Then she reached out a hand and laid it on his. He looked down at it, so soft, so white, so small, and he contrasted it with the huge, hairy bulk of his own. This little girl was drawing him. He felt it, felt himself yielding. He was beginning to look beyond the beautiful features, the rare grace and charm of physical personality, which had at first attracted only the baser qualities of his nature, and was seeing glimpses of a spiritual something which lay back of all that––infinitely more beautiful, unspeakably richer, divine, sacred, untouchable.
“Of course you will attend the Charity Ball, Mr. Ames?” The thin voice of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles jarred upon his ear like a shrill discord. Ames turned savagely upon her. Then he quickly found himself again.
“No,” he laughed harshly. “But I shall be represented by my family. And you?” He looked at Carmen.
“Most assuredly,” returned Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, taking the query to herself. “That is, if my French dressmaker does not fail me. She is dreadfully exasperating! What will Mrs. Ames wear, do you think?” She arched her brows at him as she propounded this innocent question.
Ames chuckled. “I’ll tell you what it is this year,” he sagely replied. “It’s diamonds in the heels!” He gave a sententious nod of his head. “I overheard Kathleen and her mother discussing plans. And––do you want to know next season’s innovation? By George! I’m a regular spy.” He stopped and laughed heartily at his own treasonable deceit.
“Yes! yes!” whispered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles eagerly, as she drew her chair closer. “What is it?”
“One condition,” replied Ames, holding up a thick finger.
“Of course! Anything!” returned the grasping woman.
“Well, I want to get better acquainted with your charming ward,” he whispered.
“Of course; and I want you to know her better. That can be arranged very easily. Now what’s the innovation?”