Part 35 (1/2)
”That doesn't lessen his regard for brunettes.”
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene shrugged her majestic shoulders and gazed again into the street. She always regretted that Madame could not be induced to make private visits.
A white poodle, recently shampooed, dashed through the rooms. There is always a watery-eyed, red-lidded poodle in an establishment of this order. The masculine contempt for the pug has died. It took twenty years to accomplish these obsequies. But the poodle, the poor poodle!
Call a man a thief, a wretch, a villain, and he will defend himself; but call him a poodle, and he slinks out of sight. It is impossible to explain definitely the cause of this supreme contempt for the poodle, nor why it should be considered the epitome of opprobrium to be called one.
”Maime?”
”Yes, Madame!” replied the girl in the hall.
”Take Beauty into the kitchen and close the door. He's just been washed, and I don't want him all speckled up with hair-dye.”
The girl drove the poodle out of the reception-room and caught him in the hall. Presently the kitchen door slammed and the odor of onions in soup no longer fought against the perfumes and soaps for supremacy.
”There,” said Madame behind the screen, ”you have no rival in town now for beauty.”
”I'll be here again next Tuesday.”
”Same time?”
”Yes, in the morning.”
A woman emerged from behind the screen. She possessed a bold beauty, the sort that appeals to men without intellect. She was dressed extravagantly: too many furbelows, too many jewels, too many flowers.
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene recognized her instantly and turned her head toward the window. She heard the woman pa.s.s by her, enter the hall and leave the house. She saw her walk quickly away, stop suddenly as if she had forgotten something, open her large purse, turn its contents inside out, replace them, and proceed. But a letter lay on the sidewalk unnoticed. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene secretly hoped that it would remain there till she made her departure.
”Handsome woman, isn't she?” said Madame. ”I don't know what it is, but they are always good-looking.”
”Who is she?” asked Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, who knew very well who the woman was.
”She is one of Mr. McQuade's lady friends.”
”Indeed?”
”Yes.” Madame was shrewd. She saw that it wouldn't do to tell Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene anything about a woman who could in no way be of use to her. ”Have you heard of the Sybil?”
”The Sybil?” repeated Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene.
”Yes. A new fortune-teller, and everybody says she's a wonder. I haven't been to her yet, but I'm goin' just as soon as I get time.”
”Do you believe they know what they are talking about?” incredulously.
”Know! I should say I did. Old Mother Danforth has told me lots of things that have come true. She was the one who predicted the Spanish war and the president's a.s.sa.s.sination. It is marvelous, but she done it.”
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene shuddered. With all her faults, she loved the English language.
”How do you want your hair fixed?” Madame inquired, seeing that her patron's interest in mediums was not strong.
”The same as usual. Last week you left a streak, and I am sure everybody noticed it at the Gordon tea. Be careful to-day.”
Thereupon Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene const.i.tuted herself a martyr to the cause. She was nervous and fidgety in the chair, for the picture of that letter on the sidewalk kept recurring. In the meantime Madame told her all that had happened and all that hadn't, which is equally valuable. The toilet lasted an hour; and when Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene rose from the chair, Madame was as dry as a brook in August. Her patron hurried to the street. The letter was still on the sidewalk.