he made ducks and drakes
of it with that exploring fad, and travelling in India and such places.
Such _nonsense_!"
Then she took Sophy's hand again.
"_Do_ come!" she coaxed. "There's a perfect _dear_ of a man I want you
so much to meet. A friend of Varesca's--a Lombard nobleman, the Marchese
Amaldi. Italians are perfectly _enchanting_. Don't you think so?-- I am
like Lord Carlisle ... '_Italianissimo_'!"
Sophy smiled vaguely, remembering when Olive had been Austrianissimo and
Irishissimo and Frenchissimo.
"Does that smile mean you're coming? Ah, _do_! Marco Amaldi is the most
heavenly man I ever knew ... except Varesca."
"A 'heavenly' man?"
Sophy was still smiling.
"Yes. Perfectly deevy; and _so_ clever!"
Suddenly Sophy's smile faded and her eyes grew dark.
"Now you've got your 'fey' look," said Mrs. Arundel, watching her
curiously. "What does it mean? Going with me?"
Sophy did not speak at once. Her eyes seemed to watch something forming
slowly, far away--something that gathered distinctness against the
confused background of life's harlequinade. Suddenly she started, closed
her eyelids an instant, then looked at Olive. Her eyes were still wide
and vague. They looked slightly out of focus, like the eyes of a baby
staring at a flame. Olive felt a little shiver go over her.
"What is it?" she asked. "What do you see?"
"Nothing. It's just a feeling. I'll go with you. Something is going to
happen to me to-night. Something important. The room will have three
windows----"
She broke off again, and looked from Olive's face, far away.
Mrs. Arundel's voice took on an awed tone. "Are you really
superstitious, Sophy?"
"About that, I am."
"About what?"
"About a room with three windows. Don't ask me. I can't explain it. It's
just a feeling."
"Olive!... Come along! We'll be late!" shouted Arundel, from the hall.
The two women went down together, Mrs. Arundel still rather awed.
Sophy's eyes were really so uncanny sometimes. Very, very beautiful, of
course, but eerie. Now if she, Olive Arundel, were a man--she would
prefer something less peculiar, more "human." Olive was very fond of
this word, "human." She felt that, like charity, it covered a multitude
of sins--pretty, pleasant little sins.
* * * * *
When they reached the Ponceforths', the musicale was in full swing. Some
one was singing a song by Maude Valerie White. Sophy heard a little gasp
from Olive--her arm was impetuously seized.
"Sophy," she whispered, in spite of the singing, "there _are_ three
windows!"
Sophy, too, was gazing at the windows. She said nothing. An artist had
lent his flat to the Ponceforths for their musicale. The big studio made
such a capital place for singing. There were three wide windows at one
end.
Sophy moved forward as in a sort of daze, half pleasant, half fearful.
That feeling as of an imminent crisis grew on her. Some one brought her
to a chair. It was a little apart from the other chairs. She sat rather
rigidly, her hands one over the other in her lap. Her profile shone like
pearly gold against a curtain of brown velvet. Presently she felt that
some one was watching her with peculiar intentness. Little spangles of
sensation crept over the back of her head. It was as though a little
electric feather were being drawn softly along her hair. Then Jean de
Reszke began to sing. It was a wild Hungarian folk-song that he sang
with that warm, wild voice of his. The words meant nothing to her. The
voice told her that it was a song of love and the despair even of love
fulfilled.
De Reszke finished his song on a slow, melancholy note like a ray of
fading sunlight in autumn. All the melancholy of late autumn seemed to
penetrate Sophy's bosom. Then a quick revulsion of feeling seized her.
That "something"--that "something" that was going to "happen" was near
her--drawing closer.
Varesca's handsome little face bent smiling towards her.
"Mrs. Chesney, I have a friend who cannot wait for the music to be done
for being introduced to you. May I bring him?--the Marchese Amaldi--a
good friend of mine." Varesca's rather quaint English sounded pleasant
to her.
"Why, yes--do," she said, smiling at him.
"Marco----" said Varesca, half turning. Amaldi, who had stood just
behind Sophy, came forward. They looked gravely at each other while she
gave him her hand. Before they could speak, the girl who had been at
first singing began another song. For a second longer, Sophy and Amaldi
continued to look at each other in that quiet, serious way. Then she
turned her eyes on the singer. That had been a strange feeling--the
feeling which had come over her as she met Amaldi's eyes. It was as if
they were recognising each other, rather than just becoming acquainted.
As the girl went on with the rather tiresome song, Sophy turned her head
and glanced at him again. This time he smiled, very slightly. She smiled
in answer. Yes; it was really as if they were old friends meeting thus
unexpectedly again.
And how charming his face was--dark and irregular! Now, again, that she
saw him without looking at him, in that way women have, she thought he
had a reserved air. She always noticed at once the colour of people's
eyes. Amaldi's were a clear olive. His figure showed a lithe symmetry as
he leaned relaxed against the curtain of brown velvet. He was not very
tall; but, though slender, he looked strong. It was odd how everything
about him seemed familiar to her.