Part 8 (2/2)
Roseleaf looked long and earnestly at the person they were leaving. He seemed to him a very ordinary individual. If such a man had won the love of scores of beautiful women, surely he himself could gain the affections of one. When he stood with Weil in front of the hotel, by which an unrivaled procession of ladies and gentleman was already beginning to pa.s.s, though it was only eleven o'clock, he felt much encouraged.
”They are looking at you,” whispered Archie, ”plenty of them. Did you see those two girls in pink in that landau? Why, they nearly broke their necks to get the last glimpse of you. There is another lady who would stop if you asked her, pretty as any of them, though she must be nearly thirty. Your eyes are not open. Ah, here is something better! In that carriage, with the t.i.tian tresses!”
It was Miss Millicent Fern, and she bowed to Mr. Weil. Then her bright eyes lit up with a new l.u.s.tre as they fell upon his companion.
CHAPTER V.
STUDYING MISS MILLICENT.
When Mr. Weil made his appearance at the residence of Mr. Wilton Fern, the door was opened for him by a young negro of such superb proportions that the caller could not help observing him with admiration. He thought he had never seen a man more perfectly formed. The face, though too dark to suggest the least admixture of Caucasian blood, was well featured.
The lips were not thick nor was the nose flat, as is the case with so many of the African race. The voice, as the visitor heard it, was by no means unpleasant. Mr. Weil could not imagine a better model for an ebony statue than this butler, or footman, or whatever position, perhaps both, he might be engaged to fill.
”Yes, sir, Miss Millicent is in, and she is expecting you,” said the negro, in his pleasant and strong tones. ”Let me take your hat and stick. Now, sir, this way.”
Miss Fern came in a few moments to the parlor, where Archie was left, and greeted him most cordially.
”There is a sitting-room on the next floor,” she said, ”where we shall not be disturbed. I have given Hannibal orders to admit no one, saying that we shall want the evening entirely to ourselves.”
”Hannibal?” repeated the visitor. ”Is that the name of the remarkable individual who received me just now?”
”Yes,” said Miss Fern, rather coldly. ”Though I do not know why you call him 'remarkable.'”
”He is so tall, so grand, so entirely overpowering,” explained Mr. Weil.
”One would think he might be the son of an African king. I never saw a black man that gave me such an impression of force and power.”
Millicent elevated her eyebrows a little, as if annoyed at these expressions. She answered, still frigidly, that she had noticed nothing unusual about Hannibal. She did not believe she had looked closely enough at his face to be able to identify him in a court.
”He would make a fine character for a novel,” said Mr. Weil, as they walked together up the broad staircase. ”I could almost write one myself, around such a personality.”
The young lady looked disgusted.
”A negro servant!” she exclaimed. ”What kind of a novel could you write with such a central figure?”
”Perhaps I should not put him in the centre,” laughed Archie, determined to win her good nature. ”Every story needs lights and shades. You can't deny that he would cast a magnificent shadow.”
The humor of this observation struck Miss Fern and she joined mildly in her companion's mirth. Then she remarked that the central figure of a novel--the main thing in it--to her mind, should be a being who could be given the attributes of beauty and grace. The minor characters were of less account, and would come into existence almost of their own accord.
”And now, before we do anything more,” she said, ”I want you to tell me about that excessively handsome young man that I saw with you yesterday in Madison Square.”
Weil was delighted at this introduction of his young friend. He began a most flattering account of s.h.i.+rley Roseleaf, describing him as a genuine paragon among men, both in talent and goodness. He drew heavily on his imagination as he proceeded, feeling that he was ”in for it,” and might as well do his best at once. And he could see the cheek of the young listener taking on a new and more enticing color as he went farther and farther into his subject.
”If I have to rearrange my novel--the one Mr. Gouger rejected--I shall draw my hero after that model,” she cried, when he paused for breath. ”I never saw a man who came so near my ideal.”
”But--you would have to alter your hero's character, in that case?” he said. ”I have read your MSS., and your description does not tally with my young friend at all.”
Miss Fern reddened.
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