She frowned. “Oh, I know you are making fun of me; but I assure you many eminent men have sat at my feet. Even Dolkovitch says I have a greater grip of the Truth—the glorious Truth of immortality—than any other woman in Europe, except Mademoiselle Brinskaïa and the clairvoyant Princess Stevanovna. There is nothing miraculous. I don’t keep away from society, I dance and paint, but throughout all I am struggling against the bad-self.”
“What sort of things do you paint?” he asked, feeling for firmer ground.
“My vision!” she said, in rapt tones. “My assurance that the universe is all living spirit.”
And all of a sudden a conviction came to him that she was right, that there was no death, no room for death. Eleanor Wyndwood had arrived, and in the light of her face the noisy, motley throng took meaning and music. He rose eagerly, but she did not see him in his niche, and he sat down again awkwardly. The Countess talked on, but he had forgotten even to feign the listener. He could only see the gleam of a creamy dress in rifts of the crowd, which thickened momently. Presently he was aware of Miss Regan, who gave him an abrupt bow, and then crossing over to him said, in vexed accents:
“I am very angry with you. How are you, Countess? Young as ever, I see.”
“What have I done?” inquired Matthew Strang.
“You’ve spoiled my hat-rack. There’s a chimney-pot on it. Life has so few pleasures one can’t afford to be robbed.”
“Oh, please forgive me,” he said, half seriously.
“I sha’n’t—you’re too respectable.”
“Tell me something Bohemian, and I’ll do it,” he pleaded.