To her mind all passion was vulgar, and to be vulgar was to write one's self down a fool; fools had no place in her world. They might be of use in some other part of the globe, that was not her affair; to her they were bores, and bores, as we all know, are obnoxious pests; away with them, let them be anathema. Life is too short to expend any portion of it on emotions that ruin the digestion and spoil the most perfect complexion.
For one entire moment Miss James and Count Vladimir looked full in one another's faces, and in that moment each pair of dark eyes read something in the other that caused them both to sink simultaneously, while over the girl's cheeks a faint dull red rose and faded.
The half smile, mocking yet satisfied, that had come to Count Mellikoff's lips as he picked up the bit of lace and muslin from beside Patricia's chair, still lingered, and now it deepened somewhat, as with a bow he stepped back, holding aside the heavy draperies, and by an almost imperceptible gesture commanded Miss James to enter. She obeyed him, and as the thick plush curtains fell behind her with a dull rustle, they seemed to her excited fancy to shut her out for ever from the gaiety and freedom of the life she had quitted only a moment ago, even as they shut her within the deserted drawing-room, with Vladimir Mellikoff as her only companion.
She laughed nervously and put her hand up to her throat as she did so, trying in vain to shake off the absurd superstitious feeling that was creeping over her, and that seemed to enfold all her senses and render her acquiescent and obedient to the will of this tall dark man, who stood before her, and whose distinguished face, with its burning eyes and compressed lips, fascinated her, as the serpent fascinates the dove. She could even think of this simile, and in her heart laugh at it, but she could not shake off, or overcome the fact of his mesmeric influence upon her.
Count Mellikoff drew a low causeuse towards her, and with grave politeness begged her to be seated. She sank down upon it with passive obedience, and folding her hands on her knees looked up at him; she held a marquise fan of ostrich plumes, these trembled somewhat; it was the only sign of emotion that escaped her.
Vladimir turned from her and walked the length of the drawing-room, standing for a moment at the entrance to the conservatory, where lived the golden-hued Maréchal Niel roses; their pungent yet faint perfume permeating the atmosphere, while their heavy heads drooped with the burden of their own loveliness, half hidden in the tender green of their leaves.
As he walked away from her, Rosalie roused herself from the strange lethargy that had subdued her; she threw back her head, her breath came quickly, a flush crept up and stained the olive pallor of her cheeks; she opened her hands, throwing them out with an impatient gesture, and the marquise fan fell noiselessly at her feet, the waving feathers making a light breeze as they fluttered down that touched her face and lifted the laces of her low corsage.
The over-strained tension of her nerves gave way; she could have cried for very relief and joy as she felt the spell of his presence failing at the return of her powerful will. She watched him eagerly and saw him enter the rose house; as his dark figure vanished in the interior gloom she jumped up quickly, threw up her arms, and drew a long deep breath; took a step or two forward, and noticing the fallen fan stooped to pick it up, then turned to leave the room by a side entrance. As she did so Vladimir Mellikoff stood before her, holding a golden-hued rose between his fingers.
She started back, she was almost terrified by his sudden reappearance; she had not heard his approach, his footsteps were noiseless on the heavy carpet; she imagined him safe in the alleys of the conservatory, and her escape from him but the effort of a moment. She had but stooped to recover her fan, and lo, there he stood, tall and commanding and smiling, before her. She gazed at him questioningly, and again, as her glance met his inscrutable dark eyes, she recalled the old fable of the serpent and the dove. She sank down upon the causeuse trembling.
"Mademoiselle," Count Vladimir's courteous, cool tones were saying, "will you honour me by the acceptance of this rose? The royal flower, par excellence, over all other flowers, as one of your own English writers, John Ruskin, says. If I may be permitted to suggest so bold an idea, it will enhance, and be enhanced, by a place in your corsage."