Mandeville suffered exceedingly. He wished that he could give the discouraged, pinched little old one a present—a dozen pairs of gloves, for instance. He wished that he could invite the pert, pretty young one out to lunch. He was sorry for all of[Pg 194] them, and he felt like a brute; but he knew what he wanted, and these would not do. There he sat, like a caliph in his divan, pronouncing judgment upon these poor, anxious creatures, and waiting, without much hope, for the right one.
He had a clear idea of the right one. He had met her—in novels and in the theater—a tall, grave, lovely young woman, exquisitely well bred, dignified, and yet subtly pathetic; the sort of companion who can stand about and converse with diplomats. Not that his sister ever entertained diplomats, but that was the type.
The manageress was becoming a little severe. It was dawning upon her that this client was not so manageable as he looked. After he had seen and—with great mental suffering—rejected six companions, she decided to make an end of him.
The room was temporarily empty of all but Mandeville when she returned with the seventh applicant.
“Miss La Chêne!” said she, and, saying, vanished.
Miss La Chêne did not sit beside Mandeville on the settee—not she! She took the low rocking-chair opposite him, crossed her feet modestly, clasped her little white-gloved hands in her lap, and raised her eyes to his face. Enormous, soft black eyes they were, set in a dark, lovely, pointed face. She was dressed with an innocent sort of elegance, in a dark suit and a small, close-fitting hat. She had about her such an air of propriety, something so decorous and demure and delightful, that Mandeville couldn’t repress a smile. She smiled, too, and dropped her eyes.
He didn’t know how to begin. This charming little thing was nothing but a child, a kid.
“Er—” he said, in his vague, grand manner. “Er—I don’t imagine you’ve had much experience as a—er—a companion.”
“None!” said she, almost with vehemence. “None at all; but I speak French just as I do English, I can sew, I can read aloud, I can play the piano. I have good personal references from people in Quebec, and I have a diploma from the convent.”
In hot haste she opened her hand bag, brought out some letters, and handed them to the young man. Somehow he didn’t care to read them. Somehow this interview lacked a businesslike tone. No—he couldn’t read the poor little thing’s letters!