In a month he was restored to his former appearance—except that his hair was sprinkled with gray at the temples and he had several deep lines in his young yet sombre face.
CHAPTER XXVII.
“IN MANY MOODS.”
EMILY was lunching alone at the Astor House in the innermost of the upstairs dining-rooms. She had just ordered when a woman entered—obviously a woman of the stage, although she was quietly dressed. She had a striking figure, small but lithe, and her gown was fitted to its every curve. As she passed Emily’s table, to the left of the door, the air became odorous of one of those heavy, sweet perfumes whose basis is musk. Her face was round, almost fat, babyish at first glance. Her eyes were unnaturally sleepy and had many fine wrinkles at the corners. She seated herself at the far end of the room, so that she was facing the door and Emily.
She called the waiter in a would-be imperious way, but before she had finished ordering she was laughing and talking with him as if he were a friend. Emily noted that she spoke between her shut teeth, like a morphine-eater. As the waiter left, her face lighted with pleasure and greeting. Emily was amazed as she saw the man toward whom this look was directed—Stilson. He did not see Emily when he came in, and, as he seated himself opposite the woman who was awaiting him, could not see her. Nor could Emily see his face, only his back and now and then one of his hands. As she eagerly noted every detail of him and of his companion, she suddenly discovered that there was a pain at her heart and that she was criticising the woman as if they were bitter enemies. “I am jealous of her,” she thought, startled as she grasped all that was implied in jealousy such as she was now feeling.
When had she come to care especially for Stilson? And why? Above all, how had she fallen in love without knowing what she was doing? By what subtle chemistry had sympathy, admiration, trust, been combined into this new element undoubtedly love, yet wholly unlike any emotion she had felt before? “Mary must have set me to thinking,” she said to herself.
The woman talked volubly, always with her teeth together and her eyes half-closed. But Emily could see that she was watching Stilson’s face closely, lovingly. Stilson seemed to be saying nothing and looking absently out of the window. As Emily studied the woman, she was forced to confess that she was fascinating and that she had the attractive remnants of beauty. Her manner toward Stilson made her manner toward the waiter a few minutes before seem like a real self carefully and habitually hidden from some one whom she knew would disapprove it. “She tries to live up to him,” thought Emily. “And how interesting she is to look at—what a beautiful figure, what graceful gestures—and—I wonder if I shall look as well at—at her age?”
She could not eat. “How I wish I hadn’t seen her with him. Now I shall imagine—everything, while before this I thought of that side of his life as if it didn’t exist.” She went as quickly as she could, for she felt like a spy and feared he would turn his head. In the next room, which was filled, she met Miss Furnival, the “fashion editor” of the Democrat’s Sunday magazine. Miss Furnival asked if there were any tables vacant in the next room and hastened on to get the one which Emily had left.
An hour later Miss Furnival stopped at her desk. “Didn’t you see Stilson in that room over at the Astor House?” she said, and Emily knew that gossip was coming.
“Was he there?” she asked.
“Yes—up at the far end of the room—with Marguerite Feronia. She used to be his wife, you know—and she divorced him when he went to pieces. And now they live together—at least, in the same house. Some say that he refused to re-marry her. But Mr. Gammell told me it was the other way, that she told a friend of his she wasn’t fit to be Stilson’s wife. She said she’d ruined him once and would never be a drag on him again.”