Part 25 (1/2)

She smiled up at him, a little sidewise. Keith caught his breath. For a fleeting instant this extraordinary woman deigned to exert her feminine charms for the first time the coquette looked from her eyes; for the first time he saw mysteriously deep in her veiled nature a depth of possibility, of rich possibility--he could not grasp it--it was gone.

But in spite of himself his pulses leaped like a flame. But now she was gazing again at the ballroom door, cool, indolent, aloof, unapproachable. Yet just at that instant, somehow, the other woman looked shallow, superficial, cold. His glance fell on Mrs. Morrell still sitting where he had left her. Something was wrong with her effect----

a.n.a.lysis was submerged in a blaze of anger. This anger was not now against the woman before him; his instinct prevented that. Nor against Mrs. Morrell nor his wife; reluctant justice prevented that. Nor against himself--where it really belonged. Things were out of joint; he felt cross-grained and ugly. Mrs. Sherwood rose.

”You may take me back now,” said she.

As they glided across the floor together, her small sleek head came just above his shoulder. No embarra.s.sment disturbed her manner. Keith could not find in him a spark of resentment against her. She moved by his side with an air of poise and detachment as a woman whose mind had long since weighed and settled the affairs of her own cosmos so that trifles could not disturb her.

Leaving her in her accustomed chair, where Sherwood waited, Keith loyally returned to Mrs. Morrell, who still sat alone. Subconsciously he noticed something wrong with Mrs. Morrell. Her gowning was indeed rather a conspicuous effort than an artistic success. She had badly torn her dress--perhaps that was it.

Mrs. Morrell received him with every appearance of sympathy.

”You poor thing!” she cried. ”What a fearful situation! Of course I know you couldn't help it.”

But Keith was grumpy and monosyllabic. He refused to discuss the situation or Mrs. Sherwood, returning with an obvious effort to commonplaces. Mrs. Morrell exerted all her fascination to get him back to the former level. A little cold imp sat in the back of Keith's brain and criticised sardonically; Why will big women persist in being kittenish? Why doesn't she mend that awful rent, it's fairly sloppy!

Suppose she thinks that kind of talk is funny! I _do_ wish she wouldn't laugh in that shrill, cackling fas.h.i.+on! In short, the very tricks that an hour ago were jolly and amusing were now tiresome. Having been distrait, ungallant, masculinely put out for another fifteen minutes, he abruptly excused himself, sought out Nan, and went home.

From her point of observation, Mrs. Sherwood watched them go. Nan looked very tired, and every line of Keith's figure expressed a grumpy moroseness.

”Congratulations,” said Sherwood.

”He certainly is a child of nature,” returned his wife. ”Look at him!

He is cross, so he _looks_ cross. That this is a ballroom and that all San Francisco is present is a mere detail.”

”How did you break it up?” asked Sherwood curiously.

”Men are so utterly ridiculous! He had built up a lot of illusions for himself, but his instincts are true and good. It needed only a touch.

It was absurdly simple.”

”He'll go back to the Morrell to-morrow,” a.s.serted Sherwood confidently.

She shook her head.

”Not to her. He _sees_ her now. And not to-morrow. But eventually to somebody, perhaps. He has curly hair.”

Sherwood laughed.

”Shear him, like Sampson,” he suggested. ”But it strikes me he has about the most attractive woman--bar one--in town right at home.”

”She'd have no trouble in holding him if she were only _awake_. But she's only a dear little child--and about as helpless. She has very little subtlety. I'm afraid she'll follow the instincts of her training. She'll be too proud to do anything herself to attract her husband, once his attentions to her seem to drop off. She'll just become cold and proud--and perhaps eventually turn elsewhere.”

”I don't believe she's a bit that kind,” a.s.serted Sherwood positively.

”Nor do I. But, Jack, a woman lonely enough has fancies, that in the long run may become convictions.”