Volume VIII Part 7 (2/2)
”Now, Kersley, please don't.” Marcia again retreated with glowing cheeks. She tried to keep an unexpected tremulousness out of her voice.
”I have enough on my mind without having you, too. If I were to spoil all your prospects now, I'd never forgive myself.”
”You get so in the habit of saying that absurd thing,” began Kersley, doggedly, ”that--Never mind, never mind, Marcia dear. I won't bother you now. But you'll have to let me have my way in one thing, anyway--I'm going to help you out; I'm going to stay and wait on the table myself.”
”Kersley!”
”I'll make a bang-up waiter; do it in style.”
”Kersley!”
”Just pretend I'm the butler. It's been done lots of times before, you know; it's not a bit original. And I'd like to do something for Mrs.
Devereaux, too, good old multi-millionairess. I owe her one for being such a trump to you. I'll make her one of my omelets, too, if Ellen will let me.”
”But Mrs. Devereaux will recognize you!” Marcia felt wildly that she was half a.s.senting, in spite of the absurdity of it.
”Recognize the butler? She won't know that he exists except to pa.s.s her things. Besides, she's only seen me a couple of times.”
”But the family party at your brother's?”
”They'll have to get along without me. I'll cut back now and tell them, and get my dress suit, and then I'll turn myself loose in your kitchen.
It's all decided, Marcia.” He smiled brilliantly down at her from the height of his six feet, as Kersley could smile sometimes, when he wanted to get his own way. His finger tips touched her curling locks on his way past the ottoman upon which she had dropped.
She sat there after he had gone, her chin supported by her hand, her dark eyes looking intently before her into the yellow chrysanthemum. In spite of her boast to Kitty that she was satisfied with ”things as they were,” there were moments when a long-drawn-out future of joy withheld pressed upon little Marcia with strange heaviness--moments when it was hard to be always wise for two; there were, indeed, sudden, inexplicable moments when she longed weakly to give herself up to the alluring blissfulness of Kersley's kisses on her soft lips, no matter how unpractical he was. But she was too stanchly eager to do what was best for him to give way in the conduct of life; it was even a giddy sort of thing that she had given way to him in anything.
If a nervous and uncertain hilarity characterized the atmosphere of the dinner table that night, Mrs. Devereaux, in her black lace and diamonds, was happily unaware of its cause in the antics of the obsequious butler, who in the intervals of his calling threw kisses from behind the guest to the yellow-gowned Marcia, attempted to poise in the att.i.tude of flight or that of benediction, or indulged in other pantomimes as extraordinary.
It was almost a relief when the intervals between the courses were unduly prolonged and conversation could proceed without spasmodic jerks on the part of the entertainers. Mrs. Devereaux herself, a rather slight, elderly woman with soft white hair elaborately arranged, and kind, brown eyes, responded with evident pleasure to Marcia's pretty, childlike warmth, and was politely cordial to Frank and Kitty. Her manner was at once quietly a.s.sured and quietly una.s.suming, although on her entrance her eyes had seemed furtively observant, as one who found herself among strange, if interesting, surroundings.
”I feel as if we might be Eskimos, by Jove!” Frank Fosd.y.k.e whispered with a secret gurgle to his wife, who responded only with an agonized ”Hus.h.!.+”
”This omelet is really delicious,” said Mrs. Devereaux, kindly, in one of the pauses of the dinner. ”I don't know that I have eaten one as good since I left Paris. May I ask if you have a woman or a man cook?”
”We have a man in the kitchen,” said Marcia, unblus.h.i.+ngly, Kersley being out there at the moment. ”He has lived in Paris.”
”Oh, the touch was unmistakable!” said Mrs. Devereaux. She turned graciously to Kitty. ”I take a great interest in small establishments; my niece, Angela Homestead, is about to marry in moderate circ.u.mstances.
Unlike many women in society, I have always looked after my own household. When I am at home the servants report to me for half an hour every morning to receive their orders for the day. So when Angela naturally came to me for advice, I said to her: 'Above all things, Angela, remember that a good cook is always worth what you pay for him.'
The health of the family is so largely dependent on the food. With a French cook, a butler, a laundress and three maids, a simple establishment for two people can be kept up decently and in order; a retinue of servants is not necessary when you do not entertain. Of course, with less than three maids it is impossible to be clean.”
”No, indeed,” said Kitty.
”I should think not,” a.s.sented Mr. Fosd.y.k.e, with unnecessary ardor.
”It is pleasant to have you agree with me,” said Mrs. Devereaux, politely. ”But, speaking of Paris, oddly enough, since we've been sitting here I have been reminded forcibly, though I can't imagine why, of a young man whom I met there a couple of times over a year ago--a tall, blond young artist who won a prize at the Salon. I haven't heard of him since, though he seemed to have rather unusual talent. I believe he left for New York. I can't recall his name, but perhaps you can help me to it. He painted children very fetchingly.”
”Was it Kersley Battersby?” asked Marcia, with a swift frown at the owner of the name, who had doubled over suddenly.
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