Camelia laughed. “But I like your nose,” said she, leaning towards him; and, very much as a kitten gives a roguish paw-tap, she drew a finger briskly down the feature in question.
Perior grew a little red, and drew back rather sharply.
“What a staid person you are,” said Camelia, quite unabashed; “you don’t take a compliment gracefully, Alceste; not that it was a compliment, exactly, since your nose is not at all handsome; a poor thing but to my taste. I like its dominant ruggedness, and that nice lift in the bridge.”
“Well, Camelia, I came to take Mary out riding, you know,” said Perior, who still showed signs of uneasiness under her scrutiny.
“Yes, I know; you are so good to Mary. She is getting ready.”
Camelia contemplated Perior’s paternal relation towards Mary most unsuspectingly, yet she really did not like it. She could not like anything that withdrew a very important tributary from the river-like receptivity of her existence. Mary’s narrow channel was quite unmeet for such a complimentary contribution, and Camelia was sincerely convinced of the mere charitableness of Perior’s attitude. Then, above all, Perior was her own especial property; Mary might profit by him when she did not feel the want of him, and this afternoon she wanted him—very much, as it now struck her. To have sacrificed her ride for this bare ten minutes had been hardly worth while. She had not looked beyond the impulse of the moment, and the lonely hours stretched in long inconsistency before her. She thought of them now with some surprised dismay, and her eyes, still contemplating Perior’s nose, grew vague with conjecture. Perior certainly, despite his latter severity, would rather spend his afternoon with her than with Mary. He could not own to it, of course, nor would she force him to such an issue; but it might be managed—pleasantly for every one, for all three. Camelia’s life, so wide in its all embracing objectivity, had little time for self-analysis, little time therefore for putting herself in other people’s places. Her lack of sympathy was grounded on a lack of all self-knowledge. Therefore her mind turned the matter quickly in the direction that best suited the desire of the moment, good and bad being to Camelia external facts that either pleased or displeased herself, and she said without one inner compunction, “Shall I hurry her up? And I must see that she puts her hat on properly. Mary has an unerring instinct for the unbecoming.”
“Has she?” said Perior, in the tone that Camelia well understood as being altogether unencouraging and perhaps disgusted. “Don’t hurry her. I can wait.”
“See how unkindly I dress my best impulses,” said Camelia, smiling. “I really want to help her, and to make her smart and tidy. A few touches of my fingers about Mary’s unfurnished forehead, and her face assumes a certain grace and prettiness. Alceste, you must not take my flippancy au grand sérieux—you are in danger of becoming ridiculous, Alceste, I warn you of it.” She had certainly succeeded in making “Alceste” smile, and with a reassured and reassuring wave of the hand she left him, delighted with her own ability for forcing him to swallow her naughtinesses—for swallow them he must; she would feign nothing for him; she would exaggerate even the defects he saw so solemnly. She was quite sure now that she must not be left alone, and that Perior must spend the afternoon with her. She ran upstairs quickly, conscious of how prettily she sprang from stair to stair, of how charmingly with its silk and muslin rustle her white dress swayed about her, conscious even of the distinguished elegance of her white hand gliding up the hand rail; for Camelia had always time for these æsthetic notes, and her grace, her dress, and her hand were so many reasons for keeping Perior to admire them. Mary was quite ready, and looking really nice; a pretty color, and the dull fairness of her hair smoothed neatly beneath her hat.
Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of appreciation.
Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the threshold.