A PROPOSAL
On returning from her singing lesson in the middle of a bitter cold January afternoon, Poppea had walked the short distance from Chickering Hall back to the Felton house on Madison Square, so far up in the clouds that she was quite unconscious that her feet touched the icy pavements. For not only had Tostelli commended her improved vocalization with true Italian fervor expressed in elaborate French, but he had praised her first teacher, Stephen Latimer, saying: "He who has brought out Mademoiselle's voice thus far without a scratch or strain or a falsity has done so much that she may hope to be anything that she wills, even an artiste of the Grand Opera, after much study abroad. That she can also act, I am ver' certain, for what she sings that she is for the time, gay, triste, pathetique, simple comme en enfant, mais toujours naturel, toujours ravissante." Then he had asked her to take the leading part in an operetta that was to be given by his pupils toward the end of the season in one of the ample old houses on Gramercy Park that boasted a perfectly equipped private theatre.
So buoyed up was she by his words that she had crossed the park, the exquisite articulation of its crystal-covered trees still further keeping up the illusion of fairyland wherein she was for the moment living, and reached the steps of the house, before she realized where she was, and that she was expected to make a round of calls with Miss Emmy instead of going to sit by the fire and think it all out as she desired. She had been in the company of others all day and had the need, possessed by all those of her temperament, to be alone to realize herself.
"Are the ladies at home?" was her question to Caleb as he opened the door, knowing that the day's history would be forthcoming.
"Yes, Missy, and Mr. Esterbrook too; he doan seems to feel right peart to-day. He didn't go to the club for his luncheon, and he isn't going to the painter man's what's doing his picture. Miss 'Liz'beth's going out later, but Miss Emmy's 'cided not to budge herself, and's taking her comfort in the sitting room, where I'm to bring de tea soon's you come."
"Good!" cried Poppea, running up to her room as swiftly as she had done many years before when Winslow had caught her dancing. Only this time, instead of kneeling in front of the open window for breath, she threw off her street things, loosened her hair that had been compressed by her hat, and slipping on a soft crimson wrapper that she and Satira Potts had fashioned when she had been getting together what the latter insisted upon calling her "trowsoo" for the city, went down to the sitting room, the door of which stood hospitably open.
The upstairs sitting room was one of the unsurpassed institutions of the day among those who had sufficiently ample houses to allow for it. Usually occupying the front room of the second floor, it served both as a watch-tower of the street and a comfortable place of retreat when "not at home," or "engaged," according to the moral veracity of the family, was the word at the door. While there is a certain responsibility about the coherent furnishings of all other rooms, from the music room of bare floor and scant drapery to the library with its heavy rugs, draped alcoves, and precise shelving—the sitting room may take tribute from all others. A small upright piano, an open case of books, a table serving both for writing and a comfortable litter of magazines, deep nestlike chairs and a lounge that invites impromptu sleep without the ceremonious disrobing suggested by a bedroom, a joyful canary or two, and a shelf of blooming plants in the sunniest window complete the setting.
The modern living room is undoubtedly grandchild of the sitting room that abdicated in its favor a quarter of a century ago, owing to an increasing contraction in house room. For the living room in ordinary houses is more often a combination of library, drawing and dining room, than a separate bit of luxury; also it is usually on the first floor, and therefore below the range of safety for flowing hair, kimonos, slippers, and pajamas.
When Poppea entered the Feltons' sitting room and saw Miss Emmy in one of the deep chairs, released from stays and elaborate hair-dress, actually sitting on her feet in curled-up comfort, while she petted Diva the great fox-gray Angora, so-called from the vocal quality of her purr,—whose wonderful fur enveloped her mistress like a lap robe,—she knew that Miss Elizabeth had already gone out and she felt a sudden relaxation and rush of comfort that brought tears of pleasure very near to her eyes.
"Ring for the tea, child, and then we can shut the door and be by ourselves," said Miss Emmy, keeping her eyes fixed on the fire.