“I mean, what will she wear?”
“Oh! a sentimental expression—the sort of look you see in a girl’s face when she’s sitting on the stairs with her hand in a man’s.”
A shudder traversed her shoulders, crinkling the blue bodice that covered them. “For the rest, she will be clothed in one of those creamy low-necked gowns that become her so well.”
Before the evening was over Olive was induced to sing. Matthew Strang was startled to find her choosing a love-song, and he was as astonished by the passionate intensity of her vocalization as by the beauty of her rich contralto voice.
“Ninon, Ninon,” she sang. “Que fais-tu de la vie—toi qui n’as pas d’amour?” And the notes melted exquisitely in pity. The tears returned to his eyes. It was his tragedy, it was Eleanor’s tragedy, it was everybody’s tragedy. “Ninon, Ninon, que fais-tu de la vie?”
Very few days went by before he rang Mrs. Wyndwood’s bell. The mental image of Eleanor sitting to Herbert was the motor that drove him to call. He had only seen his volatile cousin once or twice since they had dined together at the Limners’—Herbert Strang’s curious facility for taking up and dropping people had persisted unchanged. But the couple were destined to meet now, for victorias and hansoms hovered outside Mrs. Wyndwood’s house, and Matthew Strang found that he had stumbled upon a formal “At Home,” at which Herbert was fetching and carrying strawberry-ices to perspiring beauty. The popular painter noted with a novel thrill of alarm the boyish good looks of his friend, whose spruce, smiling figure was so visibly the cynosure of feminine eyes. Happily for his peace of mind, Eleanor was too busy welcoming her miscellaneous visitors to allot much attention to Herbert, who seemed, indeed, amply content with engaging the interest of half a dozen fair women, not counting an occasional interlude of Miss Regan. Matthew Strang slowly ploughed his way to the hostess, a cool-looking angel in white, through the block of bonneted ladies, amid which an occasional man stood out unpicturesque.
“You seem surprised to see me,” he said, in low tones, into which he infused an intimate note.
“Yes, indeed,” said Eleanor, with a little frank laugh. “How did you know it was my day?”
He smiled mysteriously, wondering the while if she could hear his heart beat above the feminine babble.
“You ought not to have come,” pursued Eleanor, with a little pout that made her face adorable. “We pay you the compliment of not asking you to our tea-fights, and this is how you appreciate it.”