Marcia, who was sitting before the mirror in a lace camisole, fidgeted impatiently.
‘Oh, do it any way you please, Granton, only hurry—low, I think. That will look best with my gown. But do be quick about it. I have to go downstairs.’
‘There’s plenty of time,’ replied the maid, . ‘But I would be a little faster if you would sit still.’
‘Very well, Granton; I won’t move for five minute. I’m really getting excited, though; and I didn’t care a bit for the party until it began.’
‘Yes, ma’am. If you’ll just turn your head a little more this way. It’s very early.’
‘I know, but I have to go down and be sure that Pietro understands about the lights. He’s so stupid, he has to be watched every minute. And, Granton, as soon as you get through with Mrs. Copley please go and help Bianca dress Miss Royston. Bianca doesn’t know anything more about fixing hair than a rabbit.’
Granton’s silence breathed in this statement, and under impulse of the implied compliment she became more in her movements as she twisted Marcia’s yellow-brown hair into a seemingly simple coil at the nape of her neck.
For the past three days the house had been full of guests and though Marcia had been somewhat cold in her of the time, she found herself enjoying it 186 when it came. The days had been filled with rides and drives and gaiety. Paul Dessart had been master of the , and he filled the office brilliantly. He had supplied the of fun on every occasion, and had been so thoroughly tactful that his host and hostess had gratefully blessed him, and Marcia had cast him more than one involuntary glance of approval. And this was her birthday and the night of the ball. All day long she had been the centre of a congratulatory group, the of worded felicitations; and she not found it pleasant. The afternoon train had brought still more guests from Rome, and Vivalanti’s nineteen bedrooms were none too many. Five o’clock tea on the terrace had in itself been in the nature of a festa, with dressed groups coming and going amid the sound of laughter and low voices; while the excitable Italian servants to and fro, placing tea-tables and carrying cups.
Marcia had been secretly disappointed that afternoon by the non-arrival of one guest whom she had half expected—and Eleanor Royston had been so.
‘Mr. Copley,’ Eleanor had inquired of her host, as he offered her a cup of tea, ‘where’s that friend of yours, Mr. Laurence Sybert?’
‘Quelling rioters, I presume. It’s more in his line just now than attending balls.’
‘As if anything could be more in a diplomat’s line than attending balls! With all the other here and off their guard, it’s just the time to learn state secrets. And he’s the most interesting man in Rome,’ she complained. ‘I wanted to add him to my collection.’
‘Your collection?’ Mr. Copley’s startled expression approached a stare.
‘Of interesting men,’ she explained. ‘Oh, don’t be alarmed; I don’t scalp them. The collection is mental—it’s small enough, so far, to be carried in my head. It’s merely that I am a student of human nature and am constantly on the alert for fresh . Your Mr. Sybert is puzzling; I don’t know just how to classify him.’
‘Ah, I see! It is merely a scientific interest you take in him.’ Mr. Copley’s tone was one of relief. ‘If I can be of any assistance with the label—I am sure that he would feel honoured to grace your collection.’
187 ‘I am not so sure,’ said Marcia. ‘Wait till you hear the others, Uncle Howard! A Kansas politician who wants to be a poet, an engineer on the Claytons’ yacht, a Russian prince who talks seven languages and can’t express his thoughts in any, and—who were the others, Eleanor? Oh, yes! the blacksmith who married the maid and beats her.’
‘You don’t do them justice,’ Eleanor , ‘Those are merely their accidental, qualities. That which makes them interesting is something intrinsic.’
Mr. Copley shot her an amused glance, and drawing up a chair, sat down beside her, prepared to argue it out.
‘The list has possibilities, Miss Royston,’ he assured her, ‘though of course one can’t judge without knowing the gentlemen personally. With which one, may I ask, are you going to classify Mr. Sybert?’
‘Oh, in a separate by himself. That is just what makes my collection interesting.’ It was evidently a subject that she discussed with some . ‘Most men, you know—you look them over and immediately assign them to a group with a lot of others; but once in a while you come across a man who goes by himself—is what the French call an original—and he is worth studying.’
Mr. Copley took out a cigarette and regarded it . ‘I see,’ he said. ‘The best study of mankind is man—and so you think Sybert a who deserves a pigeonhole by himself?’
‘Yes, I think he does, though I haven’t quite on the hole yet. That’s why it worries me that he didn’t come to the party. One hates to leave these little matters unsolved.’
‘I am sincerely sorry for you to have lost the opportunity. I must tell him your opinion.’
‘No, indeed!’ remonstrated Eleanor. ‘I may meet him again some day, and if you tell him I shall never learn the truth. One’s only chance is to catch them unawares.’
‘You’re a very person, Miss Royston.’
‘I’ve been out nine seasons,’ she laughed. ‘You can trust me to know a man when I see one!’
‘I wish you’d teach Marcia some of your lore,’ he murmured, as he turned toward the loggia to greet a fresh carriageful of guests.
Even though one man were missing, still a great many 188 others were there, and it had only been an undercurrent of Marcia’s consciousness in any case that had considered the matter. The laughter and babel of voices, the gay preparations and hurrying servants, had had their effect. As Granton clasped about her neck Mr. Copley’s gift—a copy of an old Etruscan necklace in pearls and uncut emeralds set in hammered gold—she was as pleasurably excited as a young woman may be on the eve of a birthday ball.
‘There, Granton; that’s all,’ she cried, up her very Parisian skirts and flying for the door. ‘Hurry with the others, please, for it won’t be long before the guests begin coming.’
She started downstairs, pulling on her gloves as she went. She paused a moment on the landing to view the scene below, and she blinked once or twice as it dawned upon her that Laurence Sybert was at the foot of the stairs watching her, just as he had stood the last time she had seen him when he bade her good-night. For a moment she felt an absurd run through her, and then with something like a she collected herself and went on down to greet him.
‘Mr. Sybert! We were afraid you weren’t coming. When did you get here?’
‘On the late train. I have been in the south, and I didn’t get back to the city till this afternoon.’
‘Your arrivals are always so spectacular,’ she said. ‘We entirely give you up, and then the first thing we know you are quietly standing before us on the rug.’
‘I should call that the reverse of spectacular.’
‘Have you seen Uncle Howard? Did they find any place to put you? The house is full.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve been officially welcomed. I have a bed in your uncle’s dressing-room.’
‘You may be thankful for that. The next comer, I am afraid, will be put in the cellar.’
Sybert did not choose to prolong these
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading