Читать книгу The White Kami - Edward Alden Jewell - Страница 16

After that Stella thought of course he would leave her and find some one else on whom to spend his superlative charms. It seemed incredible he shouldn’t. But instead he gave her his ceremonious arm again and escorted her to a romantic, shadowy nook, and sat down beside her. And it was then, for the first time, that Stella dared think he might be growing really interested in her.

“He must be impressed!” she thought, thrilling more than ever. “Perhaps....” But she dared not, even in secret, tempt herself with all the delirious possibilities that crowded her brain just then.

King leaned a little toward her as she sat excitedly opening and shutting Elsa’s fan in her lap.

“You must feel warm, even though you don’t show it,” he said, smiling gallantly. “Let me fan you.” And when she had surrendered the fan, with a delighted, coquettish gesture, Mr. King began waving it slowly back and forth as he talked—not really stirring up a great deal of breeze, but beautifully establishing an atmosphere of coolness and languor.

“You can imagine you’re an Egyptian princess, and I’m one of those nice glossy black slaves, with a fan of papyrus or ostrich plumes—what is it they use?”

“Oh, dear,” replied Stella in a very worldly tone, “I’m afraid I don’t know, really!” She laughed a brief, happy laugh, and, after a little more appropriate repartee, she insisted: “I’m sure your arm must be getting tired. Suppose the Egyptian princess tells her slave he may stop fanning her until ...”

“Until after she’s danced again?”

Too late Stella realized she had gauchely precipitated a second invitation. But he seemed genuinely to welcome it (“That’s a divine waltz,” he observed irreproachably) and anyhow she couldn’t resist appearing on the floor again with him. As they danced she could hardly help noticing how people watched them. It was a delicious sensation. Fortunate for her he had come late—too late to fill his card. Normally, she guessed, it wouldn’t require much exertion on his part!

And still he didn’t leave her. Jesting merrily they went about in search of another shadowy nook, and when they had found one to their liking, sat down and resumed their talk. Of course in talk they didn’t go beneath those superficial currents which sociologists tell us are essential to mutual soundings-out within the herd. One talks of the weather or the high cost of everything, or if one is especially gifted, perhaps, one talks about Egyptian princesses—and all the while keeps his ears alert for that “low growl” which shall warn him he is in the wrong pew. But behold! there was no low growl. She heard none, he heard none. And yet it would seem as though these two: this girl in revolt against life and this the most fascinating man at the ball, must belong in very widely severed pews indeed.

“Where is your home, Mr. King?” she asked.

“Ah, how shall I answer?” he cried in mock consternation. “I’m afraid I’ve become a kind of permanent tramp—travelling a lot and—well, jogging about generally.”

“Abroad?” she asked, clasping her hands but making otherwise a valiant effort not to be overcome with awe.

“Pretty much all over the globe,” he admitted. “I’ve whistled up the sun sitting astride the pyramids; I’ve strummed a ukulele on the beach at Waikiki; I’ve dabbled a bit at Monte Carlo; I’ve sipped tea with little doll-like geisha girls in Yokohama. What haven’t I done, and where haven’t I been?” He looked honestly almost appalled at his own wealth of experience; and she hung on his words, her face responsive to the thrill in her heart.

A little later on they were speaking of the earthquake and how the city had developed out of calamity. And then, since she had quoted, in this connection, something her father had said, and since they were on the subject of business generally Mr. King suggested: “May I ask what your father’s business is?”

And Stella—unhappy Stella. She ran her fingers nervously along the feathers of the fan in her lap, and was silent for just a moment, the old rebellion, impotent but hot, bringing its flush to her face. Then slowly she raised her eyes to his, unexpectedly found in them the inspiration she had missed elsewhere, and replied quite frankly, with the same sort of candour that had slipped in more than once already: “My father’s business is harness.”

Did he hear a growl? Was he in the wrong pew? Destiny seemed to hold her breath. But if there was any growl now it was so faint as to recommend no drastic alarums and excursions. “Harness—ah.” That was all. And he went on in the same gracefully adjusted tone: “Perhaps not quite so much demand, but still an important item.” And he added, breaking into the more general field the topic seemed prompting: “I like a good horse. I suppose you ride, Miss Meade?”

“Oh—occasionally,” she replied, her face still slightly flushed with suppressed rebellion, but smiling with that attempt at archness she told herself the situation required. “Occasionally”—yet what she really meant was a long time ago; for it was highly possible the staid old family horse, used only for driving now, might expire of amazement were Stella to take a notion to mount.

“It would give me ever so much pleasure if I might call. May I?” He looked very worldly and pleading over the conventional request.

And then—ah, but one knows in advance what she must say, and one sees most clearly, at length, how it was that she forgot the supper dance entirely.

Here seemed the dawn of a wonderful dream indeed—as though gates were suddenly opening in her life. She responded to Ferdinand King in waves of delirium. Just once she thought of Jerome; and his defects, under the warm spell of beauty which surrounded her now, turned him into almost a caricature. Jerome and Mr. King! She forgot herself and laughed aloud; then, flushing, made her head toss flirtingly and pretended she had been thinking of something else entirely.

Well, in truth, the contrast would be nothing short of striking; for at this stage of his career Ferdinand King was in the finest prime of his incontestible fascination. He was about forty, with rich plumy hair, white at either temple. His face, so arrestingly handsome, was just a little too ruddy, perhaps, to allow any one’s crediting his destiny with never having wooed the heartening cup. His mouth was almost a perfect “cupid’s bow.” A very grand, big, daring, gallant, adventurous sort of man, who appeared altogether superb in evening clothes, and would make a magnificent perpetual best man at fashionable weddings. One at once associated him with gardenias and teacups; yet there was always that indefinable grandness and air of difference about him which made the man seem far indeed from any mere usual type of social flâneur. A gay old dog, though a mature and worldly and white-templed dog, too—which from the beginning of the world, has been the most fascinating type to be encountered.