“Olympian Deity,” he cried, “I must kneel to you!” And so he did, gaily adoring, with a kiss for the hem of her robe. They started in the highest spirits, Stefan correct this time in an immaculate evening suit which Mary had persuaded him to order. As they prepared to enter the drawing room he whispered, “You'll be a sensation. I'm dying to see their faces.”
“Don't make me nervous,” she whispered back.
By nature entirely without self-consciousness, she had become very sensitive since the Danaë publicity. But her nervousness only heightened her color, and as with her beautiful walk she advanced into the room there was an audible gasp from every side. Constance pounced upon her.
“You perfectly superb creature! You ought to have clouds rolling under your feet. There, I can't express myself. Come and receive homage. Mr. Byrd, you're the luckiest man on earth—I hope you deserve it all—but then of course no man could. Mary, here are two friends of yours—Mr. Byrd, come and be presented to Felicity.”
Farraday and McEwan had advanced toward them and immediately formed the nucleus of a group which gathered about Mary. Stefan followed his hostess across the room to a green sofa, on which, cigarette in hand, reclined Miss Berber, surrounded by a knot of interested admirers.
“Yes, Connie,” that lady murmured, with the ghost of a smile, “I've met Mr. Byrd. He brought his wife to the Studio.” She extended a languid hand to Stefan, who bowed over it.
“Ah! I might have known you had a hand in that effect,” Constance exclaimed, looking across the room toward Mary.
“Of course you might,” the other sighed, following her friend's eyes. “It's perfect, I think; don't you agree, Mr. Byrd?” and she actually rose from the sofa to obtain a better view.
“Absolutely,” answered Stefan, riveted in his turn upon her.
Miss Berber was clad in black tulle, so transparent as barely to obscure her form. Sleeves she had none. A trifle of gauze traveled over one shoulder, leaving the other bare save for a supporting strap of tiny scarlet beads. Her triple skirt was serrated like the petals of a black carnation, and outlined with the same minute beads. Her bodice could scarcely be said to exist, so deep was its V. From her ears long ornaments of jet depended, and a comb in scarlet bead-work ran wholly across one side of her head. A flower of the same hue and workmanship trembled from the point of her corsage. She wore no rings, but her nails were reddened, and her sleek black hair and scarlet lips completed the chromatic harmony. The whole effect was seductive, but so crisp as to escape vulgarity.