Part 10 (1/2)

”From a paper of pins to an opera-cloak,” she continued.

”I'm afraid, dear Mrs. McMurray, an opera-cloak is not the superior limit of a woman's needs,” said I. ”I wish it were.”

She called me a cynic and went.

This morning Carlotta interrupted me in my work.

”Will Seer Marcous come to my room and see my pretty things?”

In summer blouse and plain skirt she looked as demure as any damsel in St. John's Wood. She hung her head a little to one side. For the moment I felt paternal, and indulgently consented. Words of man cannot describe the ma.s.s of millinery and chiffonery in that chamber. The s.p.a.ces that were not piled high with vesture gave resting spots for cardboard boxes and packing-paper. Antoinette stood in a corner gazing at the spoil with a smile of beatific idiocy. I strode through the cardboard boxes which crackled like bracken, and remained dumb as a fish before these mysteries. Carlotta tried on hats. She shewed me patent leather shoes.

She exhibited blouses and petticoats until my eyes ached. She brandished something in her hand.

”Tell me if I must wear it” (I believe the sophisticated call it ”them”). ”Mrs. McMurray says all ladies do. But we never wear it in Alexandretta, and it hurts.”

She clasped herself pathetically and turned her great imploring eyes on me.

”_Il faut souffrir pour etre belle_,” I said.

”But with the figure of Mademoiselle, it is stupid!” cried Antoinette.

”It is outrageous that I should be called upon to express an opinion on such matters,” I said, loftily. And so it was. My a.s.sertion of dignity impressed them.

Then, with characteristic frankness, my young lady shakes out before me things all frills, embroidery, ribbons, diaphaneity, which the ordinary man only examines through shop-front windows when a philosophic mood induces him to speculate on the unfathomable vanity of woman.

”_Les beaux dessous!_” breathed Antoinette.

”The same e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n,” I murmured, ”was doubtless uttered by an enraptured waiting-maid, when she beheld the stout linen smocks of the ladies of the Heptameron.”

I reflected on the relativity of things mundane. The waiting-maid no doubt wore some horror made of hemp against her skin. If Carlotta's gossamer follies had been thrown into the vagabond court of the Queen of Navarre, I wonder whether those delectable stories would have been written?

As Antoinette does not understand literary English, and as Carlotta did not know what in the world I was talking about, I was master of the conversational situation. Carlotta went to the mantel-piece and returned with a glutinous ma.s.s of sweet stuff between her fingers.

”Will Seer Marcous have some? It is nougat.” I declined. ”Oh!” she said, tragically disappointed. ”It is good.”

There is something in that silly creature's eyes that I cannot resist.

She put the abominable morsel into my mouth--it was far too sticky for me to hold--and laughingly licked her own fingers.

I went down to work again with an uneasy feeling of imperilled dignity.

May 29th.

I sent her word that I would take her for a drive this afternoon. She was to be ready at three o'clock. It will be wholesome for her to regard her outings with me as rare occurrences to be highly valued. Ordinarily she will go out with Antoinette--for the present at least--as she did yesterday.

At three o'clock Stenson informed me that the cab was at the door.

”Go up and call Mademoiselle,” said I.

In two or three minutes she came down. I have not had such a shock in my life. I uttered exclamations of amazement in several languages. I have never seen on the stage or off such a figure as she presented. Her cheeks were white with powder, her lips dyed a pomegranate scarlet, her eyebrows and lashes blackened. In her ears she wore large silver-gilt earrings. She entered the room with an air of triumph, as who should say: ”See how captivatingly beautiful I am!”