Before the time Chloris had at last rigidly fixed for a formal visit came a message from Cytherea inviting her. Hard as she sought to discover a reason for misliking the dainty note, she could find none; it was irreproachable, and Chloris dressed herself for the occasion with a divided mind, the preponderant part of which was finally comfort: she should at least grapple now with a reality.
She came to Cytherea's house at evening under Damon's escort. As one approached it among the trees it looked rather more like one's idea of an Eastern temple than a sea-coast cottage. The veranda was behung with colored paper moons, glowing subduedly among the vines; soft light streamed through lace from the changed interior.
Excitement took Chloris from herself. Now the great adversary was welcoming her; and Chloris, at the touch of a warm, soft hand, said to herself, "What bugbear have I been frightening myself with?" and found ease and ability to converse, and release from that sense of disadvantage that had ridden her helpless heart like a nightmare.
This atmosphere of the great world that went with Cytherea, how awakening, how satisfying after all, to the mind! Not the smallness of envy, thought Chloris, should keep her from giving it its due, or getting her benefit from it. In the distance and abstract she had hated it; but entered into, seen close, how unconscious, how inoffensive, nay, genial, it proved! What a great good, too, this wealth that permitted such distinction in luxury! Country girl as she was, it seemed to Chloris she was breathing her native air.
At Cytherea's prayer she sat down at the piano, and to her own surprise played better than usual. When she had done, she begged the hostess to play. She forgot how she had declared that Cytherea's face showed no soul for music.
She was surprised to hear the lady say, "I play hardly at all." She sincerely now could not believe it.
"Ah, well!" laughed Cytherea; and good-naturedly she pushed a chair to the piano, and appeared preparing to begin.
Chloris looked on in some wonder. Cytherea seated herself half away from the keyboard, one nonchalant arm over the back of her chair, her curly forehead on her hand; and, the first to smile at her own affectation, played an elaborate waltz, very languidly, with her left hand.
Impossible for the eyes to leave her a moment while she performed her pretty trick; and ably enough she performed it, with an adorable cream-white hand.