"How did your vis-a-vis please you?"
"Qui cette fille?" asked Irene, carelessly. "The color of her hair is superb. Pure Venetian gold."
No feeling of offence, or modesty.
"Bravo!" said Maryan. And with comical solemnity in his voice he added: "Dear sister, you have a new mentality altogether. You have surpassed my expectations, and now I shall call you my true sister."
Why? Was she to be naive in a theatre? She knew well that such things were done everywhere, and they must exist in the life of the baron. And, if they must exist, then let them be open, for mysteries—Oh! she preferred anything to masks and mysteries. Besides the question was mainly in this, that that history of the baron and the famous singer of chansonettes did not concern her in any way.
One evening outside the windows of the house began the twilight, which was rather pale from snow. In the drawing-room sat Irene amid the cold whiteness of sculpture, which adorned the walls, and the reflection on polished furniture of blue watered-silk. The young lady was seated at one of the windows on a high stool. On the background of the window-pane, filled with the whitish twilight, her figure seemed tall, with narrow shoulders, and her profile somewhat too prolonged. Over this profile rose a knot of fiery hair, and the whole figure reminded one of a statue of a priestess, erect and smiling enigmatically. Her eyelids were drooping, her long hands were clasped on her robe; but the smiles wandering over her lips and ever changing, were not those of satisfaction. She remembered that in recent days she had met the baron offener than before. He strove more and more to see her—to meet her. He simply pursued her—found her frequently in shops which she visited with her mother, or alone. When he came he did not shield himself with the excuse of chance, but said with his usual sincerity:
"I willed to-day to see you, and I see you. I know how to will!"
This day she had barely entered the shop of a celebrated tailor when he entered also, and immediately, with unusual animation, began to tell her of his great project of going to America and settling there for a long time, perhaps permanently. He was roused by that idea; he was almost enthusiastic; the hope of new scenes and impressions, perhaps great profits, had fired his imagination. Of these last he spoke also to Irene.
"One must move, rouse courage, bring the nerves into action, otherwise they may wither. One must conquer and win. He who does not gain victories deserves the grave. Money is an object worthy of conquest, for it opens the gates of life. William Morris is a famous poet and artist, but he became a manufacturer. He understood that contempt for industry is like many other things, a painted pot. Men made this pot and poets painted it in beautiful colors, then the poets died of hunger. America holds in reserve new horizons."
He spoke long, and was astonished himself at his own enthusiasm.