Mabel was so deeply stirred by the prospect of Mr. Iredale’s visit that she practised a more than usually voluptuous pose, which was frustrated by her fellow-favorite, who accused her of pushing her great legs all over the place and invited her to keep to her own cushions. Mabel got very angry and managed to drop a burning pastille on her companion’s trousers, which caused a scene in the harem and necessitated the intervention of Mr. Woolfe.
“She did it for the purpose, the spiteful thing,” the outraged favorite declared. “Behaves more like a performing seal than a Turkish lady, and then burns my costume. No, it’s no good trying to ‘my dear’ me. I’ve stood it long enough and I’m not going to stand it no longer.”
Mabel expressed an opinion that the rival favorite was a vulgar person; luckily, before Mr. Iredale arrived the quarrel had been adjusted, and when he sat down on the divan and received a cup of coffee from Sylvia, whose brown eyes twinkled merry recognition above her yashmak, the two favorites were languorously fanning the perfumed airs of their seclusion, once again in drowsy accord.
Mr. Iredale came often to the Hall of a Thousand and One Marvels; he never failed to bring with him books for Sylvia and he was always eager to discuss with her what she had last read. On Sundays he used to take her out to Richmond or Kew, but he never invited her to visit him at his rooms.
“He’s awfully gone on you,” said Mabel. “Well, I wish you the best of luck, I’m sure, for he’s a very nice fellow.”
Mr. Iredale was not quite so enthusiastic over Mabel; he often questioned Sylvia about her friend’s conduct and seemed much disturbed by the materialism and looseness of her attitude toward life.
“It seems dreadful,” he used to say to her, “that you can’t find a worthier friend than that blond enormity. I hope she never introduces you to any of her men.”
Sylvia assured him that Mabel was much too jealous to do anything of the sort.
“Jealous!” he ejaculated. “How monstrous that a child like you should already be established in competition with that. Ugh!”
June passed away to July. Mr. Iredale told Sylvia that he ought to be in the country by now and that he could not understand himself. One day he asked her if she would like to live in the country, and became lost in meditation when she said she might. Sylvia delighted in his company and had a deep affection for this man who had so wonderfully entered into her life without once shocking her sensibility or her pride. She understood, however, that it was easy for him to behave himself, because he had all he wanted; nevertheless the companionship of a man of leisure had for herself such charm that she did not feel attracted to any deeper reflection upon moral causes; he was lucky to be what he was, but she was equally lucky to have found him for a friend.