She rose from the divan on which she had gracefully disposed herself when she quit playing, and glided from the room, sweeping a bow to us as she vanished, before Severnius or I could interpose an objection to her leaving us. Although there was never any appearance of haste in her manner, she had a swift celerity of movement which made it impossible to anticipate her intention.
Severnius, however, did not care to interpose an objection, I think. He felt somewhat hurt by her sarcastic comments upon his friends, and he expanded more after she had gone.
“You must certainly visit Lunismar before you leave Mars,” he said. “You will feel well repaid for the trouble. It is a beautiful city, wonderful in its cleanness, in its dearth of poverty and squalor, and in the purity and elevation of its social tone. I think you will wish you might live there always.”
There seemed to be a regret in his voice, and I asked:
“Why did not you remain there?”
“Because of my sister,” he answered.
“But she will marry, doubtless.” For some occult reason I hung upon his reply to this. He shook his head.
“I do not think she will,” he said. “And she and I are all that are left of our family.”
“She does not like,—or she does not believe in these Caskians?” I hoped he would contradict me, and he did. I had come to found my judgments of people and of things upon Elodia’s, even against the testimony of my reason. If she disapproved of her brother’s extraordinary friends and thought them an impossible people, why, then, I knew I should have misgivings of them, too; and I wanted to believe in them, not only on Severnius’ account, but because they presented a curious study in psychology.