It was thus that she came to the point of holding a reception for
Baskinelli.
Not that any one had heard anything black, or even shadowy, against Baskinelli. He had arrived recently from abroad, his foreign fame preceding him, his prospective conquests of America fulsomely foretold, his low brow decorated in advance with laurel.
Mrs. Courtelyou added him to her collection with the swiftness and directness of the entomologist discovering a new bug. She herself loved music—without understanding it very deeply—and Baskinelli, whatever might be his other gifts, could summon all the cadences of love from the machines that people call a piano—engine of torture or instrument of joy.
For half an hour Harry paced at the foot of the stairs.
"I wonder if she's ever coming," he fumed to himself. "It takes 'em so long to do it that they drive you crazy, and when it's done they're so wonderful that they drive you crazy."
"Did you—did you wish anything, sir?" asked the butler, entering.
"No—just waiting for Miss Pauline, Jenkins—just waiting," sighed
Harry.
"Why—if I may presume to tell you, sir—Miss, Marvin has gone to the reception," said Jenkins.
"Gone!" Harry cried abruptly, hotly, then remembered that he was speaking to a servant and swung into the reception room.
He put on his hat and coat and rang for Jenkins again.