Part 3 (1/2)

And my daughter is second fiddle, thought Mrs. Austen, who said: ”How interesting!”

With his sombre air, Lennox summarised it. ”She is studying for the opera. The woman with her, Madame Tamburini, is her coach. You may have heard of her.”

”A fallen star,” Mrs. Austen very pleasantly remarked. Quite as pleasantly she added: ”The proper companion for a soiled dove.”

The charm of that was lost. Margaret, who had not previously seen this girl but who had heard of her from Lennox, was speaking to him.

”It was her father, was it?” Then, dismissing it, she asked anxiously: ”But do tell me, Keith, what did the medium say?”

”That I would be up for murder.”

Margaret's eyes widened. But, judging it ridiculous, she exclaimed: ”Was that all?”

”All!” Lennox grimly repeated. ”What more would you have?” Abruptly he laughed. ”I don't wonder Mrs. Amsterdam wanted her money back.”

On the stage, from jungles of underwear, legs were tossing. The orchestra had become frankly canaille. Moreover the crowd of Goodness knows who had increased. A person had the temerity to elbow Mrs. Austen and the audacity to smile at her. It was the finis.h.i.+ng touch.

She poked at Margaret. ”Come.”

As they moved on, a man smiled at Lennox, who, without stopping, gave him a hand.

He was an inkbeast. But there was nothing commercial in his appearance.

Ordinarily, he looked like a somnambulist. When he was talking, he resembled a comedian. In greeting Lennox he seemed to be in a pleasant dream. The crowd swallowed him.

”Who was that?” Mrs. Austen enquired.

”Ten Eyck Jones.”

”The writer?” asked this lady, who liked novels, but who preferred to live them.

Meanwhile Paliser was talking to Ca.s.sy Cara and the Tamburini. The latter listened idly, with her evil smile. Yet Paliser's name was very evocative. The syllables had fallen richly on her ears.

Ca.s.sy Cara had not heard them and they would have conveyed nothing to her if she had. She was a slim girl, with a lot of auburn hair which was docked. The careless-minded thought her pretty. She was what is far rarer; she was handsome. Her features had the surety of an intaglio.

Therewith was an air and a look that were not worldly or even superior, but which, when necessary as she sometimes found it, could reduce a man, and for that matter a woman, to proportions really imperceptible.

A little beauty and a little devil, thought Paliser, who was an expert.

But leisurely, in his Oxford voice, he outlined for her a picture less defined. ”You remind me of something.”

With entire brevity and equal insolence, she returned it. ”I dare say.”

”Yes. Of supper.”

”An ogre, are you?”

Paliser, ruminating the possibilities of her slim beauty served Regence, smiled at this girl who did not smile back. ”Not Nebuchadnezzar at any rate. Vegetarianism is not my forte. Won't you and Madame Tamburini take potluck with me? There must be a restaurant somewhere.”

The fallen star moistened her painted lips. ”Yes, why not?”

Born in California, of foreign parents, she had neither morals or accent and spoke in a deep voice. She spoke American and English. She spoke the easy French of the boulevards, the easier Italian of the operatic stage.