Part 25 (1/2)

At this Sir S. glanced our way for an instant, looked as if he wanted to speak, changed his mind, and turned again to Mrs. West, next whom he sat, with Mrs. James on his other side. No wonder, I thought, he liked better to look at her than me, as she was so fresh and elaborate and charming. All through dinner he talked to Mrs. West and a little to Mrs. James, leaving Basil to entertain me, which he did very kindly. Still, Sir S. seemed annoyed because a party of young American men at a table near ours stared at me a good deal, though he didn't care to pay me any attention himself. He drew his eyebrows together and glared at them once, whereupon the nicest looking of the four (and they were all good-looking) bowed. Sir S.

returned the nod stiffly, with an ”I-wonder-if-I-really-_do_ know-you,-or-if-this-is-a-trick-to-claim-acquaintance?” sort of expression.

Perhaps I ought to have been annoyed too, but I wasn't a bit. They were _such_ nice boys, so young, and having such a glorious time! I was glad they looked at me and not at Mrs. West, and I was sure they didn't mean to be rude. Probably they'd seen mother, or her photographs, and were puzzling over the resemblance which Sir S. and Basil both say is very strong, in spite of ”marked differences.” Whenever we speak of her, I feel as if I could hardly wait till Monday, though at other times the present seems so enchanting I can't bear to have it turn into the past.

The American boys (I thought that none of them could be over twenty-one) lingered at their table a long time after they seemed to have finished their dinner. They played some kind of game with bent matches which made them laugh a good deal; but the minute we got up, I heard them push back their chairs, though I didn't turn my head.

Basil and I walked out of the dining-room after the rest of the party, and the boys came close behind us. I heard one say in a low voice, ”Did you ever see such hair?” and I felt a sort of creep run all the way down my plait and up again into my brain, because I've been brought up to think red hair ugly, and it's hard to believe every one isn't making fun of it. However, I remembered what Sir S. said about the flame-coloured heads of the children in the road, and that stuff Basil wrote in his notebook about Circe. Then I felt better, and hoped that the boys were not laughing.

Outside the dining-room door the handsomest one got near enough to speak to Sir S. ”How do you do, Mr. Somerled?” he said. ”Don't you remember me? I'm Jack Morrison, Marguerite's cousin. I met you twice at Newport while you were painting her portrait.”

”Marguerite Morrison. 'M. M.,' the grateful model who gave him the refrigerator basket!” thought I. And Sir S. proceeded to give the cousin a refrigerator glance; but it didn't discourage him. He went on as cordially as ever. ”My three chums want to be presented: d.i.c.k Farquhar, Charlie Grant, Sam Menzies. We're all Harvard men, seeing Europe in general and Scotland in particular, in our vacation. We've every one of us got Scottish blood in our veins, so we sort of feel we've earned the right to make your acquaintance. And we've been wondering if you'd introduce us to your friends, if you don't think it's cheek of us to ask!”

Sir S. looked as if he did think it great ”cheek”; but if he hesitated, Mrs. West quickly decided for him. She gave the nice American boy one of her sweet, soft smiles, and said, ”Of course Mr. Somerled will introduce you all to us; or you may consider yourselves introduced, and save him the trouble. My name is Aline West, and this is my brother, Basil Norman.”

She went through this little ceremony in a charming way, yet as if she expected the young men to be delighted; and I too thought they would burst into exclamations of joy at meeting celebrities. But not a word did any of the four say about the books, or their great luck in meeting the authors. Perhaps they were too shy, though they didn't seem shy in other ways. They just mumbled in a kind of chorus. ”Very pleased to know you both” (which Mr. Norman told me afterward is an American formula, on being introduced); and when they'd bowed to the brother and sister and Mrs. James (though she hadn't been mentioned) all four grouped round me.

This was natural, I suppose, because we were more or less of an age.

”Is this your daughter, Mrs. West?” asked Jack Morrison. ”And may we children talk to her?”

For a minute that pretty, sweet-faced woman looked exactly like a cat.

She did, really. It almost gave me a shock! I thought, ”She must have _been_ a cat in another state of existence, and hasn't quite got over it.” Not that cats aren't nice in their way; but when ladies in fascinating frocks, with hair beautifully dressed, suddenly develop a striking family likeness to Persian p.u.s.s.ies robbed of milk, it does have a quaint effect on the nerves.

”Miss MacDonald is _not_ my daughter,” said Mrs. West, laughing wildly.

”I'm not _quite_ old enough yet to have a daughter of her age, and she's not such a child as she looks. But _do_ talk to her, by all means. I'm sure she'll be very pleased.”

”Then your name _is_ MacDonald?” Jack Morrison exclaimed. ”We were saying at dinner how much you look like Mrs. Bal MacDonald, the beautiful actress. Is she any relation?”

”Yes, she is,” I answered. And I would have gone on to tell him and his friends that she was my mother, but I saw Sir S. and Mrs. West and Basil looking as if they wanted to get away, so I dared not go into particulars.

”Do tell us about it,” said all the American boys together, when I paused to take breath and think. I should have loved to stop and talk about mother, but magnetic thrills of disapproval from my guardians crackled through me. ”If you're in Edinburgh next week maybe you'll find out,” I said consolingly. ”But now I must go.”

I bowed nicely, and they bowed still more nicely, trying to look wistful, as if they didn't want me to hurry away.

We went to a private sitting-room Sir S. had taken, so I suppose he had invited Basil and Mrs. West; and I thought they would speak of the American boys, but n.o.body even referred to their existence. This made me feel somehow as if I were being snubbed. I don't know why, for n.o.body was unkind.

Afterward, when Mrs. James and I went to our adjoining bedrooms, I asked her if I had done anything I ought not to have done.

”No, my dear child,” said she, smoothing my hair, which I'd begun to unplait. ”Nothing except----” and she hesitated.

”Except what? Tell me the worst.”

”There isn't any worst. You did nothing that Mrs. West and I wouldn't like to do, if we could. I won't go into particulars, if you don't mind, because it wouldn't be good for you if I did, and might make you self-conscious--a great misfortune that would spoil what some of us like best in you. But you needn't worry.”

”Mrs. West looked as if she longed to scratch my eyes out. She needn't have been so _very_ vexed at my being taken for her daughter. I'm not a scarecrow, or a village idiot.”

Mrs. James laughed, a well-trained little laugh she has, which seems taught to go on so far and no farther--like the tune I once heard a bullfinch sing in a shop.

”My dear, you're too young and unworldly to understand these things,”

she said. ”A pretty woman, a celebrity like Mrs. West, isn't pleased when she expects all the attention of young gentlemen for herself, to find that she goes for nothing, and all they want is to talk to some one else. And then, at her age, to be taken for a grown-up girl's mother! I couldn't help being sorry for her myself. I know what it is to want to keep young.”