Part 49 (1/2)

She said: ”I shall be very glad to see you, Clive. There are some of your friends here, too, who will be glad to see you.”

”Then I'll wait until--”

”No; I had rather meet you for the first time when others are here--if you don't mind. Do you?”

”No,” he said, coolly; ”I'll come.”

”Now?”

”Yes, immediately.”

Her heart was going at a terrific pace when she hung up the receiver.

She went to her mirror, turned on the side-lights, and looked at herself. From the front room came the sound of the dance music, a ripple or two of laughter. Welter's eager voice singing still of arms and the man.

Long she stood there, motionless, studying herself, so that, when the moment came that was coming now so swiftly upon her, she might know what she appeared like in his eyes.

All, so far, was sheer, fresh youth with her; her eyes had not lost their dewy beauty; the splendour of her hair remained unchanged. There were no lines, nothing lost, nothing hardened in contour. Clear and smooth her snowy chin; perfect, so far, the lovely throat: nothing of blemish was visible, no souvenirs of grief, of pain.

And, as she looked, and all the time she was looking, she felt, subtly, that the ordered routine of her thoughts was changing; that a transformation was beginning somewhere deep within her--a new character emerging--a personality unfamiliar, disturbing, as though not entirely to be depended on.

And in the mirror she saw her lips, scarcely parted, more vivid than she had ever seen them, and her eyes two wells of azure splendour; saw the smooth young bosom rise and fall; felt her heart, rapid, imperious, beating the ”colours” into her cheeks.

Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard him come in;--heard the astonished and joyous exclamations--Cecil's bantering, cynical voice, Welter's loud welcome. She pressed both hands to her hot cheeks, stared at herself a moment, then turned and walked leisurely toward the living-room.

In her heart a voice was crying, crying: ”Let the world see so that there may be no mistake! This man who was friendless is my friend. Let there be no mistake that he is more or less than that.” But she only said with a quick smile, and offering her hand: ”I am so glad to see you, Clive. I am so glad you came.” And stood, still smiling, looking into the lean, sun-tanned face, under the concentrated eyes of her friends around them both.

For a second it was difficult for him to speak; but only she saw the slight quiver of the mouth.

”You are--quite the same,” he said; ”no more beautiful, no less. Time is not the essence of your contract with Venus.”

”Oh, Clive! And I am twenty-four! Tell me--_are_ you a trifle grey!--just above the temples?--or is it the light?”

”He's grey,” said Cecil; ”don't flatter him, Athalie. And Oh, Lord, what a thinness!”

Peggy Brooks, professionally curious, said navely: ”Are you still rather full of bacilli, Mr. Bailey? And would you mind if I took a drop of blood from you some day?”

”Not at all,” said Clive, laughing away the strain that still fettered his speech a little. ”You may have quarts if you like, Dr. Brooks.”

”How was the shooting?” inquired Welter, bustling up like a judge at a bench-show when the awards are applauded.

”Oh--there was shooting--of course,” said Clive with an involuntary and half-humorous glance at Captain Dane.

”Good n.i.g.g.e.r hunting,” nodded Dane. ”Unknown angles, Welter. You ought to run down there.”

”Any incomparable Indian maidens wearing nothing but ornaments of gold?” inquired Cecil.

”That is partly true,” said Clive, laughing.

”If you put a period after 'nothing,' I suppose,” suggested Peggy.

”About that.”