IV
A red touring-car, latest model, stopped before Madame Ash's house. A tall woman alighted and rang the bell. Eloise answered and could only gasp: "Miss Easter! Madame will be so surprised." Easter grasped the faithful girl's hand and shook it in man-like fashion. Her democratic ways were not the least of her endearing qualities. A pupil was singing, but Easter strode in and heartily kissing her teacher she exclaimed: "You darling, how glad I'm to see you!" Madame Ash, who couldn't be startled by an earthquake, was nevertheless, surprised. "You, Easter! And what are you going to do in New York?"
"I'm going to raise hell!" she crisply announced. Madame nodded approvingly. "You will, no doubt about that, and no doubt as to your nationality—you're Yankee all right." She dismissed her pupil and ordered tea in the drawing-room. Such visitors did not come every day. She found Easter handsomer, more self-possessed, also more imperious in her manner. The girl had become woman. Her beauty positively dazzled. It was her health that contributed to this initial impression. Madame Ash interrogated her as to her lessons. With the accustomed forgetfulness of youthful prima-donnas Easter waved away the subject: nor would she sing. "Wait! You will soon have a chance to judge in public." Then she exploded her bombshell. "I open the season at the Metropolitan. Think of it dear Madame Frida, I'll sing Isolde to Jean's Tristan." That was another surprise. And not a line in the newspapers. Why hadn't Alfred told her? "Because he doesn't know," answered Easter. "Not a soul knows. I dodged the reporters this morning. Paul—Mr. Godard—you remember him!—What a friend he has been to me—that scrape at Munich, I mean—He took me down to Italy and I'm glad it was Paul and not that little fiddling Prince Ludwig—well, Frida, I've seen some life—I must be going. Tell Alfred to come to the Waldorf. I'm there for a day or two. And tell him the contract was made by cable. It's the fault of the management if he wasn't informed. It will be in the papers tomorrow morning. Go to the window and look at my new car—nice present, isn't it! It came to the dock to meet us." She stopped for breath.
"So Mister Paul came across with you, did he?"
"The regulation trio," laughed Easter. "A maid, a poodle, a lover. The inevitable...." Madame saw her get into the car, and fancied she also saw a man. Waving her hand Easter disappeared. "Ça y est!" said Madame. The lesson was resumed. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do!
When Easter rushed into his music-room, followed by Madame Felicé, the legs of Ulick trembled. It was more than a surprise, it was a shock in the nature of hallucination. He took her in his arms and tenderly kissed her, ejaculating: "Easter, Easter, it can't be you! It's a dream!" She, too, was affected; she returned his kisses, and with more fervour. "Good old Jewel. I've come back to you, haven't I Madame?" But Madame had vanished, no doubt wondering over the versatility of young Americans. She had not forgotten Mona. But she was fond of Easter, and admired her, particularly after her newspaper notoriety.
The chums had a thousand things to say. Ulick did not disguise his affection. He hugged her till she broke away, advising prudence. "The same crazy Jewel," she said, as she tidied her hair. He was disappointed. Were they never to begin again? he asked. "Surely," she answered, and mischievously added: "If we ever really began." Another scene ensued. He pursued her from the bedroom to the bathroom, and back again into the music-room. There she stopped and seizing him by the wrists with the grip of a giantess—he carried black and blue marks for a week—she bade him stop his nonsense. Some other day! Besides, she hadn't come to see him for such things. "Why," she blurted out with her accustomed brutal frankness, "why I believe you are overtrained, Jewel. Have you been saving up for me during these years?" Ulick was confused. "A little bird wrote me that there were two girls while I was away, quoi donc, mon cher!" (Damn Alfred! thought Ulick.) "But I must be going. Doesn't Alfred dine here any more? I want to see him badly. He must look after me the night of my début."
"The night of your début?" "Yes, didn't I tell you? I sing Isolde the first night next month at the Metropolitan." Ulick's eyes opened wide. "Does Alfred know the news?" "No,'and I fancy he will be wrathy. I can't help it. The offer came. It was so big that I chucked Berlin, Paris, London and took the first steamer leaving Genoa. Paul said—" "Paul?"...
"Why not? Paul—he came over with us. He has been a true friend. He's waiting outside now in my car." "He's waiting outside now," echoed the dazed young man. "Don't be stupid, Jewel. He and Allie are together, otherwise I shouldn't have stayed so long with you." "Oh! Allie, too," he sarcastically observed. "Yes, Allie Wentworth, too. That girl helped me over some rough places in Europe. I shall never give her up, never," Easter reiterated with passion. "Was she the cause of the duel?" "Honestly, Jewel, living in this provincial town has made you lose your Parisian wits. There was no duel. That story was pure blague. I had a fencing match with Mary Garden and a reporter from the 'Figaro' was there. I filled him full of prunes—that's all." She laughed with the robust ventral laughter of a country girl. She was the same old Easter, and Ulick adored her for her natural manner.