II
The five dogs, the three maids, and the French orphan were installed in the largest suite at the Ritz, and Rags tumbled lazily into a steaming bath, fragrant with herbs, where she dozed for the greater part of an hour. At the end of that time she received business calls from a masseuse, a manicure, and finally a Parisian hair-dresser, who restored her hair-cut to criminal's length. When John M. Chestnut arrived at four he found half a dozen lawyers and bankers, the administrators of the Martin-Jones trust fund, waiting in the hall. They had been there since half past one, and were now in a state of considerable agitation.
After one of the maids had subjected him to a severe scrutiny, possibly to be sure that he was thoroughly dry, John was conducted immediately into the presence of m'selle. M'selle was in her bedroom reclining on the chaise-longue among two dozen silk pillows that had accompanied her from the other side. John came into the room somewhat stiffly and greeted her with a formal bow.
"You look better," she said, raising herself from her pillows and staring at him appraisingly. "It gave you a color."
He thanked her coldly for the compliment.
"You ought to go in every morning." And then she added irrelevantly: "I'm going back to Paris to-morrow."
John Chestnut gasped.
"I wrote you that I didn't intend to stay more than a week anyhow," she added.
"But, Rags——"
"Why should I? There isn't an amusing man in New York."
"But listen, Rags, won't you give me a chance? Won't you stay for, say, ten days and get to know me a little?"
"Know you!" Her tone implied that he was already a far too open book. "I want a man who's capable of a gallant gesture."
"Do you mean you want me to express myself entirely in pantomime?"
Rags uttered a disgusted sigh.
"I mean you haven't any imagination," she explained patiently. "No Americans have any imagination. Paris is the only large city where a civilized woman can breathe."
"Don't you care for me at all any more?"
"I wouldn't have crossed the Atlantic to see you if I didn't. But as soon as I looked over the Americans on the boat, I knew I couldn't marry one. I'd just hate you, John, and the only fun I'd have out of it would be the fun of breaking your heart."
She began to twist herself down among the cushions until she almost disappeared from view.
"I've lost my monocle," she explained.
After an unsuccessful search in the silken depths she discovered the illusive glass hanging down the back of her neck.
"I'd love to be in love," she went on, replacing the monocle in her childish eye. "Last spring in Sorrento I almost eloped with an Indian rajah, but he was half a shade too dark, and I took an intense dislike to one of his other wives."
"Don't talk that rubbish!" cried John, sinking his face into his hands.
"Well, I didn't marry him," she protested. "But in one way he had a lot to offer. He was the third richest subject of the British Empire. That's another thing—are you rich?"
"Not as rich as you."
"There you are. What have you to offer me?"
"Love."
"Love!" She disappeared again among the cushions. "Listen, John. Life to me is a series of glistening bazaars with a merchant in front of each one rubbing his hands together and saying 'Patronize this place here. Best bazaar in the world.' So I go in with my purse full of beauty and money and youth, all prepared to buy. 'What have you got for sale?' I ask him, and he rubs his hands together and says: 'Well, Mademoiselle, to-day we have some perfectly be-oo-tiful love.' Sometimes he hasn't even got that in stock, but he sends out for it when he finds I have so much money to spend. Oh, he always gives me love before I go—and for nothing. That's the one revenge I have."
John Chestnut rose despairingly to his feet and took a step toward the window.
"Don't throw yourself out," Rags exclaimed quickly.
"All right." He tossed his cigarette down into Madison Avenue.
"It isn't just you," she said in a softer voice. "Dull and uninspired as you are, I care for you more than I can say. But life's so endless here. Nothing ever comes off."
"Loads of things come off," he insisted. "Why, to-day there was an intellectual murder in Hoboken and a suicide by proxy in Maine. A bill to sterilize agnostics is before Congress——"
"I have no interest in humor," she objected, "but I have an almost archaic predilection for romance. Why, John, last month I sat at a dinner-table while two men flipped a coin for the kingdom of Schwartzberg-Rhineminster. In Paris I knew a man named Blutchdak who really started the war, and has a new one planned for year after next."
"Well, just for a rest you come out with me to-night," he said doggedly.
"Where to?" demanded Rags with scorn. "Do you think I still thrill at a night-club and a bottle of sugary mousseaux? I prefer my own gaudy dreams."
"I'll take you to the most highly-strung place in the city."
"What'll happen? You've got to tell me what'll happen."
John Chestnut suddenly drew a long breath and looked cautiously around as if he were afraid of being overheard.
"Well, to tell you the truth," he said in a low, worried tone, "if everything was known, something pretty awful would be liable to happen to me."
She sat upright and the pillows tumbled about her like leaves.
"Do you mean to imply that there's anything shady in your life?" she cried, with laughter in her voice. "Do you expect me to believe that? No, John, you'll have your fun by plugging ahead on the beaten path—just plugging ahead."
Her mouth, a small insolent rose, dropped the words on him like thorns. John took his hat and coat from the chair and picked up his cane.
"For the last time—will you come along with me to-night and see what you will see?"
"See what? See who? Is there anything in this country worth seeing?"
"Well," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "for one thing you'll see the Prince of Wales."
"What?" She left the chaise-longue at a bound. "Is he back in New York?"
"He will be to-night. Would you care to see him?"
"Would I? I've never seen him. I've missed him everywhere. I'd give a year of my life to see him for an hour." Her voice trembled with excitement.
"He's been in Canada. He's down here incognito for the big prize-fight this afternoon. And I happen to know where he's going to be to-night."
Rags gave a sharp ecstatic cry:
"Dominic! Louise! Germaine!"
The three maids came running. The room filled suddenly with vibrations of wild, startled light.
"Dominic, the car!" cried Rags in French. "St. Raphael, my gold dress and the slippers with the real gold heels. The big pearls too—all the pearls, and the egg-diamond and the stockings with the sapphire clocks. Germaine—send for a beauty-parlor on the run. My bath again—ice cold and half full of almond cream. Dominic—Tiffany's, like lightning, before they close. Find me a brooch, a pendant, a tiara, anything—it doesn't matter—with the arms of the house of Windsor."
She was fumbling at the buttons of her dress—and as John turned quickly to go, it was already sliding from her shoulders.
"Orchids!" she called after him, "orchids, for the love of heaven! Four dozen, so I can choose four."
And then maids flew here and there about the room like frightened birds. "Perfume, St. Raphael, open the perfume trunk, and my rose-colored sables, and my diamond garters, and the sweet-oil for my hands! Here, take these things! This too—and this—ouch!—and this!"
With becoming modesty John Chestnut closed the outside door. The six trustees in various postures of fatigue, of ennui, of resignation, of despair, were still cluttering up the outer hall.
"Gentlemen," announced John Chestnut, "I fear that Miss Martin-Jones is much too weary from her trip to talk to you this afternoon."