CHAPTER IX. NOTHING MORE SERIOUS THAN A HOUSE PARTY
Standing just within the door, smiling and rubbing the gray bristles on his lip, was the Colonel. In the center of the room stood a woman dressed in gray. Maurice recognized the dress; it belonged to Mademoiselle of the Veil, who was now sans veil, sans hat. A marvelous face was revealed to Maurice, a face of that peculiar beauty which poets and artists are often minded to deny, but for the love of which men die, become great or terrible, overturn empires and change the map of the world.
Her luxuriant hair, which lay in careless masses about the shapely head and intelligent brow, was a mixture of red and brown and gold, a variety which never ceases to charm; skin the pallor of ancient marble, with the shadow of rose lying below the eyes, the large, gray chatoyant eyes, which answered every impulse of the brain which ruled them. The irregularity of her features was never noticeable after a glance into those eyes. At this moment both eyes and lips expressed a shade of amusement.
Maurice, who was astonished never more than a minute at a time, immediately recovered. His toilet was somewhat disarranged, and the back of his head a crow's nest, but, nevertheless, he placed a hand over his heart and offered a low obeisance.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, in a voice which Maurice would have known anywhere. “I hope the journey has caused you no particular annoyance.”
“The annoyance was not so particular, Madame,” said Fitzgerald stiffly, “as it was general.”
“And four of my troopers will take oath to that!” interjected the Colonel.
“Will Madame permit me to ask when will the opera begin?” asked Maurice.
“I am glad,” said she, “that you have lost none of your freshness.”
Maurice was struck for a moment, but soon saw that the remark was innocent of any inelegance of speech. Fitzgerald was gnawing his mustache and looking out of the corner of his eyes—into hers.