Part 14 (1/2)
”Is Mr. Cap.r.o.n a lawyer?”
”Oh, no--he isn't anything; just a pal of Brookie's. He's a Johannesburger, but he has a house here as well, and _tons_ of money, and a lovely wife--a perfect stunner, my dear--Brookie says she is the loveliest woman in Africa; but Cap.r.o.n has always got his eye on some other woman. By the way, Rosalind, to-day he was describing a girl he had seen in a rickshaw, and from the description I feel sure it was you. Your particular style of beauty appears to have struck him all in a heap.”
Miss Cornell made this statement as though she thought it humorous, which, indeed, she did, for that anyone should admire a girl so unlike her own type, and her own idea of beauty which that type represented, seemed to her really funny and incredible. Yet she looked intently now, and observed, so far as in her lay, ”with the seeing eye,” and for the first time since they had met--the girl before her. Nick Cap.r.o.n's unmistakable enthusiasm had made a great impression upon her.
”He said that you were alone in a rickshaw,” she told Poppy, ”and that he and Mrs. Portal were walking together and met you. And Mrs. Portal said you looked like a Burne-Jones dressed like a Beardsley poster. What rot these society women talk! Who can understand a thing like that?”
”What is Mrs. Portal like?” asked Poppy, remembering now the well-bred-looking woman who had been talking about Burne-Jones to the man with the dissipated eyes on the day of her arrival.
But Sophie took no heed of the question. She was closely and furtively regarding Poppy, and thinking: ”Has she any attraction for men, I wonder? She's not a bit smart ... and so pale ... and yet, and yet ...”
Here Sophie's expression of thought gave out. If she could have expressed it, she would have added: ”She is pale, and yet glows as though something within her is alight.”
”I hope you did not tell him anything about me?” asked Poppy suddenly.
”No, I did _not_!” said Miss Cornell emphatically, and her annoyed look as she said it brought a ring of laughter from Poppy and a lovely mischievous glimmer to her eyes.
Suddenly Sophie sprang up.
”Great Scott! I _quite_ forgot to tell you--Brammie is coming to tea.
That's why I came home so early. Do buck up, old girl, and make things look nice. Your papers are all over the place. I want the room to look as nice as possible for old Brammie.”
”Oh! blow Brammie,” thought Poppy crossly. ”I was just going to write something extraordinarily fine; now it will be lost for ever!”
Nevertheless, she put her papers away with a good grace, tidied the room, laid the tea-things--as only she could--and went out to pluck fresh flowers for the vases. Sophie stood in her bedroom door b.u.t.toning a plaid silk blouse over her richly-endowed bosom.
”That's ripping,” she said approvingly. ”Och! but you _can_ arrange flowers--I'll say that for you, Rosalind. Wouldn't you like to run home and change your dress, though?”
”No,” said Poppy, her head slightly on one side as she surveyed a great flaming hibiscus-blossom she had just put by itself amidst a heap of green on the mantlepiece. ”Why should I change my gown?” she asked.
”This is quite all right. And the man's coming to see you, Sophie, not me.”
”Oh, he really _wants_ to see you, and I think you ought to try and look nice. I'll lend you one of my silk blouses, if you like.”
”No, no, thank you,” hastily. ”It's awfully good of you, Sophie, but I think my gown is quite presentable.”
She looked absolutely charming in a pale-blue linen, perfectly laundered by Kykie; but Sophie considered anything less than silk very ordinary wear indeed.
Poppy began to arrange her hair at the mantel-mirror, pulling out her little side-combs, running them through strands of hair, then plunging them in deeper, so that great waves leaned out on either side of her face and delicate fronds fell veil-wise just over her eyes. Then she took a bunch of green leaves and fastened them under her throat with a big, old malachite brooch she had.
”Well, put some colour on your cheeks, or something,” said Sophie discontentedly.
Poppy flew into one of the fierce little rages that sometimes seized her. ”I will _not_, Sophie! Why on earth should you suppose that because _you_ have a violent colour no one admires pale women? Do not make the mistake of thinking that everyone adores your type because _you_ do!”
Sophie, utterly taken aback, was about to make a tart rejoinder, when there came a light tap with a crop on the front door.
”Anyone at home?”
Sophie flew to her room to complete her toilette, leaving Poppy to swallow her rage and open the door. A big, grey-eyed man, with a kind smile, was standing in the verandah. He was in riding-clothes and carried a crop in his hand.
”Come in,” said Poppy, without enthusiasm; adding: ”Miss Cornell will not be long.”