This concession was more than Constantine had dared to hope for, and his spirits rose to the point of exuberance next morning when an invitation came from Madame Jarovisky’s for Inarime to attend an afternoon party for young people given in honour of her daughter’s birthday.
There were about twenty young ladies and mature little girls, with a sprinkling of boys and youths from the military and naval schools, at Madame Jarovisky’s when Inarime entered the rooms, escorted by her father. The chaperons retired to the salon downstairs, to refresh themselves with tea and return to their homes, or stay and watch the youngsters disport and play. By and by Miltiades came, that prince of masters of ceremonies, especially invited to conduct the cotillon, and show the small rabble how to dance the mazurka. Could a hero object to shine and lead, even in minute and giggling society? Heavens above us! What would be the result of an entertainment in Athens without Miltiades? Confusion, scare, and disgrace,—worse, the privation of its most picturesque adornment, and its crown of military glory.
The young ladies of Athens were there in every stage, little women dressed like dolls, flirting and pouting with grave little old men of ten and twelve; girls in tutelage, breaking from their governess to dance a riotous quadrille with the future defenders of their country upon land and water; and lastly, the self-conscious and important “demoiselles à marier,” who play Chopin’s Second Nocturne to the desolation of those who understand Chopin, chatter ceaselessly in indifferent French, draw flowers and keep albums for the collection of all the heart-broken verses in European tongues. Into this lively and flippant circle Inarime was at once whirled with voluble cordiality and cries of frantic enthusiasm.
Mademoiselle Eméraude Veritassi was the presiding archangel, in the artistic setting of the expensive Antoinette. The angels were Miss Mary Perpignani, Sappho Jarovisky, Andromache Karapolos, Proserpine Agiropoulos, and the young ladies of the American legation. Eméraude was the key to the general mood,—she was captain of a pliable and sensitive band of very amiable young marauders. She welcomed Inarime avidly, with the frankest smile and a swift approval of her toilet. The others clustered round her and somewhat bewildered her with this sudden introduction to noisy unmeditative girlhood. Of the mind and ways of girls she was savagely ignorant, we know, and all these laughing faces and softly brilliant glances, turned upon her, shook her with surprise and terror. Could it be that she was one of them and so aloof, so absolutely unlike and out of sympathy with them? Joy and vigour were abounding in them, the susceptible and intoxicating blood of youth and its untamable pulses, gave fire to their eyes and chased reflection from their minds. When they danced together, or with boys of their own age, their steps sprang over the polished floor with the urgent impetuosity of their years. When they stood near her, and panted and laughed between their gasping speech, she felt as the Peri might, gazing upon happiness afar.
She envied these absurd and frivolous maidens, envied them their untroubled youth,—beside which her own looked sad and grey-toned,—their free hearts and meaningless laughter, their twinkling feet and innocent sentimentality.
“You do not dance,” said Eméraude, pausing beside her after a wild waltz, with fluttering bosom, like a pursued bird.
“I have never danced. I have never met girls before,” Inarime answered, with a sharp note of regret in her voice.
Imagine the consternation and the wonder on the faces around her. Eméraude was naturally spokeswoman for the party. She expressed an opinion that the conversation should be carried on in Greek instead of French.
“Then we shall have to speak our best Greek,” cried Sappho, having heard of Inarime’s learning. “Mademoiselle Selaka speaks the language of Plutarch.”
“Oh, no,” exclaimed Inarime, with a deprecating smile. “I have the current Athenian at your service. Except with my father, I am accustomed to speak the rough brogue of our island.”