Marcia, who was sitting before the mirror in a lace camisole, fidgeted impatiently.
‘Oh, do it any way you please, Granton, only hurry—low, I think. That will look best with my gown. But do be quick about it. I have to go downstairs.’
‘There’s plenty of time,’ replied the maid, imperturbably. ‘But I would be a little faster if you would kindly sit still.’
‘Very well, Granton; I won’t move for five minute. I’m really getting excited, though; and I didn’t care a bit for the party until it began.’
‘Yes, ma’am. If you’ll just turn your head a little more this way. It’s very early.’
‘I know, but I have to go down and be sure that Pietro understands about the lights. He’s so stupid, he has to be watched every minute. And, Granton, as soon as you get through with Mrs. Copley please go and help Bianca dress Miss Royston. Bianca doesn’t know anything more about fixing hair than a rabbit.’
Granton’s silence breathed acquiescence in this statement, and under impulse of the implied compliment she became more sprightly in her movements as she skilfully twisted Marcia’s yellow-brown hair into a seemingly simple coil at the nape of her neck.
For the past three days the house had been full of guests and though Marcia had been somewhat cold in her anticipations of the time, she found herself thoroughly enjoying it when it came. The days had been filled with rides and drives and impromptu gaiety. Paul Dessart had been master of the revels, and he filled the office brilliantly. He had supplied the leaven of fun on every occasion, and had been so thoroughly tactful that his host and hostess had gratefully blessed him, and Marcia had cast him more than one involuntary glance of approval. And this was her birthday and the night of the ball. All day long she had been the centre of a congratulatory group, the recipient of prettily worded felicitations; and she not unnaturally found it pleasant. The afternoon train had brought still more guests from Rome, and Villa Vivalanti’s nineteen bedrooms were none too many. Five o’clock tea on the terrace had in itself been in the nature of a festa, with gaily dressed groups coming and going amid the sound of laughter and low voices; while the excitable Italian servants scurried to and fro, placing tea-tables and carrying cups.
Marcia had been secretly disappointed that afternoon by the non-arrival of one guest whom she had half expected—and Eleanor Royston had been frankly so.
‘Mr. Copley,’ Eleanor had inquired of her host, as he offered her a cup of tea, ‘where’s that friend of yours, Mr. Laurence Sybert?’