Carlota had laughed at her earnest insistence. She felt no interest in Ward himself, only a deep-rooted resentment against the circumstances which forced her to accept his hospitality when she disliked him. Even now she merely smiled at his words, and turned eagerly to greet the old Marchese. The latter’s gray eyebrows arched with approval when he beheld the result of Maria’s costuming.
“So soon you grow into your kingdom, mia carina,” he exclaimed half teasingly, half musingly. “Behold, yesterday, Mr. Ward, it was a child whom I cajoled with chocolate almonds. I do assure you, she was the utter gourmand for them, rummaging into my pockets like a squirrel, and now we bow to her sovereignty, is it not so?”
“The bloom fulfills the promise of the bud,” Ward answered gravely, and Carlota’s eyes held a startled wonderment as he gazed down at her. It seemed to-night as if his glance even held a covert challenge that aroused every element of resentment in her nature. Throughout the dinner she was reticent and unresponsive. The Marchese, as always, was so absorbed in his little anecdotes and sallies of wit that Ward’s attentions escaped him. Maria observed, but gave no sign of annoyance; rather, she was filled with pride at the influence of her beloved child over so great a man as Ward. Jacobelli ate and drank as a connoisseur, paying little attention to the conversation about him, but relaxing under the mellowing influence of Ward’s wines and Ishigaki’s solicitous ministrations. Finally he caught Carlota’s refusal to sing as her host urged her after they rose from dinner.
“It is no time to-night to show caprice, cara mia,” he exclaimed pompously. “Come, I would have you sing and prove to Mr. Ward how soon you will triumph at the Opera.”
Carlota’s eyes sought the Marchese’s in swift appeal, but he merely nodded to her encouragingly above the lifted rim of his glass of old Amontillado.
“Miss Trelango is only afraid that you will put her through your professional paces, Jacobelli,” Ward interposed easily. “Show the Marchese and Signora Roma those new photographs in the east gallery of the excavations at Rhodopis. You will find the emeralds we took from the royal mummies there also. Ishigaki will open the case for you.”
Jacobelli smiled understandingly, and led the way. The Japanese moved noiselessly about the salon, turning off a light here and there until only those in the stone lanterns gave a nebulous glow. When they were alone, Ward moved one of the lacquered screens from its place, disclosing a tall panel of solid gold embroidery set in ebony. Flamingoes moved through sunlit marshes.
“This will amuse you,” he said, stepping upon a convex spring set in the floor. The panel slipped silently up. “This is my favorite music-room.” He led the way through the narrow door into the interior. It was domed with stained glass, a fan fretwork above the Empire grand piano assuring perfect acoustics. The walls were in flat dull gold, with peacocks and gray apes in conventionalized designs, hand-painted. A rock crystal vase held irises, gold and purple. The light filtered cunningly through the stained glass in rays of twilight splendor. “I have kept this room for you the first time you should sing to me alone.”
Carlota closed her eyes as she seated herself at the piano, the memory of the little garret studio of Ames a vivid, poignant hurt to her pride. He to whom she had given all her faith and love, and he had held it so lightly, where to this man no effort was too great to win her favor.
“Jacobelli tells me you have gained. Sing what you love best yourself.”