Part 1 (2/2)
”Aren't you surprised to see me sitting up, Diane?”
”I wasn't, but I can be, if that's my cue,” Diane laughed.
At the nonchalance of the reply Mrs. Eveleth was, for a second, half deceived. Was it possible that she had only conjured up a waking nightmare, and that there was nothing to be afraid of, after all?
Possessing the French quality of frankness to an unusual degree, it was difficult for Diane to act a part at any time. With all her Parisian finesse her nature was as direct as lightning, while her glance had that fulness of candor which can never be a.s.sumed. Looking at her now, with her elbows on the table, and the sandwich daintily poised between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, it was hard to connect her with tragic possibilities. There were pearls around her neck and diamonds in her hair; but to the wholesomeness of her personality jewels were no more than dew on the freshness of a summer morning.
”I thought you'd be surprised to find me sitting up,” Mrs. Eveleth began again; ”but the truth is, I couldn't go to bed while--”
”I'm glad you didn't,” Diane broke in, with an evident intention to keep the conversation in her own hands. ”I'm not in the least sleepy. I could sit here and talk till morning--though I suppose it's morning now.
Really the time to live is between midnight and six o'clock. One has a whole set of emotions then that never come into play during the other eighteen hours of the day. They say it's the minute when the soul comes nearest to parting with the body, so I suppose that's the reason we can see things, during the wee sma' hours, by the light of the invisible spheres.”
”I should be quite content with the light of this world--”
”Oh, I shouldn't,” Diane broke in, with renewed eagerness to talk against time. ”It's like being content with words, and having no need of music. It's like being satisfied with photographs, and never wanting real pictures.”
”Diane,” Mrs. Eveleth interrupted, ”I insist that you let me speak.”
”Speak, pet.i.te mere? What are you doing but speaking now? I'm scarcely saying a word. I'm too tired to talk. If you'd spent the last eight or ten hours trying to get yourself down to the conversational level of your partners, you'd know what I've been through. We women must be made of steel to stand it. If you had only seen me this evening--”
”Listen to me, Diane; don't joke. This is no time for that.”
”Joke! I never felt less like joking in my life, and--”
She broke off with a little hysterical gasp, so that Mrs. Eveleth got another chance.
”I know you don't feel like joking, and still less do I. There's something wrong.”
”Is there? What?” Diane made an effort to recover herself. ”I hope it isn't indiscreet to ask, because I need the bracing effect of a little scandal.”
”Isn't it for you to tell me? You're concealing something of which--”
”Oh, pet.i.te mere, is that quite honest? First, you say there's something wrong; and then, when I'm all agog to hear it, you saddle me with the secret. That's what you call in English a sell, isn't it? A sell! What a funny little word! I often wonder who invents the slang. Parrots pa.s.s it along, of course, but it must take some cleverness to start it. And isn't it curious,” she went on, breathlessly, ”how a new bit of slang always fills a vacant place in the language? The minute you hear it you know it's what you've always wanted. I suppose the reason we're obliged to use the current phrase is because it expresses the current need. When the hour pa.s.ses, the need pa.s.ses with it, and something new must be coined to meet the new situation. I should think a most interesting book might be written on the Psychology of Slang, and if I wasn't so busy with other things--”
”Diane, I entreat you to answer me. Where is George?”
”Why, I must have forgotten to tell you that he went to the Jockey Club with Monsieur de Melcourt--”
”You did tell me so; but that isn't all. Has he gone anywhere else?”
”How should I know, pet.i.te mere? Where should he go but come home?”
”Has he gone to fight a duel?”
The question surprised Diane into partially dropping her mask. For an instant she was puzzled for an answer.
”Men who fight duels,” she said, at last, ”don't generally tell their wives beforehand.”
”But did George tell you?”
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