Part 17 (2/2)
”What difference? Between what?”
”Between saying that the business of politics is not clean, and saying that all public officers are liars, like the Cretans.”
”Who is exaggerating now?” asked Joe scornfully.
”Of course it is I,” answered Vancouver, submissively. ”If it is not a rude question, did not that dress come from Egypt?”
”Yes.” The garment in question was made of a kind of soft white, fluted material over a rose-colored silk ground. The raised flutings followed the exquisite lines of Joe's figure, and had the double merit of accentuating its symmetry, and of so leading the eye as to make her height seem greater than it really was. Cut square at the neck, it showed her dazzling throat at its best advantage, and a knot of pink lilies at the waist harmonized delicately with the color of the whole.
”It is just like you,” said Vancouver, ”to have something different from everybody else. I admire Eastern things so much, and one gets so tired of the everlasting round of French dresses.”
”I am glad you like it,” said Joe, indifferently.
”I am so anxious to meet your cousin, Miss Thorn,” said Vancouver, trying a new subject. ”I hear there is to be a dinner for him to-morrow night at Mrs. Sam Wyndham's. But of course I am not asked.”
”Why 'of course'?” inquired Joe quickly.
”I believe Mrs. Wyndham thinks I dislike Englishmen,” said Vancouver at random. ”But she is really very much mistaken.”
”Really?”
”Yes--I should be willing to like any number of Englishmen for the sake of being liked by one Englishwoman.” He looked at Joe expressively as he spoke.
”Really?”
”Indeed, yes. Do you not believe me?”
”Oh, yes,” said Joe. ”Why should I not believe you?” Her voice was calm, but that same angry flush that had of late so often shown itself began to rise slowly at her temples. Vancouver saw it, and thought she was blus.h.i.+ng at what he said.
”I trust you will,” said Vancouver. ”I trust that some day you will let me tell you who that Englishwoman is.”
It was horrible; he was making love to her, this wretch, whom she despised. She turned her head away to hide the angry look in her eyes.
”Thanks--no, if you do not mind,” said she. ”I do not care to receive confidences,--I always forget to forget them.” It was not in order that Poc.o.c.k Vancouver might make love to her that she had sent away Bonamy Biggielow, the harmless little poet. She wished him back again, but he was embarked in an enterprise to dispute with Johnny Hannibal a place near Miss St. Joseph. Mrs. Wyndham had long since disappeared.
”Will you please take me back to my aunt?” said Joe. As they pa.s.sed from the supper-room they suddenly came upon John Harrington, who was wandering about in an unattached fas.h.i.+on, apparently looking for some one. He bowed and stared a little at seeing Joe on Vancouver's arm, but she gave him a look of such earnest entreaty that he turned and followed her at a distance to see what would happen. Seeing her sit down by her aunt, he came up and spoke to her, almost thrusting Vancouver aside with his broad shoulders. Vancouver, however, did not dispute the position, but turned on his heel and went away.
”Oh, I am so glad,” said Joe, with a sigh of relief. ”I thought I should never get away from him!”
It is amazing what a difference the common knowledge of a secret will make in the intimacy of two people.
”I was rather taken aback at seeing you with him,” said John. ”Not that it can make any difference to you,” he added quickly, ”only you seemed so angry at him this morning.”
”But it does”--Joe began, impulsively. ”That is, I began by meaning to cut him, and then I thought it would be a mistake to make a scandal.”
”Yes,” said John, ”it would be a great mistake. Besides, I would not for all the world have you take a part in this thing. It would do no good, and it might do harm.”
”I think I have taken a part already,” said Joe, somewhat hurt.
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