Part 18 (2/2)
”I never can bear to face that horrid book,” she confessed with a little laugh. ”I'm always spending more than I should and it makes me so ashamed of myself, when Mother needs so many things.”
Patricia was finding it very easy. She had not much trouble in learning that Doris was in search of a more paying position. Her domestic science was only half a day's work and she needed more. Patricia thought it safe to hint at something that might be in sight if she came to the dance on Friday.
Doris had not intended going to the dance, since her gowns were rather shabby and she could not think of anything new, but on Patricia's insisting, she said she would go if she could be late. She had a lesson in French at the Settlement House--Patricia almost shook her head at the thought of Doris taking free lessons in anything until she recollected the Kingdom of Gladness--and she could not afford to miss it.
”I'll wait for you,” Patricia promised. ”I haven't any guests--or only someone who won't mind. Come over to my room for me, and we'll go down together.”
Constance met her on her way to the Red Salon, where the girls often gathered after dinner for chat, the Blue Salon across the way being reserved for reception of visitors.
”The dance is going to be quite wonderfully fine,” she told her with as eager interest as ever a girl showed in a party. ”Auntie's coming and I'm going to have a splendid, gorgeous new dress. I've planned it all out since I made up my mind. I'll get the stuff tomorrow and have it made in a jiffy.”
Patricia looked at her in some wonder, until she remembered that the kingdom Constance was trying to enter was one of gladness.
”Of course you want to have a good time,” she said aloud. ”What color is it to be?” meaning the dress.
”Yellow--goldy yellow,” replied Constance deliciously. ”And I'm going the whole length, gold slippers and all!”
Patricia beamed. ”You'll look perfectly stunning,” she said, and then she caught her breath. ”Who's playing?” she asked, with a look toward the open door.
Constance listened. ”That must be the little Polish countess,” she replied. ”No one else does it that way.”
Patricia had a vision of a fascinating, elegant creature with sorrowful eyes and plenty of furs, and she gave a little cry of expectation.
”Come along. She's beginning the 'Papillion',” she cried. ”And I simply can't miss it.”
CHAPTER XV
PATRICIA DECIDES TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT
”Oh!” said Patricia on the threshold.
”S-s-s.h.!.+” warned a number of restrained voices.
They smiled kindly at her as she stood in the doorway, though they plainly would not tolerate an interruption. Patricia had not meant to interrupt. She was only surprised.
The firelight played over the lounging figures of the girls who were grouped about the dim warm-colored room, lighting up a golden head or the gleam of some piece of polished furniture or gla.s.s, picking out the faces of some of the intent listeners and flinging a ruddy shadow over others, flickering over the grand piano and the figure seated before it.
Patricia had cried out her ”Oh” at the sight of this figure. It was so very different from her idea of what a countess--and a Polish one, at that--should be that it gave her quite a shock, and for the tiniest fraction of a second made her forget even the Grieg music.
The little woman at the piano was small and rather wrinkled, and was wearing an old-fas.h.i.+oned ulster which fitted her small form rather carelessly. The small sealskin cap on her drab hair did not even pretend to be a stylish one. It was rather worn, even in the kindly firelight, and gave an emphasis to the shabbiness of the whole figure.
Patricia sank down beside Rita Stanford and stared under cover of the fire-flicker. How disappointing some countesses were!
But she did not stare long. She soon forgot there was a shabby figure at the big piano, because she was seeing the b.u.t.terfly soaring up and up in the suns.h.i.+ne, with the jewels glowing on his gorgeous wings, wings that were soon to be broken and trailing. She saw the pulsing of the broken wings, and felt the pity that was pulsing through the sunny world at this darkening tragedy. The wings pulsed slower and slower. The b.u.t.terfly was dead!
Patricia found her eyes wet, and she heard the soft applause in a sort of daze--the music that melted her also always intoxicated her--and she sat without a word till the countess began again.
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