Part 58 (1/2)

”He is not here, then?” Peter asked, glancing around.

Andrea Korust shook his head.

”It is doubtful whether he joins us this evening at all,” he declared.

”My sister, however, is wholly of my disposition. Monsieur le Baron will permit that I present him.”

Peter bowed low before a very handsome young woman with flas.h.i.+ng black eyes, and a type of features undoubtedly belonging to one of the countries of eastern Europe. She was picturesquely dressed in a gown of flaming red silk, made as though in one piece, without tr.i.m.m.i.n.g or flounces, and she seemed inclined to bestow upon her new acquaintance all the attention that he might desire. She took him at once into a corner and seated herself by his side. It was impossible for Peter not to a.s.sociate the empress.e.m.e.nt of her manner with the few words which Andrea Korust had whispered into her ear at the moment of their introduction.

”So you,” she murmured, ”are the wonderful Baron de Grost. I have heard of you so often.”

”Wonderful!” Peter repeated, with twinkling eyes. ”I have never been called that before. I feel that I have no claims whatever to distinction, especially in a gathering like this.”

She shrugged her shoulders and glanced carelessly across the room.

”They are well enough,” she admitted, ”but one wearies of genius on every side of one. Genius is not the best thing in the world to live with, you know. It has whims and fancies. For instance, look at these rooms--the gloom, the obscurity--and I love so much the light.”

Peter smiled.

”It is the privilege of genius,” he remarked, ”to have whims and to indulge in them.”

She sighed.

”To do Andrea justice,” she said, ”it is, perhaps, scarcely a whim that he chooses to receive his guests in semi-darkness. He has weak eyes and he is much too vain to wear spectacles. Tell me, you know every one here?”

”No one,” Peter declared. ”Please enlighten me, if you think it necessary. For myself,” he added, dropping his voice a little, ”I feel that the happiness of my evening is a.s.sured, without making any further acquaintances.”

”But you came as the guest of Mademoiselle Celaire,” she reminded him, doubtfully, with a faint regretful sigh and a provocative gleam in her eyes.

”I saw Mademoiselle Celaire to-night for the first time for years,”

Peter replied. ”I called to see her in her dressing-room and she claimed me for an escort this evening. I am, alas! a very occasional wanderer in the pleasant paths of Bohemia.”

”If that is really true,” she murmured, ”I suppose I must tell you something about the people, or you will feel that you have wasted your opportunity.”

”Mademoiselle,” Peter whispered.

She held out her hand and laughed into his face.

”No!” she interrupted. ”I shall do my duty. Opposite you is Mademoiselle Trezani, the famous singer at Covent Garden. Do I need to tell you that, I wonder? Rudolf Maesterling, the dramatist, stands behind her there in the corner. He is talking to the wonderful Cleo, whom all the world knows. Monsieur Guyer there, he is manager, I believe, of the Alhambra; and talking to him is Marborg, the great pianist. One of the ladies talking to my brother is Esther Braithwaite, whom, of course, you know by sight; she is leading lady, is she not, at the Hilarity? The other is Miss Ransome; they tell me that she is your only really great English actress.”

Peter nodded appreciatively.

”It is all most interesting,” he declared. ”Now tell me, please, who is the military person with the stiff figure and sallow complexion, standing by the door? He seems quite alone.”

The girl made a little grimace.

”I suppose I ought to be looking after him,” she admitted, rising reluctantly to her feet. ”He is a soldier just back from India--a General Noseworthy, with all sorts of letters after his name. If Mademoiselle Celaire is generous, perhaps we may have a few minutes'

conversation later on,” she added, with a parting smile.

”Say, rather, if Mademoiselle Korust is kind,” De Grost replied, bowing.