Part 4 (1/2)

A little light crossed her face--not a look of pleasure. ”Ask Miss Stone to come to me--at once,” she said.

The man bowed himself out and departed on silken foot.

Miss Stone, gentle and fluttering and fine-grained, appeared a moment later in the doorway.

”He has come,” said the woman, without looking up.

”He--?” Miss Stone's lifted eyebrows sought to place him--

”The Greek--I told you--”

”Oh--The Greek--!” It was slow and hesitant. It spoke volumes for Miss Stone's state of mind. Hours of Greek history were in it, and long rows of tombs and temples--the Parthenon of G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, with a few outlying scores of heroes and understudies. ”The--Greek,” she repeated, softly.

”The Greek,” said the woman, with decision. ”He has asked for Betty and for me. I cannot see him, of course.”

”You have the club,” said Miss Stone, in soft a.s.sent.

”I have the club--in ten minutes.” Her brow wrinkled. ”You will kindly see him--”

”And Betty--?” said Miss Stone, waiting.

”The child must see him. Yes, of course. She would be heart-broken--You drive at three,” she added, without emphasis.

”We drive at three,” repeated Miss Stone.

She moved quietly away, her grey gown a bit of s.h.i.+mmering in the gorgeous rooms. She had been chosen for the very qualities that made her seem so curiously out of place--for her gentleness and una.s.suming dignity, and a few ancestors. The country had been searched for a lady--so much the lady that she had never given the matter a thought.

Miss Stone was the result. If Betty had charm and simplicity and instinctive courtesy toward those whom she met, it was only what she saw every day in the little grey woman who directed her studies, her play, her whole life.

The two were inseparable, light and shadow, morning and night. Betty's mother in the house was the grand lady--beautiful to look upon--the piece of bronze, or picture, that went with the house; but Miss Stone was Betty's own--the little grey voice, a bit of heart-love, and something common and precious.

They came down the long rooms together, the child's hand resting lightly in hers, and her steps dancing a little in happy play. She had not heard the man's name. He was only a wise man whom she was to meet for a few minutes, before she and Miss Stone went for their drive. The day was full of light outside--even in the heavily draped rooms you could feel its presence. She was eager to be off, out in the sun and air of the great sea of freshness, and the light, soft wind on her face.

Then she saw the slim, dark man who had risen to meet her, and a swift light crossed her face.... She was coming down the room now, both hands out-stretched, fluttering a little in the quick surprise and joy. Then the hands stayed themselves, and she advanced demurely to meet him; but the hand that lifted itself to his seemed to sing like a child's hand--in spite of the princess.

”I am glad you have come,” she said. ”This is Miss Stone.” She seated herself beside him, her eyes on his face, her little feet crossed at the ankle. ”Have you any new fruit to-day?” she asked, politely.

He smiled a little, and drew a soft, flat, white bit of tissue from his pocket, undoing it fold on fold--till in the centre lay a grey-green leaf.

The child bent above it with pleased glance. Her eyes travelled to his face.

He nodded quickly. ”I thought of you. It is the Eastern citron. See--”

He lifted the leaf and held it suspended. ”It hangs like this--and the fruit is blue--grey-blue like--” His eye travelled about the elaborate room. He shook his head slowly. Then his glance fell on the grey gown of Miss Stone as it fell along the rug at her feet, and he bowed with gracious appeal for permission. ”Like the dress of madame,” he said--”but warmer, like the sun--and blue.”

A low colour crept up into the soft line of Miss Stone's cheek and rested there. She sat watching the two with slightly puzzled eyes. She was a lady--kindly and gracious to the world--but she could not have thought of anything to say to this fruit-peddler who had seemed, for days and weeks, to be tumbling all Greek civilisation about her head.

The child was chatting with him as if she had known him always. They had turned to each other again, and were absorbed in the silken leaf--the man talking in soft, broken words, the child piecing out the half-finished phrase with quick nod and gesture, her little voice running in and out along the words like ripples of light on some dark surface.

The face of Achilles had grown strangely radiant. Miss Stone, as she looked at it again, was almost startled at the change. The sombre look had vanished. Quick lights ran in it, and little thoughts that met the child's and laughed. ”They are two children together,” thought Miss Stone, as she watched them. ”I have never seen the child so happy. She must see him again.” She sat with her hands folded in her grey lap, a little apart, watching the pretty scene and happy in it, but outside it all, untouched and grey and still.