Of course, Clara found a dozen absurd reasons for quarreling with him that day, not one of which seemed to relate to Olympia; yet that beautiful woman was the root of them all, if Hepworth could have understood it.
But he only comprehended that every room in that sumptuous dwelling was dull as a wilderness on that particular Sabbath day. Rachael kept her room; Clara would not make herself agreeable; and he felt it a relief when night came and took him to the little bijou of a mansion where Olympia was waiting the advent of her guests.
Hepworth had seen this woman in New York, and knew something of the fantastic elegance with which she could surround herself; but the house he entered surpassed anything he had ever seen in that republican city.
Nothing sad or even grave in art or nature was ever permitted to visit the Queen of Song in her own home. Her servants were expected to be smiling and cheerful. There was not a sombre corner in her dwelling.
The very hall was a marvel of art; statuettes of snow-white marble, airy and graceful as stone could be chiselled, seemed ready to escort the guest into the unique drawing-room beyond.
Delicate bric-a-brac occupied gilded brackets on the walls, or crowded the statuettes upon the floor; a laughing faun held back the silken curtain that concealed the entrance to that inner room where the goddess herself presided; a soft mellow light fell upon these treasures, making their beauty still more exquisite.
A servant in silver and blue livery admitted Hepworth, and pointed to the faun, who seemed inviting him forward with a fantastic gesture.
The servant disappeared, his duties ended when the outer door was opened.
Those who visited Olympia were supposed to know their way to her presence. Hepworth lingered a moment in the hall. Those beautiful marble people seemed enticing him to stay, and, for the instant, he felt an unaccountable reluctance to present himself before the actress; a feeling of humiliation came upon him that he should be willing to visit any woman whom the lady of his love could not meet on equal terms. What right had he there?
This question was almost upon his lips, when a silken rustle made him hold his breath. It was a young girl, tall, stately, beautiful, coming down the marble stairs. He was standing near the centre of the floor, but drew back, step by step, as the girl descended, turning white and cold, as if there had been some wrong in his admiration of an antique group in bronze, which occupied a bracket on the wall close by him.