Maud sat beside Essex, and even that easily fluent gentleman found her difficult to interest. She appeared dull and unresponsive. Looking at her with slightly narrowed eyes, he wondered how the count, of whose name and exploits he had often heard in Paris, could contemplate so brave an act as marrying her.
The count, who, having more heart, could see deeper, asked himself if the girl was really unhappy. As he listened to Miss Thurston’s marvelous French he wondered, with a little expanding heat of irritation, if the mother was trying to force the marriage against the daughter’s wish. He had broken hearts in his day, but it was not a pastime he found agreeable. He was too gallant a gentleman to woo where his courtship was unwelcome.
When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room from their after-dinner wine and cigars, they found the ladies seated by one of the fires below the Mexican onyx mantels. Bessie rose as they approached and, turning to Essex, asked him if he had seen the Bouguereau on the easel, and steered him toward it.
“It was one of Mr. Shackleton’s last purchases,” she said; “he was very anxious to have a fine collection. He had great taste.”
Her companion, looking at the plump, pearly-skinned nymph and her attendant cupids, thought of Harney’s description of Shackleton in the days when he had first entered California, and said, with conviction:
“What a remarkably versatile man your husband was! I had no idea he was interested in art.”
“Oh, he loved it,” said Bessie, “and knew a great deal about it. We were in Europe two years ago for six months, and Mr. Shackleton and I visited a great many studios. That is a Meissonier over there, and that one we bought from Rosa Bonheur. She’s an interesting woman, looked just like a man. Then in the Moorish room there’s a Gérôme. Would you like to see it? It’s considered a very fine example.”
He expressed his desire to see the Gérôme, and followed Bessie’s rustling wake into the Moorish room. The little room was warm, with its handful of fire, and softly lit with chased and perforated lanterns of bronze and brass. The heat had drawn the perfume from the bowls full of roses and violets that stood about and the air was impregnated with their sweetness. The Gérôme, a scene in the interior of a harem, with a woman dancing, stood on an easel in one corner.
“That’s it,” said Bessie, drawing to one side that he might see it better. “One on the same sort of subject was in the studio when we first went there, but Mr. Shackleton thought it was too small, and this was painted to order.”
“Superb,” murmured Essex; “Gérôme at his best.”