“Who is the man?” asked Lily with an inquisitive smile. Her sister, pulling off her heavy overshoes, answered without looking up. “His name is Krylenko. He is a Ukrainian ... a mill worker.”
An hour later the two sisters sat in Lily’s room while she took out gown after gown from the brightly labeled trunks. Something had happened during the course of the evening to soften the younger sister. She showed for the first time traces of an interest in the life of Lily. She even bent over the trunks and felt admiringly of the satins, the brocades, the silks and the furs that Lily lifted out and tossed carelessly upon the big Italian bed. She poked about among the delicate chiffons and laces until at last she came upon a small photograph of a handsome gentleman in the ornate uniform of the cuirassiers. He was swarthy and dark-eyed with a crisp vigorous mustache, waxed and turned up smartly at the ends. For a second she held it under the light of the bed lamp.
“Who is this?” she asked, and Lily, busy with her unpacking, looked up for an instant and then continued her task. “It is the Baron,” she replied. “Madame Gigon’s cousin ... the one who supports her.”
“He is handsome,” observed Irene in a strange shrewd voice.
“He is a friend.... We ride together in the country. Naturally I see a great deal of him. We live at his château in the summer.”
The younger sister dropped the conversation. She became silent and withdrawn, and the queer frightened look showed itself in her pale blue eyes. Presently she excused herself on the pretense that she was tired and withdrew to the chaste darkness of her own room where she knelt down before a plaster virgin, all pink and gilt and sometimes tawdry, to pray.
XVIII
ON the following night the house, as it appeared from the squalid level of Halsted street, took on in its setting of snow-covered pines and false cypresses the appearance to which the Town had been accustomed in the old days. The drawing-room windows glowed with warm light; wreaths were hung against the small diamond shaped panes, and those who passed the wrought iron gates heard during the occasional pauses in the uproar of the Mills the distant tinkling of a piano played with a wild exuberance by some one who chose the gayest of tunes, waltzes and polkas, which at the same hour were to be heard in a dozen Paris music halls.
Above the Flats in the Town, invitations were received during the course of the week to a dinner party, followed by a ball in the long drawing-room.
“Cypress Hill is becoming gay again,” observed Miss Abercrombie.